Hart Wickham Capitol (Done)

He’s heard them use the silly phrase time and time again. It was always the same words every time that seemed to get to the core of his heart.

”You don’t have the heart to become a stylist hun.”

He still fights his mother with every step he takes towards his goal. Looks of his own growing in his body as he grew older and older. Fashion was a hobby of his as he watched the tributes styled into something magnificent when they were nothing more than dirty children who had never seen soap before. As they would march to their fight, his heart would attach itself to the pretty and best looking tributes. Outfits that worked with their body well. The outfits were what he fell in love with, the tributes came after, once he truly could see them behind their masks.

As a boy, he watched them fight to the death. Gorgeous tributes that stole his heart and shattered it in moments. This was what he wanted to do when he grew up. It’s what he had to do once he grew up into a man. His mother and father always sat watching the games. Father always cursing at the lower districts who somehow kill the careers in only a few days. As the games went on and he grew older, following his own steps of life, the Hunger Games grew into something more than just a show his family watched. It grew into a passion, filling his soul with something that some would see as a love for them or some would see as a phase of Hart Wickham.

Nothing ever was a phase for him. His parents should have learned that when he began to make outfits based on the tributes who had taken his heart. Outfits based off of Jequirity’s silent, but fiery passion. Stark Harper’s gorgeous and strong looks that he copied for outfits. Female tributes weren’t the only outfits that he worked with. Justice Fray was a new fashion icon that he followed within the magazines to the fullest of his capacity. Magazines begged him to take photos in the same outfits that Justice Fray had worn.

Mother would never approve of what he did. Modeling as a job for his life. Supportive in her words, but actions cutting holes in his heart like the knife that had cut Mitchell Laws’ throat. Another gorgeous tribute lost too soon. Hyacinth Mortuus and Celia Mortuus were goddesses of their own and he’s watched both of them closely. Everything about the tributes made him enjoy what he did. A model who had dreams to create his own style for the tributes, if he was given the chance to.

That’s how he had become a famous model among the capitol, with looks that resemble the Tates as his father had told him once, even though the Tates were nothing like them. They were perfection walking in skin, molded from the stone of beauty that decided to fall within District Seven. Blond hair that is long and styled in many different ways depending on the photoshoot. Pushed back, tied up, falling softly upon his forehead, there were too many ways he’s been styled to perfection. Blue eyes icy cold, and yet can notice the beauty of the world around him with only a glance and a conversation with the person. The blond beard upon his lower face, kept well, yet looked wild in it’s own manner, a controlled mess is what he called it.

Muscles bulge all over his body from years of training himself into a fit man. Tattoos that he had gotten around the capitol lines a majority of his body, gorgeous and beautiful, but yet striking and making him dangerous looking to some. Hands, large and smooth as they wrap together in a prayer-like pose. His head turns towards the sky as he closes his eyes and lets his body do the work. Flashes of photos being immortalized forever into somewhere takes over his mind. Legs crouched to the ground as he opens his eyes looking up to the sky, the room is breathless as the flash takes him into a new photo. They could see the man that was the picture, but never the guy behind it.

”You need to be rougher, Hart.”

A nod of agreements come from the table as Hart sinks deeper into the chair, hoping it eats him alive. This was the reason for getting the tattoos in the first place. The beard came after that. Rougher and rougher is all they added. Rougher does better than pretty, even Glamour Kinkade was falling from the top gorgeous capitolite lists. Every time they told him to do it, his heart falls into chest, key lost forever. Disagreeing with them meant failure for his dreams and he couldn’t let that happen. His mother and father gave up too much to support him at times. This was their hold upon him, even though he didn’t want to be held down, but when it came to knowing what was best in the business, his parents were experts.

Mother trained from the day she was born in fashion and the likes of the capitol, running her own clothing outlet that sells capitol fashions to the capitolites. Father born with genetics that made him a walking god back in his younger days, now retired from the work, except for running a modeling agency, where he took Hart up as a model. Treating with as such and not really his own son, only words of what Hart needed to fix in himself. All that Hart would do is crumble on the inside as his father commented about his body and looks and everything about him. If Hart was honest, never once did he find himself beautiful like the tributes chiseled from perfection.

As he exits the building he runs, up and down streets, blinding lights flashing pass him as he escapes their pressures. The clink of a shop that he escapes to when he was younger. A younger adult than he had been now, slinking off to the little shop and diner that played reruns of games before. Their ghostly features and yet gorgeous features shining through the screens. Circe Lyon’s bold eyes catch his own, heart pounds as he remembers the dreams that lie upon his mind. A stylist that could work with the beautiful tributes and expose the beauty that lies within their hearts and skin that only a master of the art could fix.

Journals stuffed with ideas hides within the walls of his room. Sketches of ideas for the tributes of the past. A well designed suit that would have showed off Someith Krearns’ lanky form, yet making him intimidating. A dress filled with stars that would match Hypatia Anning’s dreams of the world around her. A dress designed for the one and only Yaa Valarro of trees that would show off her assets. Styles filled the notebook to the brim, overflowing with ideas that come into his mind. As he sits in the seat on the far corner, glasses and a hat hiding who he was. The waitress approaches like she always does. Light steps and a smile filling her face, even though fear strikes through her soul. He was only a teddy bear and nothing more. A man with a heart of gold who loved people. Fear wasn’t something he liked to see upon people. First impressions made the biggest difference to them.

”W-What would you like sir?”

As he watches her, she backs away slightly. Angering him only more than before. He slams his fist down as Justice Fray cuts Minos Vallanso to pieces in the background. All he can do is feel his blood pump and then the fear in the waitress’ eyes. His feet move for him quickly, out of the place that he broke for a second. Fear was a common reaction and never once did he slam his fist, but the frustration with his father and the managers added up to his cracks. He loved his job and hated it with a passion. Everything he did was within the grasp of the capitol. Every motion and movement he made was recorded and could be seen by anyone. Someone had recorded that incident and it was spreading like wild fire.

When he walks in the building all he can hear is the sound of claps echoing in the main room. Silence fills his body as he wants to scream to the heavens and the people that he was quitting. Leaving the work behind to pursue his own interests, but his father would be angered if he did. As they cheered, he sunk into a hole, deeper and deeper. There was no escape for him. Only suffering for days, until something gave. As he stands before the workers, his father smiles and places a hand upon his shoulder. The words echo in the room. In the end he always went with what they told him.

”Good work Hart. Rough around the edges and a bit of a hothead. We can work with this next shoot.”

As the sky dims turning into the neon signs and lights that shine about him, he gives in. Heads back to the store, hands within his pocket. Silent and calm in everything he does, until he notices the waitress, alone with his father. Cash of sort handed to her and his heart melts. Everything that happened was set up by his father. A giant game of chess built by his father to promote his image to the world. Silence is all he can allow his body to be filled with. Silence and annoyance, but nothing would happen.

When he gets home and lays in his luxury bed, he imagines the beauty of the tributes and victors before. Deimos Lasner. Avon Lightwood. Stark Harper. Locust Lovelace. Aesop Bloom. Daniel Tate. Stella Summit. Circe Lyon. Most of the Hammerfells. As the names continued to pile up, his eyes drift to the dreams of styling the dead. Preparing their bodies for the hell and entertainment that he enjoyed so much.

They were meant to be shown off in them.

They were meant to die in them.

They were meant to make or break them.

And he was going to show the world what beauty truly is.