89th Opening Ceremony

Mace paced, hands tucked into his armpits, sewing needles held between his teeth. One of the stylist's lackeys had handed the needles to him, as though he'd participate in the styling shenanigans. He'd tucked them into his mouth as a warning but found he rather liked the iron taste of the pins against his tongue.

To and fro he went, unable to come to a stop. Perhaps it was the unseasonably cool breeze in the staging area, or perhaps it was the batshit crazy schedule of events, culminating in a gala for his thirtieth anniversary. Whatever the case, he could not come to stillness. The only time he slowed at all was when he passed Saffron, and that was automatic. Magnetic. He slowed because he wanted to linger, to take her hand, to bend in half and bury himself in her neck. But then every time the cool breeze nipped at his fingers and a junior stylist squealed as they stabbed themselves yet again with a damned sewing needle and --

"Give me that," he snarled, mouth still full of metal. He plucked out the sharpest of the needles, pushed the others to one side of his mouth, and took over where the intern had left off. Of all the thematic ideas he'd seen over the years, he liked this one best. It forgave. It reused. Taking pieces of discarded cloths from ripred knew where, the stylists had put together a patchwork denim ensemble. Truth be told, he might have even been convinced to wear something similar of his own accord. Laurence, the young male tribute, looked dashing in his ensemble.

As it were, they had Mace dressed head to toe in tanned leather, and he was still cold.

His fingers shook a little but his stiches were true. After a few minutes he stepped back from Maddox, a light frown furrowing his brow. "I don't think we ought'a make the jacket any longer or it'll be too... too much of a show pony." He smiled gently at them, just enough for the needles in his mouth to wiggle, and then resumed his pacing, hoping it would warm him through.