#he should have dyed his hair black and put on some coal eyeliner

[someeragonmemes]

Love that Eldest opens with “the songs of the dead are the lamentations of the living” like straight off the bat Eragon was in his emo phase and I love that for him

[pendragonsandbuckleys]

Reclaiming that broken youth.

Summary: Michael had made it his mission to relive a small piece of the past with Alex. First he tried with the rings, two chunky black and silver things that he’d claimed had been left at the junkyard during his one of his shifts. Alex had simply joked that they weren’t his style anymore and left it at that.

The eyeliner had been a much harder sell and still Alex had refused.

And now, as he was ambling his way up the driveway, he was starting to think that maybe his third attempt would not be so lucky.

-

aka. Michael convinces Alex to let him dye his hair.

Word Count: 4,949

[Also on AO3] 

Was it embarrassing the number of excuses he’d found to come and see Alex? Yes.

Was he going to stop anytime soon? Not likely.

Nostalgia had been rearing its ugly head again leaving him craving a time long since passed and he’d been coming up with whatever reason he could to justify seeing Alex. Going to his house, or the Project Shepard bunker, or the Crashdown where he just happened to bump into him. 

The photo of the two of them had been moved from the cardboard box to the desk along with the few other pictures he treasured of Max and Isobel - he couldn’t make it too obvious after all. But seeing the two of them together like that often made him miss what they used to have. Things were so much simpler back then, until they weren’t.

The problem with nostalgia though was that the feelings weren’t real. They were an echo of what used to be that tended to leave an uncomfortable emptiness the longer you thought about it.

That time had passed and there was no getting it back. Unless?

Surely they didn’t need to be seventeen again to get that feeling back. That soft, carefree feeling that used to settle on their skin as they kissed in the desert.

That’s why he had made it his mission to relive a small piece of the past with Alex. First he tried with the rings, two chunky black and silver things that he’d claimed had been left at the junkyard during one of his shifts. Alex had simply joked that they weren’t his style anymore and left it at that.

The eyeliner had been a much harder sell and still Alex had refused.

And now, as he was ambling his way up the driveway, he was starting to think that maybe his third attempt would not be so lucky.

Three quick taps on the wood brought Alex to the door and he was so focused on the sight of him that Michael barely noticed the smile it brought to his own face. He was in full casual wear, t-shirt, jogging bottoms, matching bed hair sticking up in a perfect mess.

“Hey.” Alex welcomed him with a bright smile. If he was at all surprised to see Michael on his doorstep on an early Saturday morning with absolutely no warning, he hid it very well. His eyes darted over to see where the truck had been parked comfortably on the driveway, before flitting back to Michael.

“I thought we could have some fun.” Michael spoke with a smirk, forgoing any formal greeting, eyes already glistening with mischief. And oh how differently that sentence would have been taken when they were seventeen.

Alex was about to step aside without hesitation when he noticed the box held gently in Michael’s grip. He eyed it warily, already sensing the reasoning for the visit. “What is that?”

“Fun!”

“Um no, I believe that’s called hair dye.”

“Just hear me out.” Michael grinned as he confidently side-stepped his way through the doorway and into the house. “We haven’t hung out properly in a while and we both have the day off…”

Alex shook his head as he pushed the door closed behind him and followed Michael towards the living room. He never would have denied Michael entry, but there was something about him making himself at home that gave Alex a warm feeling in his chest. “See, you keep saying we but I don’t see a box of dye for your hair anywhere.”

“Yeah, well I never had an emo phase, did I?”

“The important word there being phase.” Alex crossed his arms against his chest as he peered down at Michael’s hands again. It was a white box with a bunch of writing on it, but the guy on the front was very clearly modelling the black dye inside. “You know I never actually used to dye my hair back then, right?”

Michael shrugged and waved his hand in the air as if to say whatever, we’re doing it anyway and handed the box over for Alex to get a better look. “You vetoed my other options so I’m stepping up my game.”

Alex watched him closely, noting how he squirmed slightly under his gaze. At first, when Michael had started dropping by a few weeks ago, always at odd hours, always unannounced, Alex had been worried. The ‘hanging out’ excuse could easily have been a guise, an easy escape from any problems he was avoiding and Alex didn’t know how long was best to let Michael hide from whatever was going on.

