I got excited since this chapter was done while I had like no internet/needed a breather from the final reaping. So we get like a day-after update ayyyy! In this chapter we'll see Luxor, Cole and Quatra getting ready for the Parade! Let me know what you think, especially since this is the first chapter featuring major interactions!
Also! Before I forget! There's two pieces of news for y'all that I wanted to share - the first is that Ad Mortem now has a blog where you can keep track of tributes and alliances/get a reminder of who is who without having to go through whole chapters. You can find the link to it on my profile! The second is that Ad Mortem has a TVTropes page! I'll see if I can link it on my profile as well, but there's a direct link to it from the blog's menu for the moment!
21 - Getting Dolled Up
Luxor Aricunai, 17, C-District 8
"My, what an honour!"
"Look at you! Oh, those eyes blend perfectly with the costume we had in mind!"
"Such a handsome boy—can't we convince the President to let you skip the Games and model Games fashion from now on?"
He smiles at each of his stylists, flattered by their compliments. "Sadly, skipping the Games isn't an option for me," he tells them.
The curtain has yet to be pulled around his room, still giving him a decent view of the a small portion of the tributes. To his immediate left is the tiny boy who will be representing Seven (Cyber? That's his name, right?); to his immediate right is the boy who will represent Nine, silent and unresponsive to his stylists.
In front of him is the empty seat that Chambray will soon be guided to, and either side of her are the girls from Seven and Nine. As he watches out for his District partner, he sees the kids representing Eleven and Twelve being guided to the end of the rows. Even as the girls take their spots with their stylists, he still sees no sign of Chambray.
Luxor frowns as he takes off his fur jacket. Where is she? Shouldn't she be here already, talking with her stylist? Luxor really wanted to catch her before they were pulled apart for their makeovers and propose an alliance with her, but now he wonders if he'll ever get time before they both get on the chariot. First impressions are big in the Games, and he wants to give himself and Chambray a fair chance.
His lace crop top soon follows, and then a towel is slung over his shoulders as he's leaned back further in his chair. A large bowl is below his head, a hose connected to it with a small nozzle at the end.
"Just going to give your hair a rinse so we can style it easier," the head stylist says cheerily. Luxor nods and tugs the towel tighter around his shoulders.
Just as the water starts running and hands move through his hair, he finally spots Chambray. She stays close to her stylist, who walks without a single member of his team in sight, and then she's being ushered behind the curtains of her section as her mentor pokes his head out with a shout.
"I want Galahad, Noctis, and Amelie in my section," he yells, "pronto!"
"Amelie, you stay," Luxor's stylist commands. The woman holding onto his clothes nods solemnly, almost looking disheartened as two people from different sections disappear behind the curtains.
"Is something wrong?" Luxor asks. He hopes Chambray's ankle isn't bothering her again.
His stylist shakes her head. She nods for the curtain to be closed, and Amelie wastes no time sliding them along the bars above them. Over the hustle and bustle that follows as Luxor's hair is rinsed thoroughly, he hears Chambray's stylist scream out again.
"AMELIE, NOW!"
The way he sounds desperate calling for Amelie—it sets off alarms in Luxor's head. Is Chambray okay? Is something wrong with her? Why is her stylist so stressed over her? Does she not like men touching her? Maybe Luxor should suggest he switch stylists with her, make her a little more comfortable—
"Ugh." The water is turned off and a towel lightly dries his hair. "Go on, Amelie. I'll page Leon and get his team over here."
Amelie thanks the woman and leaves Luxor's clothes on the nearby bench. She vanishes from sight soon enough, and it's just himself and his stylist.
"Can't believe Ulysses is doing this to me this year," she growls to herself. "Can't use his own team. No, has to take the ones who were promoted last year. What's the point—"
She tugs a little too hard at Luxor's hair. He yelps as a hand flies up to pull hers away.
"Oh, I'm so sorry dear!" She pulls the towel away and cards her fingers through his hair. "No bleeding? I don't want to get that lovely silver hue dirty, goodness. Is a blow drier okay to use from here?"
