CW for slight mentions of emotional abuse
Baron Margenium V, District One
The man who sat in front of BV didn't seem like a stylist. He didn't even seem like a Capitolite. He wore a simple if fine shirt and perfectly average jeans. His hair was red and messy and neither his eyes or skin had been artificially altered. There was no makeup or jewelry to be found.
He was also enormous. He barely fit on the large couch he was sitting on, squishing into it as if it was a piece of children's furniture.
"You are not built like a cow." The stylist said, squinting his eyes and scribbling something on a piece of draft paper.
BV didn't know whether that was a compliment or an insult. On one hand, he was always self conscious about his figure. He had the muscles of a Career, certainly. And his District was far more tolerant of variation than the Twos, who seemed to all be built like tanks. But he was much taller than he was wide, giving him a stretched gangly appearance. He wished he could look more like his stylist, large and broad and rippling with obvious muscles. How did someone in the fashion industry get muscles that big?
On the other hand, cow was usually an insult. He had jokingly called his friends cow once or twice, after they had eaten a large lunch or come in a couple extra pounds during a weigh-in. Not out of malice or anything. It was just friendly ribbing, innocent jokes. He learned from his father that nothing could be taken seriously if it was couched in humor. Maybe that's what his stylist was doing now.
BV laughed.
His laugh had the opposite intent of what was intended. The stylist frowned, and leaned forward. After an uncomfortably long moment of eye contact he leaned back against the couch again.
"This is not how I usually go about things." The stylist said, "But I am going to try very hard not to be silly."
"I don't mind being silly. I've got a great sense of humor."
"I can tell. That's why I won't do it."
BV blinked in confusion. This conversation wasn't going where he thought it would. The stylist reminded him a bit of his father, large and competent and jovial looking. He could almost imagine the man's laugh bouncing around the room. Except he wasn't laughing. And the look in his eyes was gentle, completely free of expectation.
Baron Margenium the Fourth was always expecting something of his son. Many people seemed to believe that because he was the head of the academy, Baron would go easy on BV. But the truth was quite the opposite. BV had been training since he was four years old, before any sort of pre academy program would take him in. He was enrolled in combat schools as soon as he was allowed to, and after school his father would train him personally. There were days where he wouldn't sleep until he could strike a dummy with perfect form. Days where he couldn't find an inch of his body that didn't have a bruise. But none of this was done in malice. BV knew his father loved him. He just also knew that he was part of a glorious legacy. He was expected not only to go into the Hunger Games, but to win. He had spent his life trying to catch up to that ideal. Often he felt like people saw the BV of the future rather than who he was now.
The stylist, however, clearly saw him. In fact he felt like perhaps the man saw too much.
"I'm a Gemini." The stylist continued, "Proudly so. We like double meanings. I use silliness to disarm people. Get past other's protections with humor. But you know all about that don't you?"
"Me?" BV asked, confused once again, "No I don't think so. Jokes are just jokes right?"
"Jokes are jokes. Until they aren't jokes."
He didn't want to think about things like that. He couldn't think like that. If he considered that there may be a harm to humor, he would have to think about all of the little wounds that he had accumulated over the years. All the little barbs and laughing comments his father said to him. All of the pressure of his upbringing. All of the harm he might have done to others because a true man didn't express pain. A man could only laugh or punch things.
No. The man was wrong. That's all there was to it.
"If you're a Gemini, why are you a stylist for Taurus?" BV asked.
The man seemed to sense a losing battle and went along with the topic change. "Bureaucracy." he said, shrugging his shoulders.
"You must be kind of bad at your job, if they're pawning you over to Taurus." He joked. It couldn't be a popular star sign to work with. Bulls had interesting horns perhaps, but ultimately they were just cows. The Stylist's first comment suddenly made sense, and BV felt a little foolish to have been so slow on the uptake.
His stylist didn't laugh, instead taking him completely seriously. "I'm not bad at all. Ask anyone who the best stylist in Panem is, and it will start a heated argument about whether it's Europa Lysium, the Callidore twins, or Ronan Underhill."
"I have no idea what any of that means."
"Oh right, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Ronan. Ronan is me. I am very good. So you don't have to worry about that."
"I wasn't worried." BV said defensively.
Ronan didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow. BV hated how easily the man seemed to see through him.
"All right, I was worried. They made the boy from One look like a girl last time."
"I thought he looked nice." Ronan said, shrugging his shoulders, "But you don't have to worry about that. Taurus is a bull, remember? Boy cows. Most of them at least."
BV was grateful for small mercies.
