menswear. beck & sailor.

They speak at him, not to him. Rapid-fire questions injected with just enough warmth that they seem polite. The same few phrases, over and over again and he's begun to mouth them before they leave their lips. Big fan, Mr. Hailsham. How are you doing today? They're transparent in their haste to skip past the pleasantries and dive into whatever self serving spiel they've been reciting in the mirror for hours on end. Each of them pretend to see Beck Hailsham, the boy, but their eyes give it away. Calculating as they travel the length of him, putting a price on every feature. He's a product.

Smiles turn them blind, so wide he's sure they hope to blind him too. It's too bad he isn't the fool they all take him for, that might actually make this tolerable. Somewhere deep inside him he knows this should sting. He's too used to being appraised, the uninhibited hunger that gleams sharp as a knife's blade in their eyes cannot cut skin gone tough and sinewy from life on the cattle range. This isn't new and overwhelming, it's more of the same. Beck has always been made up of pieces someone wishes to take. The only difference lies within what they covet.

They'd stolen his imperfections. The way his left eyelid had drooped a bit lower than the right, his cigarette-stained smile, bones that protruded from pallid skin at angles too harsh to be healthy. It was not what they considered beautiful. His face had not been one that was  worth anything to anyone else.

But that was the point.

When they tell him he's meeting his stylist he smiles and nods and he doesn't speak because they don't care if he does. Yet another stranger places his hands on Beck's shoulders without asking if it's okay and steers him through a well worn path that's so crowded he's struggling to breathe. "This is Beck Hailsham." Not him, the commodity. The words waft above his head because they're not for him. The smile he wears is tinged a bit bitter but he doubts they'll look close enough to see it.

The scent of this guy's cologne is giving him a hell of a sinus headache and the minute he leaves the two of them together a breath he didn't realize he's been holding floods out of his lungs. It sounds kind of like a laugh even though it definitely wasn't. He doesn't bother to look at his stylist, opting to beeline straight for the chair in front of an overly intricate vanity and mouth the words he knows are coming. Big fan Mr.-

"Sorry about that."

Wait, that's not right.

He looks up and he sees her, really sees her. All frayed edges and torn up seams, appraising him in the same way others have since he'd woken up but there's a kind of fire in her eyes that burns along the paths they take. He feels rather than sees a red color picking up at the apples of his cheeks, inching all the way up to the tips of his ears. The room comes alive in her wake and it's utterly captivating.

There's none of the practiced perfection he's come to associate with the Capitol. Her words are rough and rushed, like a playwright gone off his own script. The longer she speaks the more tension he can feel ebbing from his shoulders, opting to grab the bottle she'd set down before joining her on the couch. He doesn't take a sip, not yet. "What's a game without a prize?" He shakes the bottle's contents, not even entirely sure what lies within but banking on it being something worth its weight in gold.

She's trying to make him feel better, it's the least he could do to return the favor.

"I don't believe you were born on your due date." It was not a strategic answer, but a hopeful one. He wanted to believe that he'd found the duckling in this sea of swans, something just a bit ugly.

"Okay, uh," He drums his fingers on his cheek, resting his chin heavy in his palm, "One. My favorite color is blue." It's bold to start out with a lie, but he figures it's worth a shot. He loves the fire of dawn, a red too bright to remind him of blood but powerful as it tears its way through the navy of night. It brought with it the promise of a new day, of another day.

"Two. I bleached my hair once." He'd been feeling particularly spiteful, that bit of contraband was one he'd held on to for weeks. Biding his time until the perfect moment arose. Their indignation had been well worth the punishment.

"Three. I think Basso's a prick."

The corner of his mouth twitches.