Brigham Holden {d2}

color one, for when he talks
color two, for when he thinks

Name: Brigham Holden
Age: 18
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 2
Appearance:

District Two is renown for two things: Peacekeepers and Victors. Brigham Holden, however, is neither. He has no relatives that've won the Games, no relatives that've ever worked in the Peacekeeper industry (although his dad is friends with the Head Bitch in Charge of the Militant Services, which is the reason he has everything he does) but he somehow still maintains to be part of one of the richest families in District Two. This has lead to the amenities that are widely known in the Capitol to be in his fingertips, courtesy of his Dad's sweet-talk. The gel that so many of the Capitol citizens use is frequently applied to style his hair, a sloppy but intentional twist on a normal faux hawk.

As he walks with a technicolor trail behind him, hands in his pocket and his hair slicked back, he knows he's cool. He's got dudes following him on a leash of invisibility, their tongues dragging and tails wagging. He doesn't care though, he'd rather lay back and let 'em all get a piece of what he has to offer. He is a man of few words, but some of the most important ones in his life let him know that everything is his. There's nothing that someone else should get because they're not as privileged as another, and it makes sense to see Brigham's toned arms often in outreach to push them down.

Through years of the top training that can be received in District Two, it is safe to say that it's paid off. He carries an edgy sort of confidence with him that just works. He doesn't try to be cocky, and although he'll playfully joke from time to time (either mocking arrogance or pessimism), he never doubts himself. It's easy to see the crevasses in each block of muscle, the definitive symbols for strength coursing through his back.

His body is no different than a statue, sculpted from the finest sculptors in the land. Or at least, that's how it looks on the outside, but under the clothing and words his spills is a completely different sight. With his wealth taken advantage of, he knows what's necessary to get the appearance he and so many other boys desire. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong, but beneath his shirts are countless scars and cuts from a smart ass that thought it'd be cool to step up to him. He never liked to bleed, no, but he loved to make others. Since the scars were on his body, he didn't bother to get them removed. Besides, all the guys loved a boy with scars.

Lemon shaped eyes sit comfortably in his face, not particularly large or small. Their irises are brown, optically creating some sort of illusion that makes his eyes look larger than they are.

With confidence and generosity and an adorable, lovable, attractive face that's completed with a killer smile and flirty eyes, it'd be hard for anyone to determine anything wrong about his appearance, but any of the boyfriend's he's had would describe the feet stink he's been fortunate enough to gain through the power of genetics. Of course, it's not from a lack of hygiene, because that's always maintained. It's just that his feet sweat excessively, creating one of the few insecurities he has.

Personality:

As a kid, he never gave a crap. As an adult, he still doesn't. He'd much rather do what he wants to do that worry about other people. He's grown up spoiled, blinded by reality. There's seemingly nothing that can help him break out of the room he's locked himself in. The room is filled with everything he's ever wanted, and anything that he wants suddenly appears, as if he has a magic that spills from his fingertips; a desire batter that bakes until it turns into what it's named for: a desire. He's never really had to try, either. With a wealth that could make the poorest in the Capitol jealous, there's not much he has to do to get what he wants. He'll use his fortunate good looks or his dad's way of words to slip in and out of situations to reach the light at the end of a tunnel, the diamonds that form the crown that he wears. He never has to put any more effort than he does every day to take a bath and comb his hair to get something that some of the hardest workers in the District know they'll never get. He knows it and he doesn't give a shit.

A collection of never trying (other than the effort he puts into the occasional training sessions he attends) has created a laid back masterpiece of a snob. He's arrogant, placing himself higher than the highest on the social ladder, conjuring up some fake superiority that tells him he is the best there is and the best there ever will be. He has no problem lifting his nose in the air and flaunting his gaudy necklaces and shiny shoes and spitting in the face of a much poorer citizen with scratches and cuts and dirt on their cheeks.

He'd much rather spit in the faces of those poorer than him while sitting back, though. There's been a scarce amount of times where he's been loud when he hasn't had to, even while intoxicated on some of the district's finest alcohol. He's a quiet sort of arrogant, using simple body language and gestures to tell everyone about his importance, letting his dad do all the talking as they draw a mental picture in everyone else's heads of them eating all of the meat and not gaining a pound, wearing all the gold in Panem and carrying it all with ease, running through blades without any armor because they're invincible. He's laid back, quiet, and arrogant. It's a interesting combination of characteristics for an interesting person.

He has a soft spot for people that's lost someone, though. It was only at the age of 14 that his mom had grown ill and died, leaving him with weeks of absolute silence and nothing but dread and regret. He regretted all the times he'd ever raised his voice to her, all the times he'd put her down for not being as arrogant and confident as his dad and him were.

History:

As a child, he never had much. From the time he could only cry to the mere time that he crawled, the family that was the Holden's were only average. They could only dream of being rich, only dream of having some sort of opportunity to rise to the top of the district. It all came when his dad begun to sneak his way up the social ladder, an epiphany to latch on to the persuasive words he could speak and the bribery and the threats and use it to his advantage. The whole reason Brigham is who he is is because of his father, a con artist of the highest caliber.

It only took months before his dad had swept the district with his syllables and letters and they'd become best friend's with the CEO of the Peacekeeper Training Services. Landon Juniper was a hefty man with an open mind and a lousy work ethic. Mr. Holden had only had to bribe Landon with the promise to do all the paperwork for him in turn for money and household supplies, shipped in from the Capitol every month.

It was then that Brigham's head had began to swell, had began to rid of all the faint memories of being poor and balloon into an arrogant mass that sat on his shoulders. When he was 8, he had two bicycles, courtesy of the Capitol, and everyone that he went to school with would ask where he got them, in which he'd happily reply, "My daddy got it for me." And when they'd ask where his dad got them, he would say, "It's a secret!"

When puberty hit, nothing changed. He still remained arrogant and cocky, it's just that his looks were beginning to evolve into a magnet to all the other boys and girls that were starting to mature. With their hormones raging into a tangled web of confusion and experimentation, it was safe to say that he'd had at least 10 first kisses, most of them with boys and less with girls.

It only took a year or so for him to muster up the courage to tell his dad that he was gay, and so came with not a single care. His dad had no intention of having a different opinion on his son, even confused as to why Brigham had been shaking while he'd told him. It didn't take long for him to tell his mom either, in which she'd reacted no different than his dad and asked if he had his eye on anyone. Even though he didn't, all that happened was the balloon of arrogance that was attached to his neck had inflated even more.

After his mom got sick, he'd stopped worrying about his looks and started worrying about her. He's skip school and aid her while his dad was understandably doing Mr. Juniper's paperwork. He'd skip his weekly training session and make sure his mom was tucked in comfortably, that she always had something to drink and eat and someone to talk to. It wasn't surprising that Brigham felt closer to his mother during the last few days of her life than he had his entire life.

He'd never been one to dwell on things, and so it only took a few months for his slight tears to turn into rage and motivation and determination. He slipped into the shell he'd been in before he molted to aid his mother, and he'd began training and going to school and arrogantly walking once again. Through many boyfriends and dummy-stabs, he'd become the person he was before his mother died, and so he is until this day.

Codeword: odair

Comments/Other: THERE, JOSH.