"Please," Luxor says through his teeth. He's dealt with temperamental people touching him before, but this stylist actually has him wishing he'd requested a switch sooner. A nice warmth washes over him and soon enough his hair is dried to a point where she can style it easily. Luxor breathes out a sigh of relief as the replacement assistants enter his section, raising the chair and allowing him to finish undressing.
It's a little more embarrassing than he'd expected it to be. Luxor's normally not the most shy person—for crying out loud, he flirts with people at parties more than he'd like to admit—but no one other than Jarlos sees him like this. No one sees him so exposed, not even when they ask him to model underwear or more revealing clothing.
His arms and legs are given a nice scrub, tape measures lined up against every joint and limb on his body. They all compliment him, tell him he's so handsome and that they're so lucky to have an actual model to show off their design. As Luxor's gaze moves over to the table of fabrics and the mannequins waiting to be dressed, he starts to wonder if it's really as great as they say it is. District Eight notoriously winds up with the worst costumes most years, the colours and fabrics clashing in an attempt at showcasing the full meaning of "textiles". Luxor would be more content going out wrapped in a single fabric like a mummy, if the bright colours and horrible pinstripes are anything to go by.
Amelie comes back into the section, Chambray's dress in one hand as the other shakily reaches for Luxor's discarded clothes. She flushes at the sight of him, and barely mumbles out her apology to Fortuna in her embarrassment.
Fortuna practically fumes at the younger woman. She stomps away from Luxor and snatches at Amelie's arm. "What do you mean you're going back to your old section permanently?"
"U—Ulysses wants his most trusted staff—"
"I don't care what that damn wannabe wants! Don't you dare move an inch. I'm going to talk with him."
And then Fortuna is gone. Luxor is left to the mercy of Fortuna's replacement staff, who finish measuring him and finally hand him a pale green gown to cover up with.
Now's his chance to check if everything with Chambray is alright. Amelie's just come from there, so she must know what's wrong.
"Excuse me," Luxor says softly. Amelie startles and drops his jacket to the floor. Before she can scramble to her knees and apologise, he picks it up and hands it back to her with a smile. "Sorry. I should've been more considerate. Could you tell me if something's wrong with Chambray?"
Amelie hesitates for a second, before she turns away from him and tries her hide her blush behind her hands. "There were concerns brought up, but Ulysses settled them. He said we're the ones he trusts to handle it best."
"Concerns?"
"Chambray had a problem she brought up with him before he led her in." Amelie glances at Luxor with an almost guilty expression. "I don't want to say anymore in case I breach any privacy. She's fine."
He nods. "Thank you. She's in good hands."
Fortuna bursts through the curtains again, her face paler than Luxor could ever imagine it being. She doesn't even look down at Amelie as she walks past, her voice sounding detached as she says, "Amelie, you're free to move back to your old section. Thank you for your services."
Not strange at all. Definitely not raising more concerns in Luxor, no siree. Regardless, he follows Fortuna back to the chair and listens intently as the seamstress gets to work on his chariot costume. Fortuna slides a slip of paper over to Leon, a simple instruction to make an Elizabethan collar for Ulysses following.
Luxor's brows rise in shock. He hopes that collar isn't for him. He hopes it isn't for Chambray either.
"Take a seat, Mr. Aricunai," Fortuna calls out. She pats the chair again, this time pointing to the makeup kit on the bench beside it. "Daniella is going to do your makeup while I help Leon with your costume."
He nods. Daniella wastes no time explaining to him what she'll do today, pointing out what areas will be given a touch up and what parts of his tattoo will be concealed. Luxor reaches up and rubs at the sapphire vines that run up his neck and face, having branched out all the way from his right shoulder. He doesn't like having it covered up much—it's a part of him just like his fingers and toes—but Daniella reminds him that it'll only be for a few hours.
She applies concealer and talks him through what she hopes each application will achieve. She wants to sharpen his cheekbones and bring more attention to his silver eyes, and then tells him that she hopes the eyeshadow and eyeliner she's used will further help them pop.
When he opens his eyes, a very lovely shade of fuschia covers his eyelids while sharp wings of eyeliner, thick and bold, border his eyes. Luxor blinks and turns his head to either side, hoping to get every angle possible in the mirror for a proper judgement.