But seeing him now, wide eyes filled with an innocent sort of playfulness, it looked like Michael really did just want to spend time with him. Even if he did have the most random idea for a pass time. “Why are you so desperate for me to dress all emo again?”

“For…fun?”

Alex chewed his bottom lip to hide the small smile threatening to emerge. “I’m only off work for a week, you know.”

“That’s why it’s temporary.” Michael turned the box around in Alex’s hand and tapped at the words printed clearly on the back. “Three washes and it’s gone.”

“You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you?”

-

Michael wasted no time in getting them set up. He grabbed a spare plastic bowl from the kitchen cupboard, an old towel that Alex didn’t care about dirtying and set Alex’s shower stool in front of the large bathroom mirror. 

He should have been embarrassed by how excited he was getting, but he was far too busy being filled with said excitement to care. Against all odds, Alex had actually agreed to do this with very little persuasion required and there was no way he was letting him change his mind.

Alex didn’t interrupt as Michael rummaged his way around the house, finding what he needed and he certainly didn’t show his bemusement at how Michael seemed to know exactly where everything was. And once everything was ready, he took his place in the designated seat, strangely nervous at the thought of Michael dyeing his hair.

Though maybe it wasn’t nerves. He certainly had butterflies, though it could be from the thought of engaging in this teenage sleepover-esque activity. For the boy he liked to come over to his house and willingly run his fingers through his hair for the next hour? Seventeen year old Alex would have done anything for this.

“Right, tell me what to do.” Michael said as he pulled the instructions from the box and handed them to Alex before emptying the rest of the contents next to the sink. He’d probably end up doing it his own way, but he just wanted to give Alex an excuse to stop staring at him as he worked.

As Alex unravelled the instructions a small packet of gloves fell out onto his lap. They didn’t look the sturdiest but it was better than nothing. “There’s the gloves so make sure you wear them,” he said as he placed them next to the bowl.

He gave a quick skim read of the words to get a general idea of what do. There was a lot of writing and he doubted Michael would be patient for long enough to get through it all. “Oh okay, this sounds pretty easy, literally just brush it evenly through my hair.”

Michael nodded distractedly as he carefully fiddled with the lid of the tube. The room wasn’t exactly big and he’d already elbowed a wall with one arm and knocked the empty bowl to the floor with the other. Tripping over the towel had been an added bonus that Alex had enjoyed far too much. He had no idea where this clumsiness had suddenly come from, but now he was being extra careful with everything.

“Put it in gently. We don’t want it going everywhere.” Alex instructed him as he squeezed the dye into the bowl. The coal-black cream squelched as it left the tube and a small drop splattered onto the white tile wall which Michael hastily wiped with the back of his hand. It smeared across the wall at first until he managed to clean it all off.

With everything set up, he clamped Alex’s towel covered shoulders and beamed at him through the mirror’s reflection. “You ready?”

“Go for it.” Alex rolled his eyes at the enthusiasm radiating off Michael. Yep, he definitely felt like a teenager right now.

Michael started out slow. The dye was cool against his fingers as he scooped a blob into his palm. He knew Alex would be able to wash it out almost instantly if it ended up looking terrible, but still, he didn’t want to get it wrong.

He took a breath before reaching for Alex’s hair. Only now did it click just how intimate this activity was for two people who had barely done more than stand a few feet away from each other recently. He thought it would be a bit of fun, getting Alex to dress up in his old high school persona that they both used to love. But now, with the dye in his hand, he realised that meant running his fingers through Alex’s hair. An action that he used to love whenever they kissed. The smooth strands under his fingertips, pulling him closer when he could no longer control his urges.

But they were friends now. And friends dyed each other’s hair, right? Friends helped each other put on makeup or decided outfits if one was going on a date, so doing each other’s hair was no different from all of that.

The strands of hair slid across his palm easily, turning from dark brown to black with a single touch. It felt just as soft as it did ten years ago.

The room was silent as he worked save for Michael’s movements and the occasional hmm from Alex. Michael wasn’t sure if Alex realised that he was making the little noises but he was just glad he was finding it relaxing. The casual glances over Alex’s head and into the mirror showed that his eyes were closed, his lips curled into a small smile.