Consus Anona, District Nine
Consus had never felt more exposed than he did right now, standing in the middle of a room in only his underwear while his stylist circled him. Brutus was his name, though it didn't fit him at all. He was a lithe, ethereal figure, clothed entirely in rainbow fringe. He twirled and danced as he inspected Consus, causing the fringe to fly out at various angles.
"Don't be shy, little one." Brutus said, "Think of me like a doctor. A doctor of fashion. I'm going to make you shine brighter than the sun. But first I need to see what I'm working with."
He wasn't sure why the stylist insisted on calling him 'little one'. He was at least a foot taller than the older man, possibly more. Though that was fairly usual. Consus was taller than most people. That as well as his broad shoulders and muscular frame made him excellent at reaping wheat. But it made him very self conscious when dealing with people one on one. He always felt large and clumsy when around other people, like he would fall with a thundering crash at any moment. It was one of the many reasons he preferred to be alone.
"What is this?" Brutus cooed, tracing his finger down Consus' right forearm. He jerked away on instinct.
"It's nothing." He said.
"Scars are never nothing."
"Perhaps that's true in the Capitol." Consus answered.
He knew from watching the Hunger Games that the Capitol seemed to be obsessed with scars. They would add makeup to a tribute's scar to make it more noticeable, cut a dress in a way to feature the never quite healed skin. Kallia would ask about them in the interviews, and there always seemed to be an emotional story behind them.
But the story of his scar was completely uneventful. He was working in the fields and the person in front of him swung a bit too wildly. Consus blocked, saving his face, but causing the scythe to embed deep into the flesh of his arm. It was a tale that happened daily in District Nine. He had known of scars far worse and far more interesting than his.
"Are you ashamed of it?" Brutus asked.
"I don't know. I don't like it. It's ugly." Consus answered.
Brutus tittered and shook his head. "It's you. When you're around bodies as much as I am little one, you begin to realize that beauty and ugliness are the same thing. I could make you up to be completely without flaws. I could. But no one would look at you twice. Imperfections are essential to attractiveness. What matters is how those imperfections are framed."
Consus thought that was completely ridiculous. Ugliness was real, a thing completely devoid of beauty. He had seen it in starving workers around him, in blood and sweat and sorrow. But perhaps to a Capitolite things were different. They seemed to like pain, be fascinated with it. Distance, he supposed, could put a gloss on even the most terrible of things.
This made him think about District Nine's last male tribute, Rust Waxy. He was the child of a serial killer. His life had been nothing but pain. And the Capitol loved it. Consus rubbed his scar idly. He had no real darkness, nothing particularly traumatic he could use to save his life. Sure, he was an orphan. But he had been raised in a community home well funded by the Capitol. His life was boring, controlled, focused. He had spent his time trying to buff out his edges and smooth out his scars.
Was his own desire to live an unremarkable life going to be the death of him?
"I wasn't sure if I wanted copper or gold." Brutus continued, pulling out a sketchbook, "But I think gold pops better with darker skin tones. You're going to be a mighty lion, little one. I promise you."
He looked over at the sketch of his chariot outfit. It was far more minimalist than he would have expected from a man like Brutus. It was a suit and coat combination. The coat was made out of light fur and the 'mane' was a large collar made out of thin looping wires. Consus had no eye for fashion. He had no idea whether this would look wonderful or ridiculous.
"And my scar?" Consus asked.
"Covered by the coat I imagine." Brutus said, "Though sleeveless coats are in this year. And it is awfully hot right now."
He didn't care that it would be hot, or what Capitol fashion was at the moment. He knew that sponsors only came to tributes who were likeable. But he was fair enough at survival, and even untrained he was bigger than most of the other tributes. He wasn't going to capitulate to something as whimsical as trends.
"I can manage." He said.
Brutus shrugged, and started to once again circle around the room, looking a bit like a lion himself.
Carnation Banyon, District Seven
Carnation traced a finger down the silhouette of the sketch in front of her. It was the most breathtaking design she had ever seen: an elegant white ballgown with a black shape that resembled a tear drop running down the side. She looked over to Amber, who was holding a similar sketch with an inverted color scheme.
"If one of you has a preference, we can switch." the boy stylist said, "But I admit neither of us can resist a pun. Amber Black in the black dress. Too perfect to pass up."
The two stylists were unsettling to look at. The man's skin was coated from head to toe with rubies while the woman's skin shone with a brilliant sapphire. However, apart from their skin dyes and gender, the pair were practically identical. Even when they shifted, they seemed to shift together. It was as if they had one brain occupying two bodies. Carnation couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to share that kind of bond.
"It's beautiful." She said, "But I don't think I get it. Aren't the designs supposed to be based off of something?"
"Oh they are." The girl stylist said, "The symbol of Gemini is the twins. So to represent that we based this design on a pre dark days concept called the yin and the yang. It is meant to represent the duality in each of us. It is why black is in your dress and white is in hers. Even in opposition, the two symbols carry part of the other in themselves."