After confirming that his tattoo is nowhere to be seen and that his cheekbones really are more defined with what she's done, he remarks, "You're really good at this."
"You're too kind," Daniella laughs. "Don't hold back with the critique. It's still my first year with this, y'know."
"No, it's great." Luxor actually smiles as he examines the wings. "I can't do this on my own, and I've been practicing for ages."
"It helps to imagine antique spoons." Daniella caps the eyeliner and sets it back in her makeup kit. Even with that advice, he'd probably still mess it up. That poor imaginary spoon would never know what hit it.
Barely five minutes pass before Leon announces that Luxor's pants are ready. He turns around to see what's on display, but is quick to gawk when the first thing he sees are the big, poofy pantaloons. Fortuna smiles proudly at Leon's work, seemingly oblivious to the disgust that Luxor feels towards the pants. His thighs would never touch once he puts those on—it'll feel like walking around after wetting your pants!
As he puts them on against every urge he has to cry, Luxor makes an oath. If he survives these Games, the first thing he'll do is ban ideas like this for District Eight chariot costumes. Never again will someone suffer these pre-modern monstrosities.
Cole Aish, 12, District 12
Irene tugs at his hair worse and worse. "Stop crying," she hisses. "It's your own fault for never brushing it."
Cole struggles against the other two stylists holding his arms down, tears and snot covering his face. "It hurts!" he screams.
"I'm almost done. God."
"My hair's falling out!" Cole sobs and sobs. He wishes Nirav were here to stop her. "You'll tear my head off!"
With a final, painful tug, she announces that she's finished with him. The arms release him and Cole flies off of the chair. Even with his limp he wastes no time fleeing his stylists. There's too much pain to sit through, worse than the prick to his finger earlier today. He wants to find Nirav and feel safe, away from all these hands tugging and yanking at him.
His stylists call after him as he limps past each curtain. Cole wipes at his face hurriedly, veering to the right and stumbling through a curtain. The footsteps of his stylists run past the section as they call for him, demanding he come back and let Irene finish cleaning him up. Cole just sinks to the ground by the curtain and sobs, his hands pressed firmly against his face.
Everyone around him is asking him to leave, telling him that he won't have time to change into his costume if he hides in here. Cole shakes his head and wipes at his face some more.
"They'll rip my hair out!" he insists. A younger voice approaches him when he says that, a reassuring hand moving up and down his back. "It'll hurt!"
"It's okay…" The younger voice—a girl, younger than the rest but older than him—makes soothing sounds at him. "Breathe in and out, honey. You're okay now."
Cole wipes at his face some more, smearing his gown with tears and snot. Why is he such a messy crier? Now Irene will get even angrier at him.
He looks up at the girl beside him, curious to see who he stumbled upon. He knows that it isn't Florence. Florence sounds so much more high-pitched and rushed when she speaks, definitely not like how some of the parents in the Seam would soothe their children.
She looks strong like Cassia, but much kinder. Dark brown hair like flowing silk, kind blue-green eyes that watch him as she smiles sweetly. She doesn't look angry to have been intruded upon, even as her stylists try to coax her back to her chair.
"Feel better?" she asks him softly. Cole nods, wiping at his nose with his sleeve.
"I—I'm sorry for—" He sniffs harshly. "—for coming in here."
The girl laughs. As the stylists outside pass through again, calling for Cole, she puts a finger to her lips. Her stylists sigh and come over to her, bringing the brush to her hair as she shares a sheepish grin with Cole.
"Don't be sorry." She holds out a hand, waiting for him to take it and give it a shake. "I'm Adrianne. From Four."
Cole actually musters a smile as he takes Adrianne's hand. He hopes the other tributes are nice like her. "Cole," he mutters. "I'm from Twelve."
Adrianne's mouth drops into a perfect O-shape. "No wonder you're so scrawny!" she gasps. "They need to feed their kids better."
He shakes his head. "It doesn't bother me. We get lots of bread and wheat every month at the orphanage."
"Miss Evans, we really need to get you dressed," Adrianne's stylist hisses.
Adrianne waves a hand at him. "Give me a second. I wanna make sure he'll be okay."