Michael was surprised by how much he was enjoying it himself. He was used to working with his hands all day, but this was different. Working on the cars was methodical, a heavy-handed muscle memory from years of experience, but this? This was gentle, personal.

It took about as long as would be expected to cover hair of Alex’s length and as Michael moved to the front so he could finish up the fringe, Alex opened his eyes to watch him work, “So really, what’s with all the emo stuff?”

Michael avoided the eye contact as he concentrated on turning the remaining brown into black. How could he explain that he was feeling nostalgic without it sounding sappy?

“It’s probably just some misguided attempt at reclaiming my youth.” He answered as he scooped more dye onto his fingers.

“Okay, but it seems more like we’re reclaiming my youth.”

“Yeah, well, this part of your youth was the best part of mine.” Michael replied without thinking, feeling the heat instantly rise up his cheeks at the honest answer.

The mortification was written so clear on his face that Alex forced himself to hold back a chuckle. They were still working on getting that openness back to their friendship, so for it to come out so easily every now and then was a nice step in the right direction.

“I actually always wanted to dye my hair back then.” Alex spoke up, steering into a new conversation to save Michael’s embarrassment. “It seemed like the next logical step for my fashion choice.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Getting the eyeliner passed dad was enough of a challenge and even then it was something I could take off pretty instantly if need be. I think the dye would have been too much of a risk.”

Michael felt a pang of sympathy for all Alex had to endure back then, he’d seen it firsthand several times all the way up until Jesse Manes’ death after all. But no. They weren’t going to dwell on that today. If they were reclaiming their youth then all unwanted memories were unwelcome and henceforth banned from all thoughts. 

He nudged Alex’s shoulder playfully as he moved back to the bowl. “And you didn’t have an expert hairdresser to do it for you.”

“That too.” Alex laughed, rolling his eyes as he heard the sound of yet another blob of dye dropping to the floor, “Though I didn’t expect my hairdresser to get it everywhere but my hair.”

Michael gritted his teeth with a frown as he looked down at the small black splatter, a glaringly obvious stain against the white. “Hey, that’s only the third time.”

He ran his hands through Alex’s hair for the last time, being careful to check that every strand was covered. The dye had already started doing its job beautifully and emo Alex was very much taking hold.

It was as he was stepping back to inspect his finished work did he notice just how much of a mess he’d actually made, sheepishly pointing out to Alex that there was some on the edge of the sink, a few blobs in the shower and it was on the wall in about four different places.

“How the hell did it get there, I didn’t even go near that wall.” Michael exclaimed, utterly confounded at the mess he’d managed to create. Had he been in his own head so much that his hands had taken on a life of their own? 

“It’s fine,” Alex laughed fondly as he nudged the bin closer with his foot. “Just put the gloves in there before you touch anything else.”

“…wait, there were gloves?”

Alex turned around this time to look at Michael properly. He hadn’t noticed the lack of gloves on the hands in his hair, but looking at them now he could see they were completely covered not by the plastic, but by a creamy black gunk. Michael had a mischievous look on his face, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he tried not to snigger and Alex could feel himself doing the same. “What is the first thing I said to you?”

“Put it in gently?”

They couldn’t hold back their laughter. Scrubbing his hands removed all but the faint grey tint now dyed into his skin, but Michael didn’t care. Maybe it was all the dye fumes, but it felt like he was on a weird kind of high. Here they were, two boys giggling away like they’d been caught making out in the supply closet at school and in that moment everything felt right with the world.

Leaning back against the sink Michael crossed his arms as he admired Alex’s hair from the front. Even slicked back against his head it was looking good but they still had twenty minutes to fill before it was ready. “So, what should we do while we wait?”

Alex slyly leant over to the bowl, still filled a quarter of the way with leftover dye and waggled his eyebrows impishly at the horrified look Michael was now giving him. “Come on Guerin, it washes out.”

It really was quite a small bathroom with nowhere to run so as Alex stood up to get closer, Michael backed away so much he practically fell into the shower. The laughter returned as he tried to hide as much of his hair as he could with his arms. “Nope. These curls are sacred and there’s no way you’re turning them black. The most you’d ever get on me is the eyeliner.”

Alex gasped gleefully, eyes wide with excitement as he watched it dawn on Michael what he’d just said. He opened the bathroom cabinet and there, at the back of the bottom shelf, was Michael’s latest gift to him. Still unused, he’d only kept it for sentimental reasons, a fond reminder of his past self, but now Michael had no excuse.