This was a bit too deep for Carnation. She was never a particularly good student, finding all of the dates and letters and numbers far too complicated to keep up with. The only thing that really made sense to her was a weapon in her hand.
"Twins." She heard Amber say to her side, "I guess that makes us sisters, in a way."
Carnation couldn't place the emotion she felt when Amber said that. It was sharp and unwelcome, but not exactly unpleasant. She could feel tears start to form despite herself. Thankfully they never fully fell and she was able to pass them off as allergies.
She didn't know very much about being a sister, even though she had one. The relationship between her and Solstice could barely be called familial. Not that it was the fault of either of them, exactly. When they were very young, they didn't interact much. By the time Solstice was seven and Carnation was five, their roles were set. Solstice was the shining beacon of the Banyons, the one meant to win the Hunger Games. Carnation was merely another mouth to feed. Every day she would sit by the window and watch her father train her sister. Watch him smile with pride every time Solstice improved.
When Carnation was eight, she was finally allowed to train with them. It didn't matter to her that it was so Solstice could learn how to fight 'weaker opponents'. Solstice had hesitated that first day. She had begged their father to not make her fight her sister. Carnation hated her for it. It was easy to hesitate when you had all the power. Easy to beg for mercy when you were used to mercy being shown to you.
Yet despite the fact that they had known each other for only a short time, Carnation knew that she would hesitate to hurt Amber. Having such a bond was a liability in the games, but she couldn't bring herself to worry about such a thing. She was glad Amber was here with her.
"Yes. sisters." Carnation said, "Maybe even closer."
Amber smiled at her slightly, and reached out her hand. Carnation took it.
Gideon Farlane, District Nine
"Is this your card?" Gideon asked, revealing the Three of Diamonds with a flourish.
"No." His sign partner said.
For a moment Gideon panicked. He went over every step of the trick, trying to figure out where he went wrong. Then he stopped and broke into a grin.
"Liar."
Acacia Springhill smiled back at him. It was somehow more sinister than her normal scowl. "I'm a liar? You're the one doing magic tricks."
"Magic isn't lying. How can it be lying if you know that I'm trying to fool you?" Gideon said, twirling the card around in his hand before making it vanish. Acacia rolled her eyes, but he could tell she was warming up to him.
"Stop moving." One of his prep team said to him, "You'll throw off the measurement."
Gideon was currently standing on a podium, being measured by the three members of his prep team. Acacia sat opposite him, as one of her team members measured each of her fingers. He and Acacia's stylists whispered to themselves in the corner. Occasionally they would point or say something to a prep team member, but neither of them seemed inclined to tell the tributes what was going on. It made all of this more difficult.
Gideon wasn't particularly good at doing what he was told, even when he knew the reasoning behind it. There was a part of him that pushed against authority, always testing the boundaries to see just how far he could take things. It was even worse when people refused to include him.
"Want to see another one?" he asked, shuffling his cards.
"You're going to make him have an aneurysm." Acacia said, then smirked and leaned forward, "Of course I want to see another one."
"It was bad enough with just this one. But the two of them are practically demons." One of Acacia's crew said.
"Oh definitely," said another, "typical of Scorpio wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, Scorpios are the worst."
Acacia glared pointedly at the person who said that, then lifted her hand up to cover a yawn. "So sorry." she said, still glaring, "Were you finished with that?"
"I wanted to ask you something." Gideon said to her, if only to distract himself from one of the pieces of measuring tape getting dangerously near his rear end.
"What about?" Acacia asked.
"Well. Alliances don't always form around district partners." He said, "But they do sometimes. And well… you're not from my district. But you are my partner."
"You're asking me if I want to be allies."
"Do you?"
Acacia rested her chin on her hand, further preventing her prep team from being able to measure her fingers. He liked that about her. She was bold, and unafraid of rubbing people the wrong way. Gideon liked to think he was friendly, but he never concerned himself with being liked. There were more important things than popularity. There was something principled about Acacia. Something he knew wouldn't bend no matter how much pressure was put on it. That was the type of person he wanted on his side.
"I'll think about it." she said, "On one condition."
"What is it?"
"You admit you're a liar."
Gideon flashed her another smile. "Perhaps I am. But it takes one to know one."
AN: Moving right along! I admit, the four PoVs per chapter seems to be working out all right. This brings us a third of the way through our second round of PoVs. Also we got to see the twins and Ronan again! As well as meet Brutus, who took on a life of his own as I was doing that section. Next time we're going to meet with the Victor Physician, something I'm looking forward to. So for the moment thank you for reading, and please review.