"He'll have to tough it out like the rest of them."
She scrunches up her face and sends a glare to the stylist. As though openly defying him, Adrianne turns back to Cole and says, "Want me to walk you back to your chair?"
He shakes his head hurriedly. "Irene will get angry at me."
Adrianne hums. She rises to her feet and offers Cole a hand, pulling him up with her. She ruffles his hair softly and grins, asking him, "What's something you'd really like to eat while you're here?"
"I—" He has to think about that for a second. He's so used to just eating bread and scraps that he's never really had much of a choice with food. Does he even have a favourite? "I don't know…"
"Tell you what?" Adrianne takes his hand and gives it a firm tug. She leads Cole closer to the curtain, pausing in her exit. "If you let Irene dress you up today—just for today!—I'll personally tell your escort how brave you were and that you should have whatever you want for dinner tonight."
Anything he wants? Anything?
"Even cake…?"
"Especially cake."
It's tempting. So very tempting. He always hears about how cake is supposed to be treated as a rarity, and that you only eat it after dinner for dessert. The orphanage never had money to buy any from the pastry store in Twelve, but the high tiered desserts and rows of icing always made Cole's stomach cry out a little more than normal.
He nods, determination taking him over. "Okay," he breathes out. "I'm brave. I'll be brave."
"Damn right, you are." And with that Adrianne opens the curtain, leading Cole out and back towards his section.
When Irene lays eyes on him, he jumps straight into a panicked apology. He babbles on and on, all the while clinging tightly to Adrianne's hand, until finally he runs out of breath and just stands there as he wheezes in and out. Irene just stares down for a few seconds more, before finally she shows some sign that Cole isn't entirely in trouble.
"You're not the worst I've worked with," she decides. "Just… Maybe try not to run off again if something hurts. We've all got to put up with a little pain to be pretty."
"Yes, Irene," he mopes. He looks up to Adrianne for reassurance, finding her winking down at him with a grin. With renewed confidence, Cole looks back up at Irene and puffs out his chest. "I'll be brave so I can be pretty."
Irene casts a fleeting look towards Adrianne before she invites Cole back to his chair with a smile. His confidence seems to have made her happier, even after all the crying and screaming Cole's done so far. He's glad; Irene seems like a nice lady, even if she tugs at his hair too much.
Adrianne leaves for her section with a parting, "Atta' boy!" directed at Cole. Cole waves to her until she disappears from sight, and then he's focusing on his breathing as Irene's team sets to work on him again. Legs are waxed and scrubbed, his face is cleaned of all tear stains and dirt, and even the tips of his fingers are free of soot and coal dust. His fingernails have never been so clean, he thinks as Irene towel dries his hair.
They start to cover his hands and feet in a dark dust, leaving a shimmer every time the light hits it. As they travel higher and higher, covering Cole in more dust, he furrows his brows with a frown.
"You just cleaned me," he says to Irene. Irene nods.
"This isn't like the coal you were covered in. It's makeup."
"Like what girls wear?"
Irene shrugs. "More like what everyone in the Capitol wears all the time. It's not as bad as the coal."
"Oh." Cole examines a hand that one stylist finishes dusting. The tips of his fingers are a shiny black, like the polished hunks of coal Hartson's shift would mine each day. It slowly fades once it reaches his wrist, and then it's merely speckled here and there over his chest and shoulders. It's like his hands have been scorched, and the ashes of his fingers are all over his skin.
Irene runs a hand through his hair with a hum. "Have you ever worn a wig, sweetie?"
"No," Cole says, still examining his hands. He watches as black nail polish is applied to the hand still being worked on, further enhancing the scorched appearance it gives off. "Do I need to wear one?"
She hums again and moves over to the work bench. She fishes through her belongings, moving the nude swimming trunks she brought with her to the side. As Cole begins to wonder what they're for, she presents him with a wig the exact same colour as his hair
"Did you ever hear about the stylist Cinna from the Seventy-Fourth Games?" Irene asks as she smooths out the wig. Cole shakes his head.
"I don't know a lot about the Games…"
"That's okay. Cinna used a material that created fake fire when the wind hit it, and it's been pretty popular since with clothing." She waves her arm about, and the sleeve of her tunic seems to almost crackle and spark. "My clothes are made from it. Completely harmless and everything."
