into the n i g h t ; ele!

He was used to nervousness, kind of good at it. Zen remembered what it was like to be afraid easily, to feel like the walls were closing in on you and then to understand that you were alright with it, that they could collapse and it'd be alright. That quiet acceptance wasn't meant to be welcomed but so many did.

Zen listened carefully as he uncorked a bottle of blackberry wine that he had fermented himself in the summer. The berries had grown in abundance on the edges of his property and he had braved the thorns for them. A little bit of pain in order to reach a goal was a fair enough trade.

Sailor seemed troubled, about as much as he'd expect for someone in her position. He felt for her, it couldn't be an easy task to dress a child for their own slaughter and receive a decidedly broken thing, a lone survivor and be expected to be there for them. It would be an unsettling grief he guessed, like a flightless bird resting on a shoulder, heavy and unbalanced but unable to leave.

Zen didn't really know when he'd become a problem solver but for a long time, people had come to him and he'd patiently helped them, always giving so much of himself and never expecting much in return. But things had always come back to him naturally, life a swirling whirlpool, meeting again and again.

"I've seen your work, Sailor," he began gently, "You don't need my advice on style. You are a stylist, therefore the way you view clothing is already as one and that is evident through your choices for the screen." But there was something he could perhaps help her understand, "But do you see Beck before the clothing?"

It had been something that had taken him time to learn at first too. He'd become so good at hiding his bruises beneath pretty makeup and handmade garments that he'd forgotten to design for the person beneath them. Instead of letting the human being shine, all the focus had been on the piece, taking away from the beauty of the body.

"The way you dress him will define his level of personal comfort for the day, that is the job of the stylist," he said, tone calm in contrast to her distress, "You need to dress him in a way that will help him feel comfortable, like himself on the stage, while setting the year's trends." That was the tricky part, the quiet inside of the strange storm that was a victory tour. Zen had never been on one himself but he knew enough about what the role entailed to understand the fear she must have been feeling.

"I can help you, certainly, it won't take more than five days to plan for the tour" he said, waving a hand slowly at her offer of payment, "We're in the same field, there is no need for that." The music came to a faltering halt, the end of the first side of the album reached. Sailor seemed to realize the strangeness of the visit at that moment.

It was true that he didn't really know her. He'd heard things, of course, news travelled so quickly in the stylist world, but Zen knew how to pick and choose what information to believe and from whom. His preferred source was from the mouth of the person in question and now he had her here on his couch.

Zen stood to turn the record over, taking his time so he could choose his next words with care. Music started again gently, the beginning of a song always so quiet, timid.

"I can know everything about you or nothing," he said, "Whichever you prefer, but I'll never push you to tell me anything."