“Take a seat.” Alex batted his eyelids innocently as he gestured to the stool he had vacated and Michael had no choice but to comply. He always found it hard to deny Alex anything, but right now, he’d do anything to keep that joy in his eyes.

Alex hadn’t used eyeliner in over ten years. At age seventeen it had taken him weeks to perfect the art without smudging it or poking himself in the eye and when he first joined the military he often missed the soothing action of it. But now, a decade on, he still held the pencil with the hands of someone who would never forget how to use it.

Michael looked up at him expectantly from the seat, a slight tingling rushing through him as Alex held his chin to tilt it upwards. He’d never worn any kind of makeup before, never really had the urge to, but there was always a first time for everything.

There was something quite sexy about Alex knowing exactly what to do, telling him when to look up, when to blink, pressing the pencil down just enough to leave the colour on his skin, but not too soft that it tickled. His hands were very gentle as they held Michael’s face and he felt his mind wandering as he let Alex work.

“Guerin, stay still or it’s going in your eye.” Alex admonished lightly, tongue poking out as he concentrated. He was surprised by how steady his hand was being and he didn’t want to mess it up now.

He gave a few more strokes before stepping away, tapping the pencil against his chin as he admired his work with a grin. An eyeliner-wearing Michael was never a look he’d imagined before, but it sure was a look he was appreciating. It was a subtle change, but one that made Alex want to dress him in a leather jacket and start a rock band with him. “All done.”

Mourning the loss of Alex’s touch, Michael sighed as he got to his feet, knees popping as he stood up and leaned in close to the mirror.

He looked…different. Not a bad different, maybe even a good different. It made his eyes seem brighter and his lashes look darker and the longer he looked in the mirror the wider he could see Alex’s smile getting.

“Alright, I’ll give you this one. It doesn’t look too bad.”

“Right!” Alex was practically giddy as he stepped closer to look at Michael’s eyes through the mirror. Their hands brushed lightly as they both leaned against the sink. “I didn’t think it would look this good, but now I’m starting to wish you’d had this look in high school.”

Michael turned to face him then, bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes roamed over Alex’s face. Maybe this whole nostalgia thing wasn’t so bad when you had someone to share it with.

He grabbed the eyeliner from Alex’s hand before he could be stopped and held it above his head with an eager grin as if Alex couldn’t reach it easily. “Your turn.”

-

Michael had been banished to the sofa while Alex washed out the dye. He’d willingly volunteered to help but Alex wanted the finished look to be a surprise. Not that he could blame him. If it looked terrible at least it would give Alex the chance to kick Michael out of the house before he even saw it.

Not that that would actually happen, Michael had done an excellent job and the finished article would prove just that, thank you very much.

The muffled noise of the shower turning on and off filtered through the walls as he peered around the room. He’d seen the inside of Alex’s house enough times now to know the layout but not enough to know its contents. 

The colourful spines of the neat pile of books stood out against the brown of the table they were sitting on. Their titles were too small to read from across the room but it made Michael wonder what kind of books Alex read now. He’d never thought to ask in all the time he’d been back in Roswell. Did he still read fantasy books like the ones Michael used to see him get lost in for hours at a time? Or were they non-fiction, filled with facts about a world that Alex had always longed to explore.

There were a few plants dotted around the room which Michael was nerdy enough to know the names of. They weren’t the type that required much watering though Michael could almost picture a green-thumbed Alex taking care to provide them what they needed.

But taking up most of the space was a whole range of musical items. A turntable alongside a crowded box of records, because of course that’s how Alex liked to listen to his music. A pair of speakers on either of side of his keyboard, a thick black pair of headphones sitting atop the black and white keys. And guitars. So many guitars.

I mean come on, four of them in one room? Alex was practically begging him to pick one up.

Three of them were next to the keyboard, held neatly on their individual stands, but it was the guitar standing alone that caught his attention. It was leaning almost precariously against the wall, looking like it could slide to the floor at the smallest touch but he had a feeling it had been there for a while. It was the one Alex had tried to gift to him all those months ago, after all.