Cole nods, but it's hard to move his gaze from the sleeve of Irene's shirt. As soon as she stopped moving it around, the fire had dimmed and gone out. Does it really only light up when the wind hits it?
"I wanted to do a little change this year, and the man working on your partner agreed on the proposal," she goes on. "Let me put the wig on you and I'll show you what I mean."
A lot of hair clips and tucking goes into securing the wig, and Cole feels almost uncomfortable again as he winces with every tug. He wants to yelp out again, but he told Adrianne he'll be brave. He really would like whatever he wants for dinner, so he has to be brave!
By the time they put a mirror in front of him, he can hardly tell the wig is there. It looks so similar to his normal hair and even feels so similarly messy. Irene pats him on the hair with a smile.
"Handsome," she tells him. Cole puffs out his chest again. He is handsome. "Now hold still a moment…"
Irene reaches into her pocket for a small device. It's the size of Cole's hand and has little plastic blades on it, and they start to whir and spin when Irene presses the button on the handle. It spins and spins until a breeze comes from it. The air hits Cole's wig, moving it around and blowing it lightly, and that's when he sees it. The spark.
His wig lights up as Irene grins. Atop his head sits a bonfire waiting to happen, and Cole does everything he can to stay calm. He will be brave, he will be brave, he will be—
He shrieks loud and long enough that Irene is forced to beg for Adrianne's help calming him down again.
Quatra X, 14, C-District 5
"Did you dye your hair recently?"
Quatra nods. "About two hours ago, I think."
Larius groans. "It's still not entirely set. Give me a moment—I've got some conditioner that might help."
She waits patiently for him to dig through his bag. It's oddly quiet in their section, hardly a sound coming from the closed off sections either side of her. Morganite isn't wailing like she expected her to be, and Adrianne is as quiet as she had been during her reaping. It's peaceful—exactly what Quatra needs before she gets through out in the open on that chariot.
"Here it is!" Larius comes back and starts applying the conditioner to her hair, carefully rubbing it in like mousse. As he does this, he makes attempts at small talk. "So. Spy kid."
"Yep." Quatra just keeps her eyes on the curtains. Two more people from his team enter, a tub of water in each of their hands. They must be coming to scrub her hands and feet.
"So what do you do with a job like that?" He starts massaging her scalp, and suddenly this process of dolling up feels like a spa retreat. Quatra wishes this would never end…
"Depends," she sighs. "Families move around and keep an eye on schools. Don't know about anyone else. It's not like we keep in contact with everyone in the field."
"Oh, no. That's understandable." He pulls her hair back out of her face. "I get the whole thing of never associating with each other. I'm just surprised one is in the Games this year."
She hums tiredly. "There's been others in the Games. They were just reaped under their alias."
That piques Larius's interest. "So they don't always stay in the Capitol?"
She really shouldn't be saying all this. But it's like Tres said—she's in the Games as herself. She can vent about this if she wants to. Besides, there's probably already all manner of rumours going around about her. It can't hurt to tell at least one person the truth.
"Families move around from District to District," she says after a beat of silence. "I used to live in Four, but I just came back from Ten. Had a friend there."
Larius hums with even more interest. God, it feels like she's an old lady gossiping to her hairdresser now. "What were they like?"
As the conditioner starts to dry and leave her hair silky again, Quatra lets out a small huff of a laugh. "The complete opposite of me," she decides. "Always ready to take the lead and wanting to get to know everyone. She'd always say to me every day, 'Camelia, you're so quiet. I feel like I'll accidentally leave you behind if I look away for too long!' She did at one point."
He laughs along with her. Her hands and feet are cleaned quickly after her story ends, and the silence is filled with small giggles and memories of her time in Ten. Larius is surprisingly comfortable with her, talking about his own friends from college and saying he knew someone just like Quatra—quiet and reserved, apparently unique in his eyes. She doesn't even notice the time fly, at least until the scream from further down the room rings out.
All of the people in Quatra's section, including herself, look in alarm at the curtains. The easygoing mood has been shattered by the shriek, but it soon settles once she hears a woman screaming for the "Four girl" to come to her section.
