zen /stylist resub

He's always been just a little too quiet, a little too reserved.

The media still manages to have a field day the evening his appointment as District Nine's newest stylist is announced on the news, mainly because they can't seem to offer much information about him. That's odd in his line of work, Zen's been registered as a professional stylist now for a few years. He's never put in the work though to make a name for himself, that part of the job never interested him. So those that aren't in the know about him are higher in number than those that are.

Since there's such little information to work with, in their eyes, he's done hardly anything that would make him worthy of styling a victor, let alone an Adroxis. There are handfuls of stylists out there that have worked themselves to the bone to create a name for themselves, many more who probably applied, and it's mystifying to them that some nobody's name is scrolling across the screen instead of theirs.

But ask any one of his clients that he's been working with for years and they will tell you that it's not just his art and keen eye that Zen offers. People have always come to him via word of mouth, fragile things with wings bent out of shape with nowhere else they could go. They all eventually come to him, Zen, soft and gentle with a voice like a song and hands that mov with certainty but never too quick. Zen, who has lived through more in twenty-eight years than some ever might, who knows, deeply, what hurt is. He takes these broken people in for an afternoon and beautifies them in more ways than one.

It's addicting.

It's like moths to a flame.

He's never claimed to be anything but a stylist but that's never mattered, slowly but surely information spread about his methods and Zen never turned away someone who showed up on his doorstep in need. His workload seemed to grow larger each season until one day, Zen woke up with a client list full of city officials, labourers, peacekeepers, gamemakers and even some of his colleagues who had years of experience on him.

So in the months after Storm's win, when Adroxis' stylist made an artistic choice that sent her client spiralling, Zen's name was recommended by more than just one of them.

And when his resume was requested that very same night, he politely declined.

He didn't become a stylist to achieve fame.

He turns his wedding band on his finger, gazing politely through the council member sitting on the couch across from him in his sunken living room.

His sunglasses are tinted dark enough that the other man can't see his eyes, but Zen's always managed to be expressive enough despite the shield he wears.

"I don't often make house calls," Azazel Fenwick remarks after a moment. There's a cup of tea sitting in front of him on the coffee table and rain patters against the glass panels of the roof.

"If I had known you were coming, I would have prepared a little more," Zen responds, not unkindly. He's used to visitors arriving at any given moment. He just also knows what Azazel wants of him and it's not something he thinks he can give him.

"Don't trouble yourself, I won't be long," he says and leans forward on the couch, "I'm not here as a client, but I'm sure you already know that." His gaze runs over Zen, he's not even making an attempt to hide the way he studies the stylist.

Forgivable given the man's past, Zen had heard enough about Azazel from his colleagues to know what to expect.

"I believe I already declined that," Zen answers, "But if you have something more to say, I won't stop you." He'd give anyone that courtesy, Azazel's station doesn't bother him.

"Yes, I found that interesting, though I can relate," Azazel says, "I've often found myself called to positions I did not desire, what I'm wondering is why." The gamemaker leans back in his seat again, placing his hands on his knees. "If it's because of Nine's tumultuous past, I can assure you, that's not a problem at this time," he says. Zen notes his choice to not promise that it won't change.

"That isn't why I declined," Zen answers, relaxed and near still in his own seat, "I just don't believe I am right for the position." He stands gracefully then, punctuating the finality of his decision. "I can recommend some other good choices for you though."

"No," Azazel says, tone cool but not unfriendly.

Zen gazes at him for a moment and then sighs lightly. "Do I not have a choice?" he asks.

"Oh, you have a choice, I just don't agree with your last statement," he says and then takes a sip of his tea before continuing, "From what I understand, you're the only candidate who even could do this job. The interim stylist we sent can't even get within ten feet of the Storm."

"I'm sorry," Zen says, pointed but polite, "I'm just not your man."

"Why?" Azazel asks him again.

"I can't style a child for their death," he answers simply, "It will break me." Storm won't be his only job, which is something that everyone else around him has seemed to forget. Every year there will be a new name to learn, and the opportunity for Zen to get to know them enough that when they die it will hurt him.

He has has never been a fan of the games. Usually he'll watch the opening ceremony just to see the new heights of fashion his colleagues chose to reach for that year but then that's all, he can't stomach anything more.

"But you could be their last kindness," Azazel says, "I've heard about what you do for people, the way you help, you could do that for them."

Zen nods, "I could," he says, "Maybe once or twice, but it's inevitable that it'll ruin me." He looks at Azazel for a moment over the rim of his sunglasses, "You agree, I think, but you won't leave until I say yes anyway, I assume."

Azazel turns his gaze away to look out the glass paned wall of the greenhouse that Zen has made his home in. "You're correct," the gamemaker says, "I won't lie, when I was called upon to make the games, it almost killed me. You have to either open yourself fully to it or numb yourself to do that job."

Zen turns to gaze out the window as well at his beloved garden. Things were starting to bloom, in a week or two, it'd become the most captivating thing for a brief, beautiful period. Then the flowers would start to wilt and return to the earth to wait out another year.

"And yet you still insist that it has to be me," Zen says, "It's my turn to ask why."

Azazel just shakes his head and sighs, then reaches into his jacket for a thin envelope. He stands and drops it onto the coffee table beside his now empty tea mug. "I don't need to tell you that, I'm sure you already know." He straightens his jacket and then nods once at Zen, "I'll hold the position for three days, if I don't hear from you before then, I won't bother you again."

After he's gone, Zen moves over to the coffee table and picks the envelope up. He holds it up to the light and reads Legally Binding splashed across the top.

He drops the envelope back down onto the coffee table and picks the empty tea cup up to bring it over to the sink, he's got an appointment this afternoon to prepare for.

"I'm sure you already know," Azazel had said.

He wasn't wrong, Zen just doesn't want to admit that to himself. He shuts his eyes and turns the wedding band on his finger again, mind drifting further away than he should really let it go.

For a flicker of a moment, he's standing in the middle of a wildfire once again. He's desperate, searching for a way out but there's nothing. No one's going to help him but he doesn't have the tools to get out on his own. The heat is licking at his skin, it hurts. He's afraid.

Then he opens his eyes and the metaphor fades.

But he thinks about Storm, alone in his own wildfire and he knows that Azazel is right. There's no one more suited to deal with a boy who has been so badly burned by a person he was supposed to be able to trust.

And in his heart, Zen already decided that he wanted to go two days back when the offer had first come in.

It's just that even two years after his husband's death, he's still afraid to make a decision without him there. He's still afraid to say the wrong thing, still cringes sometimes when someone moves too quickly near him. He's only halfway there himself, still far from okay but this time when he picks the envelope up off the coffee table, he opens it.

And two days later, they're announcing it on the news.