into the n i g h t ; ele!

[✨ zozo.]

- SAILOR.
"only thing i'm phobic of is failing
i was never blessed with any patience. "

I'm stubborn as shit, but I'm not stupid. I'm also not too proud to admit defeat - or when I'm near it. I'm doing okay. Keeping my head above water. But there's a Victory Tour coming up and that means overtime and I gotta get my shit together before I leave the Capitol on that train and never return.

A friend of a friend of a guy who knows someone who knows someone slipped me an address with the words:Help. In case you need it. I've always been adamant that I didn't need any. That I was fine on my own. Screamed it in so many faces and told my reflection so many times that I'd started to believe it. And I still do, in a strange way. The more times I get it right, the more times I hear yes, the better I feel. But flattery can only get you so far, and half the time I think I'm hearing yes because people know it's what I want - need - to hear.

I knock on the door of the apartment, roll my eyes at myself, stick my tongue in my cheek and debate about turning on my heel and just leaving. Save me the trouble. The embarrassment. At least in the cold winter night nobody wants to be outside. Nobody wants to tail the Capitol's latest idea in negative ten degrees. 

That's what I'm telling myself anyway. It's helping, for the most part.

I shuffle nervously underneath my coat, scarf bundled up to my eyes and hair stuffed underneath a beanie. For warmth, but mostly anonymity. People love to talk in this city. I've noticed they love to talk about me. And that's not even me being pretentious, half the people I used to call friends have made a shit tonne of cash talking shit about me since I was asked to be a stylist. Maybe it was jealousy, maybe the modeling cheques weren't cutting it anymore, maybe they were just bored. Whatever the reason I keep my guard up, only pulling my scarf down to reveal my face when the door opens to a stranger. 

"Zen?" I ask, eyes darting left to right to his face. "A friend told me you could help. Without..."

Left, right, back to him. Down to my feet. Shame.

"...without judgement."

song

[gamemaker kelsier]

z e n .

"Callin' it quits now,
baby, I'm a wreck
Crash at my place,
baby, you're a wreck"

Zen stared up at the glass ceiling above his head, his eyes had been on the dimming light for a little while, the cup of winter tea in his hand gone cold. He wondered if it was going to snow again. The flakes tended to collect at the edges of the panes of the greenhouse roof before melting slowly from the heat of the glass, it was beautiful.

His place was quiet as always, soft candlelight reflected off the glass panels of the walls, giving the whole open-concept space a warm glow. A lot of careful thought had gone into the layout of his home, it had been the same dedication that he had always carried with him as a stylist. Zen had moved through the base layers of his trade at a young age, quickly and quietly. His designs were recognizable due to their quiet balance.

Still, he'd never lost himself within the glamour of the stylist lifestyle however and had politely kept to himself. Clients had come to him via word of mouth until one day he'd found that he was dressing game makers. But Zen wasn't just a preferred stylist because of his style choices, but because of the quiet comfort he offered whoever came looking for it. Lately, he'd seen more and more clients like that, those who weren't there at all for a new look but for something else entirely.

He didn't mind it.

A record played on an old vinyl setup, soft songs that swelled with the brilliance of a large orchestra behind it. It was reaching the point of the night when he should decide if he was going to go out or stay in and Zen hadn't really thought of it yet.

The knock at the door was almost expected, not that he'd been expecting anyone at all. It was just the perfect evening, the perfect moment for something to happen. Zen placed his cup down carefully on a low coffee table and ran a hand through his hair slowly, straitening the strands out. He picked up his sunglasses, a trademark accessory that he wore even at night out of habit and slipped them on before pulling his door open.

"Miss Sailor," he said, gentle voice smoothing over any note of surprise at finding her on his doorstep that might be buried within, "Please, do come in." Zen moved out of the way of the other stylist, who was currently the talk of the town due to her sudden promotion and rise to fame as that year's victor's stylist.

He offered to help her with her coat, palms out flat. The layout of his home was fairly simple and he gestured at the low-lying couch that he had just been sitting at. Zen didn't know what had brought her to his home but by her expression, the tone of her voice, he understood why someone had given her his information. "Can I offer you something to drink?" he asked.

[✨ zozo.]

- SAILOR.
"only thing i'm phobic of is failing
i was never blessed with any patience. "

Maybe it's the plants or the calmness of his voice but I feel a little bit more at ease than I did two minutes ago. Doesn't stop my hands plucked from deep in my pockets from shaking as I shrug off my jacket and hand it to him - I should really get something for that. Surely it can't be hard to find in the pharmacies. Bet it'll cost an arm and a leg but I can afford that now I suppose. Wonder if I can get someone to fetch them for me, I'll probably collapse before I enter the store. Can I get something for that, too?

Fucks sake. I'm dodging my own damn questions before I even ask them.

He offers me a drink and I remember to breathe. "Yeah," manners. "Thanks - whatever you're having, I'm easy."

I remember when I used to ask for what I really wanted. Maybe I can get something for that- fuck!

"You have a beautiful home," there's some honesty. I should get a record player. I think it's the music that's calming me down. So distinctly opposite from the shit they make me dance to on set. So unfamiliar and yet I feel so at home here, in this stranger's house, so different from the one they moved me into. All white and silvers, art and tile and decadence. It's nice. But it's not homely.

"Let's get straight to it," I'm looking at him but talking to myself, half-hoping I believe my own bullshit. "A friend - well, not a friend. Someone I know said you might be able to help me. They might be a friend after this, I suppose..."

I'm babbling, the exact opposite of what I'd demanded of myself seconds ago. Dodging the questions, the shame. I'm getting good at hiding the truth - from Beck, from the rest of the team, from myself. From strangers. I should've expected it, turning a childhood into a career playing pretend - but I'm not a kid anymore. I can't wait around for an adult to take care of shit.

"Anyway-" just get it over with, idiot. "Truth be told I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing. With Beck. Like I can talk to the kid, and I'm good at getting him to smile on the odd occasion. And I can put him in clothes, but..."

I skim the rim of my cup with my index finger, watching it go around and around and around with my thoughts.

"It's not enough. And I need to learn how to look at clothes in a different way. A way a stylist really should, you know?"

Only then do I glance up, violin and piano keys playing gently in my ears. "I can pay, too. Name your price. But I've gotta get it sorted in six days and I know that's a lot to ask. You don't even..."

He knew my name. Everyone does.

"...know me."

It hits me, gently, as the record finishes playing its beautiful song, that nobody bothers to know anything past that.

song

[gamemaker kelsier]

z e n .

"Callin' it quits now,
baby, I'm a wreck
Crash at my place,
baby, you're a wreck"

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."