Before he could stop himself, he pushed off the sofa and edged towards the guitar. Its case had been unzipped just enough at the top to show the dark brown wood poking through and Michael didn’t hesitate to unzip it the rest of the way.

Plucking a few of the strings made Michael wonder if maybe Alex had played it recently. It seemed to be perfectly in tune. It had been a little while now since he’d held a guitar, let alone played one, but this one seemed to fit so naturally in his hands.

The faint whirring of the hair dryer could now be heard through the bedroom door and Michael couldn’t help himself. His fingers fell into place effortlessly and played a tune that he once played for Alex all those years ago. It wasn’t hard to remember, it was one of the only songs he actually knew by heart and the muscle memory of the notes hadn’t failed him yet.

As the strings vibrated under his fingertips, the rest of the world fell away, the soft melody filling the room. He’d missed this, the calm that would wash over him whenever he used to play and for a brief moment as his fingers slipped between the C and G chords he wondered why he ever gave the guitar back.

“Suits you.” Alex’s quiet voice interrupted the notes and Michael almost dropped the guitar in his surprise. He hadn’t heard the hairdryer stop, hadn’t heard the door creaking open but the way Alex was smiling at him told him he had nothing to feel embarrassed about.

The smile wasn’t what he was focused on though.  

The inky black hair had turned out so much better than he’d ever imagined. The dark strands contrasted his lightly tanned skin so starkly and Michael could tell that he had taken a few extra minutes to style it a little.

His eyeliner was mismatched and uneven - one eye having been done badly by Michael before Alex, fearing the idea of getting poked in the eye again, had confiscated the pencil and finished the second eye perfectly by himself.

He looked like his innocent seventeen year old self. 

But also not. His features were matured enough to set the illusion off-kilter just slightly.

He looked incredible.

Michael wasn’t sure when his legs had made the decision to stand up, but here he was, two feet away from Alex, staring at him with his mouth half open. Alex took the silence the wrong way though as he gave a nervous laugh, feeling his cheeks redden.

He anxiously rubbed the back of his neck and the movement knocked Michael out of his daze. He slowly dragged his eyes away from Alex’s hair and down to his lips, watching them form the words as he spoke. “It looks terrible, doesn’t it?”

Had Alex even looked in the mirror? Had he not seen what Michael was seeing right now? 

And it’s not even like the hair and makeup changed him that much. He’s looked beautiful the entire time Michael has known him, he just looked beautiful with his old style right this second rather than his new one. 

Maybe Michael just always thought Alex looked most comfortable in his seventeen-year-old style, it was a look he had precisely crafted for himself to best represent the person he was. The black jumpers with bold patterns, the makeup, the piercings. It was the look of a rebellious kid who didn’t want to fit in.

His current style was created through circumstance, through being forced to take on a duty that he never chose but has now made his own. And his style was his own now too, the muted colours much more reserved, but still his choice.

But now standing before him was a beautiful combination of both of those people and oh dear, he’s never really stopped thinking about Alex this way, has he? And more important, how long has he been staring at him without saying a single word?

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his throat had gone strangely dry.

“No.” He whispered in reply as he stepped closer, his feet making their own decisions again and he suddenly couldn’t stop himself. In that moment he couldn’t remember why he had been holding back for all of these months when the person he wanted most in the world was standing right in front of him.

He kissed him before he could stop himself, hands gently grabbing Alex’s face, feeling soft lips against his own. It felt like he was seventeen again, kissing for the first time in the darkened rooms of the UFO Emporium but as his hands crept up into Alex’s hair the sound of a distant car horn through the open kitchen window broke through his dream-filled haze and he realised what he had just done.

“Oh god, I’m sorry.” Michael stuttered out as he pulled away with a gasp, instantly embarrassed at how impulsive he had been. He bit his bottom lip as his eyes stayed trained on Alex’s chest, not daring to lift them any higher. In one tiny moment of weakness he had broken their agreement and he wanted to kick himself for how stupid that had been.

It had been decided that they would just be friends. No drama, no fighting and definitely no sex. The relationship between them would be strictly supportive and platonic and as much as Michael had longed for them to be something, he had agreed for the sake of keeping any kind of connection with Alex. And turns out, he couldn’t even give him that.

If he had looked up he would have seen the surprise on Alex’s face. Surprise that Michael had kissed him - sure - but more the surprise that Michael had pulled away so abruptly. And far too soon for that matter.

