I still see your ghost // [Lemour / swap]

It's late enough that the sky has forgotten color. He's pressed against the window of his bedroom, staring at the thumbnail moon. He knows he should just call him, rather than trying to divine from the silver light if Glamour Kinkade is still alive. But he can't make himself move from the windowsill, can't make himself pick up the receiver, can't make himself do anything more than what he already has. He catches himself rubbing his wrists. She couldn't extort him here. He knows that, beyond the screaming echos in his mind. He knows that, and yet he rubs them one more time for good measure. Then, like the slowly approaching dawn, he sees himself exactly as he is: a man pining for a place other than where he is.

Glamour.

Anarcha.

The Capitol.

There's a small but growing part of him that wonders if he's only living for one month out of every year. One twelfth of his time keeping his heart beating.

That simply will not do.

Quietly he crosses the room to the telephone. He sinks into the armchair, dialing the number by memory. If not for his own intervention, he might be dialing a new number, or no number. When he closes his eyes, the dialtone ringing, he sees Finnegan Hood in his mind's eye.

"You're awake," he says as the line connects. His eyes fly open. Awake and at home - alone? But he can't bring himself to ask if Anarcha is there. He doesn't want to ask how Glamour is, doesn't want to pretend to be interested in pleasantries. They've both won and lost too much already for that.

Glamour's about to lose a little bit more. "I just called to say I can't keep doing this. I can't keep thinking about you when I'm here. When I'm home."