After the shrieks die down, Larius heaves out a sigh. "One every year."
"One what?"
"Screamer." He moves back to his bench and begins opening his makeup kit. "Every stylist wants to bring an edge to their costumes, but not every tribute likes them. I'll bet someone's trying to bring back the synthetic fire look. God, it's so overdone," he adds with a groan.
Quatra tries to glance back at him, catching sight of a neon green lipstick among his kit. Larius is quick to move her head back to its original place, demanding she stay still while he works on her makeup.
"You don't have anything with an edge in mind, do you?" she asks once the lipstick weighs heavily on her lips. She can almost see the glow it gives off from over her nose. Is this safe?
"Nothing extreme," Larius slowly replies. He's focusing mostly on her face, trying to keep his hands steady as he lightly brushes at her eyelids. "Life tree makeup—organic and glowy, which is perfect for the nuclear look I want to go for."
She swallows a lump in her throat. Nuclear?
"It was either this or a radiation suit, but Hila agreed when I said it'd conceal your faces too much," he goes on. "So you'll just be looking like a mad scientist today. Most of the appeal will be in the chariot itself."
Oh. So she won't actually be nuclear-nuclear. Quatra lets out a relieved breath. She knows the Capitol is a lot different from when Una was her age, but for a whole second there she thought it'd changed more than she'd expected. Worse than she'd expected.
After Larius finishes with the eyeshadow, she asks, "So is 'life tree' the brand you're using?"
He snorts out a laugh. "You really have been gone for a while," he remarks. "After that Eleven kid's Games the Capitol started mass-producing bioluminescent trees. We're actually just in the second phase of testing its applications, so I hope you don't mind being a guinea pig for me today."
Larius takes a handful of her hair and starts frizzing it, running a comb back and forth along the strands to make it puff up and stick out in all directions. Quatra watches the curtains in horror. The knots are going to be hell once she leaves the Parade. Part of her wishes she'd wound up in Six instead.
But, she thinks as the makeup is finished up and her costume is put on easily, it's not too bad. There's no bad reaction, and she really does look like a "mad scientist" like Larius intended. A simple chariot ride might turn out be to alright with something as simple as this, with something as subtle as different kinds of cables acting as a belt for her grease-stained trousers.
Larius lets her out just as she spots Tooru hesitating outside of his own section. He's gripping his coat tightly, holding it over him and biting his lip—almost enough to smear his lipstick. She's not familiar with overly stressed expressions, having never been around many people on the verge of a breakdown; but it's hard for Quatra to deny that Tooru is distressed right now, frozen on the spot and shaking.
She tells Larius to wait as she goes over to Tooru. He looks up at her once before casting his head down again, a smile immediately plastered on his face.
"Y—You look nice," he mutters. He's forcefully deepening his voice. She knows he hasn't been able to take T—it was explained pretty quickly after Adam brought up concerns over Tooru's binder—but he's never made it sound this deep. Not even when he was reaped.
"You look snazzy," she returns, smiling softly. His brows furrow in a way that makes him look helpless, like he wants to disagree. Tooru turns his head away, hiding the makeup on his face.
"I don't feel snazzy," he says. "I feel… Uncomfortable is probably a good word for it."
She looks up and down the hall, checking to see if anyone else is around. As far as she knows, the rest of the tributes are finishing up their allotted dress up time. District Five was lucky to get the quickest costume. Quatra takes his hand and leads him back to her section, where Larius is in the middle of packing up his makeup kit lazily.
When she sits him down on her chair, Quatra pats his shoulder. "You gonna be okay?"
Larius glances over curiously, a tube of concealer hovering just over his kit. Tooru shrugs.
"I don't like people seeing…" He glances down at his body—at his chest, Quatra realises. "I don't like them…"
Quatra waits for him to continue. She leans forward, hoping the action will prompt him on. Tooru's face just scrunches up as he bites his lip again.
"S—Sorry," he whimpers. "This isn't very manly of me, is it?"
Larius drops his concealer loudly onto the table. Both Quatra and Tooru jump, surprised, while Larius struts over and leans against the chair. He flicks at Tooru's short hair and lifts his chin up to face the man.