Before Alex could talk himself out of it, he took Michael’s face in his hands and kissed him right back. His heart fluttered as Michael instantly pulled him closer, softer this time, as if they both knew in that moment that there was no rush.

Michael’s entire body tingled, heat filling his chest as Alex lips parted with a tiny breath. He was hardly aware of what his own hands were doing, so desperate to never let go, his knees almost giving out as the rest of the world fell away, leaving them in their intimate, almost forbidden, moment.

As his fingers ran through the soft strands of the freshly dyed hair, Michael was reminded of every other time they had performed this same action, how natural this felt, how safe, like coming home.

“I would have let you dye my hair weeks ago if I’d known that’s all it would take.” Alex sighed as they parted, still only inches from Michael’s face, not daring to move any further lest the spell be broken. He hadn’t seen the day going this way when Michael had turned up on his doorstep with his mischievous grin but he wasn’t about to complain.

Michael gave a small huff of laughter at the unexpected comment, his hands itching to pull Alex closer. He had been wanting to do that for a long time, but he’d been good. He’d stuck to their agreement and given Alex the space to move on, no matter how many times he’d wanted to rebuild that abandoned bridge between them. But it seems the long awaited move had now finally been made and he didn’t have to hold back anymore.  

Because here Alex was, black hair, dark eyeliner, standing in front of him with that nervous post-kiss smile that Michael had missed for far too long and now he never wanted to let this moment go.

It seems today had definitely been third time lucky.

Very lucky indeed.

Thank you for reading 💜✨

[readbookywooks]

