Not the Last of My Kind // [Katelyn/Glamour]
Aug 9, 2016 14:16:52 GMT -5
Post by admin kay on Aug 9, 2016 14:16:52 GMT -5
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Glamour Kinkade
your compliments look good on me
[attr="class","Glamscroll"]
It was late afternoon, which meant that Katelyn would have at least one date after him.
Which meant he wasn't the favorite.
Glamour could feel his stomach crawling up into his throat. Somewhere in the haze of the last few days, he had come to the conclusion that he mustn't simply do well in this competition; he had to win to secure his freedom in the Capitolite society. Nothing had driven that home so fully as the setting for his date with Katelyn. His styling team ferried him into the back of the mansion (he noted with displeasure that they hadn't allowed him to be photographed on the iconic front steps - he was still not forgiven) and set to work. When they were done, Glamour stood in front of the full length mirror and cocked his head, nearly losing the hat they'd affixed to his skull.
"I wouldn't wear this to the gym!"
"That is the point," his stylist said acidly. Glamour understood. He couldn't look too much like his authentic self and actually make Panem believed that he loved Katelyn. He had to look rougher, manlier, straighter - nevermind that once upon a time he'd made Anarcha scream on a nightly basis.
When the stylists were replaced with Peacekeepers, guiding him to the foyer, Glamour reached behind his neck and popped the leather collar. To his surprise - and very minor relief - there were a few other Capitolite luminaries milling around, waiting for photos with them. No sign of President Snow and for the moment, no opportunity to be alone with Katelyn. He needed to be, to level with her and to find out if there was anything in the world he could offer her, but he dreaded it equally. After years of being an outcast, he had become acutely familiar with the crushing disappointment of having nothing to offer. It tasted like bile on the back of his tongue.
He introduced Katelyn to Cygnus the writer, Innocent the Peacekeeper and very nearly introduced her to Maverick Miles, before remembering that she would know him from his marriage to Topaz Ross. They stood for photos before a Peacekeeper arrived to escort them to the garden for light appetizers and drinks. Not dinner. More proof that he was one the first date of the night, the most likely to be eliminated.
When they passed the fragrant white roses, he thought about opening his palm on a thorn and painting it red with his own blood.
The garden had been decorated in whites and golds. A canopy had been erected and beneath, a buffet of small bites and a chilled bottle of champagne. He poured them each a glass, glanced at the food, and then inclined his head towards a nearby bench. "If you'd like," he said politely, and then realized he hadn't actually talked to her during the entire walk from the foyer to garden. He always had something to say, always filled up space with conversation. But his thoughts were a whirlpool of Leon, freedom, Katelyn, freedom.
The mansion was well guarded and the President's eyes an omnipresent force. Still, he couldn't see any Peacekeepers or the glint of a camera. This was as alone as he'd been with Katelyn since that very first night when he had 'kissed' her. He didn't think he'd won any favors from her for that performance, like he'd hoped. If anything she seemed to prefer him as he was in the Statue Garden, a little more subdued. He drummed his fingers once along the side of his flute, deciding between the two paths.
In the end, he decided on the mantra: fortune favors the bold.
He slid his free hand along Katelyn's back, resting his hand just above her far hip. With the lip of his champagne flute, his tapped the brim of his hat, sending it tumbling down his spine. He hoped his hair looked rugged and mussed, instead of flat hat hair, but that was a risk he was just going to take in order to see Katelyn more clearly. "So, Katelyn Persimmon, what are you thinking?"
Which meant he wasn't the favorite.
Glamour could feel his stomach crawling up into his throat. Somewhere in the haze of the last few days, he had come to the conclusion that he mustn't simply do well in this competition; he had to win to secure his freedom in the Capitolite society. Nothing had driven that home so fully as the setting for his date with Katelyn. His styling team ferried him into the back of the mansion (he noted with displeasure that they hadn't allowed him to be photographed on the iconic front steps - he was still not forgiven) and set to work. When they were done, Glamour stood in front of the full length mirror and cocked his head, nearly losing the hat they'd affixed to his skull.
"I wouldn't wear this to the gym!"
"That is the point," his stylist said acidly. Glamour understood. He couldn't look too much like his authentic self and actually make Panem believed that he loved Katelyn. He had to look rougher, manlier, straighter - nevermind that once upon a time he'd made Anarcha scream on a nightly basis.
When the stylists were replaced with Peacekeepers, guiding him to the foyer, Glamour reached behind his neck and popped the leather collar. To his surprise - and very minor relief - there were a few other Capitolite luminaries milling around, waiting for photos with them. No sign of President Snow and for the moment, no opportunity to be alone with Katelyn. He needed to be, to level with her and to find out if there was anything in the world he could offer her, but he dreaded it equally. After years of being an outcast, he had become acutely familiar with the crushing disappointment of having nothing to offer. It tasted like bile on the back of his tongue.
He introduced Katelyn to Cygnus the writer, Innocent the Peacekeeper and very nearly introduced her to Maverick Miles, before remembering that she would know him from his marriage to Topaz Ross. They stood for photos before a Peacekeeper arrived to escort them to the garden for light appetizers and drinks. Not dinner. More proof that he was one the first date of the night, the most likely to be eliminated.
When they passed the fragrant white roses, he thought about opening his palm on a thorn and painting it red with his own blood.
The garden had been decorated in whites and golds. A canopy had been erected and beneath, a buffet of small bites and a chilled bottle of champagne. He poured them each a glass, glanced at the food, and then inclined his head towards a nearby bench. "If you'd like," he said politely, and then realized he hadn't actually talked to her during the entire walk from the foyer to garden. He always had something to say, always filled up space with conversation. But his thoughts were a whirlpool of Leon, freedom, Katelyn, freedom.
The mansion was well guarded and the President's eyes an omnipresent force. Still, he couldn't see any Peacekeepers or the glint of a camera. This was as alone as he'd been with Katelyn since that very first night when he had 'kissed' her. He didn't think he'd won any favors from her for that performance, like he'd hoped. If anything she seemed to prefer him as he was in the Statue Garden, a little more subdued. He drummed his fingers once along the side of his flute, deciding between the two paths.
In the end, he decided on the mantra: fortune favors the bold.
He slid his free hand along Katelyn's back, resting his hand just above her far hip. With the lip of his champagne flute, his tapped the brim of his hat, sending it tumbling down his spine. He hoped his hair looked rugged and mussed, instead of flat hat hair, but that was a risk he was just going to take in order to see Katelyn more clearly. "So, Katelyn Persimmon, what are you thinking?"