"What is it exactly that makes you feel unmanly?" Larius asks. There's genuine curiosity in his voice, but his face is expressionless. Quatra is almost afraid Tooru will break down at the interrogation, so close to the Parade.
Tooru looks back and forth, trying to avoid Larius's eyes, but the grip on his chin holds him in place. "It—" Tooru's bruised lip quivers. "It's the m—makeup and the poking… I didn't want to be seen without my binder…"
"Anything else?"
After a second of hesitation, Tooru says, "The fact that I feel self-conscious about it all, too."
Larius lets go of his chin. He nods his head back and forth, his expression thoughtful and patient.
"That's fair," he decides. Tooru sniffs and wipes at his nose with his knuckles. He refuses to let go of the coat he's wrapped tightly around him. "Everyone worries about that stuff. I worry about that stuff."
Tooru nods.
"But who cares?" Larius grins down at him. "Everyone has days where things don't feel good. My brother feels it all the time. He still complains about how weird it is to actually be able to walk around shirtless without being charged with public nudity."
Tooru lets out a small laugh. It brings a smile to Quatra's face, especially after seeing him so glum over himself. Part of her wishes Larius had been his stylist—Tooru probably would've been much more comfortable.
"Who cares what's manly, too?" Larius goes on. He goes back to his kit and packs everything away proper, leaving only the lipstick out. "I'm straight as a ruler and my wife and I love doing each other's makeup. Nothing emasculating about being dolled up. Doing things considered 'girly' doesn't make you any less of a man."
Quatra tries to jump in, hoping to ease Tooru's nerves. She remembers hearing about a tribute who was reaped in the most gorgeous dress, and the moment people tried to assume he was transgender like Tooru he outright demanded they not decide who he was based on how he dressed. Maybe Larius will know…
"Wasn't there this tribute from Eight?" She looks between Tooru and Larius, uncertain of her words. "He, um… He wore this beautiful gown at his interviews and said he loved dresses. I think… I mean he didn't…"
She trails off, receiving blank stares from both males. Quatra can feel her face heating up, her cheeks turning red, but it soon fades when Larius lets out a loud, "Ah!"
When both teens look to him, he smiles widely, "Yeah, he just blew everyone out of the water and reinforced that he wasn't going through a 'phase'. Didn't like traditionally masculine things, but he insisted no one misgender him."
"Yeah…?" Tooru looks at them both curiously. He must not have heard of such a tribute, though to be fair this one was from the earlier years of President Snow's reign.
"Yeah." Larius grins at the teens. "If it's any consolation, you both look pretty damn flashy with that life tree makeup. No one will think, 'Why are they both wearing makeup when one's a boy?'. You know what they'll really think?"
Tooru and Quatra shake their heads.
"They'll think, 'Those two kids are really brave, announcing their presence to the world as best they can.' They'll think, 'I really want to see that brave young man and his amazing Capitol partner win.'"
They smile. They look at each other bashfully. They smile even wider.
"Now, both of you need to hurry along." Larius shoos at them, waving his hands about. "Get in early to the chariot so you can see what you're working with."
They scurry out of the section, still smiling bashfully as they hurry along the hall. Tooru walks close by Quatra. His grip has loosened on his cloak a little, his palm pressed flat against his chest.
When he looks at her, Quatra sees the same nervous smile that had greeted her after her reaping. The same timid Tooru who managed to quell his dysphoria long enough to introduce himself.
"Do I really look snazzy?" he asks, almost too quiet to hear. He doesn't try to deliberately deepen his voice this time, speaking in a way that doesn't sound unnatural.
Quatra smiles. She takes his other hand and gives it a short swing. "Snazzy and handsome," she decides. "We're definitely going to make a good impression."
And that's the chapter! Next time around we'll get a just-before-the-Parade pov from Bel, followed by two non-tribute povs showcasing the chariot costumes. Until that happens, though, how about we make this QQ one that you can guess at from this chapter's details?
QQ #16: What do you think each District's costume will be? If you can't think of all of them, what about just the three shown in this chapter?
See you all next time!