5 R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Venia, a woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of Fabric from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. "Sorry!" she pipes in her silly Capitol accent. "You're just so hairy!" Why do these people speak in such a high pitch? Why do their jaws barely open when they talk? Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if they're asking a question? Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s. no wonder it's impossible not to mimic them. Venia makes what's supposed to be a sympathetic face. "Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?" I get a grip on the edges of the table I'm seated on and nod. The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk. I've been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven't met my stylist. Apparently he has no interest in seeing me until Venia and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems. This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair. My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the Muff, leaving me like a plucked bird, ready for roasting. I don't like it. My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable. But I have kept my side of the bargain with Haymitch, and no objection has crossed my lips. "You're doing very well," says some guy named Flavius. He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. "If there's one thing we can't stand, it's a whiner. Grease her down!" Venia and Octavia, a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin. Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I've been allowed to wear off and on. I stand there, completely naked, as the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair. I know I should be embarrassed, but they're so unlike people that I'm no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly colored birds were pecking around my feet. The three step back and admire their work. "Excellent! You almost look like a human being now!" says Flavius, and they all laugh. I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am. "Thank you," I say sweetly. "We don't have much cause to look nice in District Twelve." This wins them over completely. "Of course, you don't, you poor darling!" says Octavia clasping her hands together in distress for me. "But don't worry," says Venia. "By the time Cinna is through with you, you're going to be absolutely gorgeous!" "We promise! You know, now that we've gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you're not horrible at all!" says Flavius encouragingly. "Let's call Cinna!" They dart out of the room. It's hard to hate my prep team. They're such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know they're sincerely trying to help me. I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe. But this Cinna, my stylist, will surely make me remove it at once. Instead my hands go to my hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone. My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother so carefully arranged. My mother. I left her blue dress and shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about retrieving them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home. Now I wish I had. The door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters. I'm taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered they're grotesque. But Cinna's close-cropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He's in a simple black shirt and pants. The only concession to self-alteration seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand. It brings out the flecks of gold in his green eyes. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their hideous fashions, I can't help thinking how attractive it looks. "Hello, Katniss. I'm Cinna, your stylist," he says in a quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol's affectations. "Hello," I venture cautiously. "Just give me a moment, all right?" he asks. He walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with his eyes. I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. "Who did your hair?" "My mother," I say. "It's beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers," he says. I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older trying desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter. Cinna has met none of these expectations. "You're new, aren't you? I don't think I've seen you before," I say. Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the ever-changing pool of tributes. Some have been around my whole life. "Yes, this is my first year in the Games," says Cinna. "So they gave you District Twelve," I say. Newcomers generally end up with us, the least desirable district. "I asked for District Twelve," he says without further explanation. "Why don't you put on your robe and we'll have a chat." Pulling on my robe, I follow him through a door into a sitting room. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city. I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast. Cinna invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across from me. He presses a button on the side of the table. The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch. Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey. I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home. Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a wild turkey. I'd need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange. Goat's milk would have to substitute for cream. We can grow peas in the garden. I'd have to get wild onions from the woods. I don't recognize the grain, our own tessera ration cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three squirrels. As for the pudding, I can't even guess what's in it. Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version. What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by? What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment? I look up and find Cinna's eyes trained on mine. "How despicable we must seem to you," he says. Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts? He's right, though. The whole rotten lot of them is despicable. "No matter," says Cinna. "So, Katniss, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Peeta. And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes," says Cinna. "As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district." For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your district's principal industry. District 11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories. This means that coming from District 12, Peeta and I will be in some kind of coal miner's getup. Since the baggy miner's jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps. One year, our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust. It's always dreadful and does nothing to win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst. "So, I'll be in a coal miner outfit?" I ask, hoping it won't be indecent. "Not exactly. You see, Portia and I think that coal miner thing's very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable," says Cinna. I'll be naked for sure, I think. "So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal," says Cinna. Naked and covered in black dust, I think. "And what do we do with coal? We burn it," says Cinna. "You're not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?" He sees my expression and grins. A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies. I'm in a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. But it's the fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and the matching headpiece that define this costume. Cinna plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets. "It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," he says. But I'm not convinced I won't be perfectly barbecued by the time we reach the city's center. My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of highlighting here and there. My hair has been brushed out and then braided down my back in my usual style. "I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," says Cinna dreamily. "Katniss, the girl who was on fire." It crosses my mind that Cinna's calm and normal demeanor masks a complete madman. Despite this morning's revelation about Peeta's character, I'm actually relieved when he shows up, dressed in an identical costume. He should know about fire, being a baker's son and all. His stylist, Portia, and her team accompany him in, and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we'll make. Except Cinna. He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations. We're whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable. The opening ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours are coal black. The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins. Cinna and Portia direct us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to consult with each other. "What do you think?" I whisper to Peeta. "About the fire?" "I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth. "Deal," I say. Maybe, if we can get them off soon enough, we'll avoid the worst burns. It's bad though. They'll throw us into the arena no matter what condition we're in. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle." "Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" says Peeta. "With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," I say. And suddenly we're both laughing. I guess we're both so nervous about the Games and more pressingly, petrified of being turned into human torches, we're not acting sensibly. The opening music begins. It's easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing the crowd-lined streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the Games begin. The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd. They are always favorites. District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Cinna appears with a lighted torch. "Here we go then," he says, and before we can react he sets our capes on fire. I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a sign of relief. "It works." Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!" Cinna jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts again and gestures. "What's he saying?" I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling. And I must be, too. "I think he said for us to hold hands," says Peeta. He grabs my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for confirmation. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city. The crowd's initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of "District Twelve!" Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us. At first, I'm frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cinna was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable. Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you! I hear Cinna's voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand. I'm glad now I have Peeta to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock. As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd. The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program. The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can't suppress my excitement. Cinna has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire. For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me. Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on! And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why should I count myself out of the Games? Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing. "Katniss! Katniss!" I can hear my name being called from all sides. Everyone wants my kisses. It's not until we enter the City Circle that I realize I must have completely stopped the circulation in Peeta's hand. That's how tightly I've been holding it. I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. "No, don't let go of me," he says. The firelight flickers off his blue eyes. "Please. I might fall out of this thing." "Okay," I say. So I keep holding on, but I can't help feeling strange about the way Cinna has linked us together. It's not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other. The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow's mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish. The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech. But I can see on the screen that we are getting way more than our share of airtime. The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering. When the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the District 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center. The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspected, we've literally outshone them all. Then Cinna and Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes and headdresses. Portia extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister. I realize I'm still glued to Peeta and force my stiff fingers to open. We both massage our hands. "Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," says Peeta. "It didn't show," I tell him. "I'm sure no one noticed." "I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often," he says. "They suit you." And then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. A warning bell goes off in my head. Don't be so stupid. Peeta is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is. But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.