[OPEN] (703): so, i guess i gotta chill on showing up to work hungover

[fuckingcool]

Who| Oliver + any D9 tributes!
What| As his tributes come out of the Arena, Oliver will be meeting with each of them for a personal style assessment.
Where| His workshop in the D9 suites.
When| Anytime during Arena 13--whenever your character dies and returns to the Capitol.
Warnings/Notes| Oceana will be out of drag as Oliver for this log! The style assessment is mandatory ICly, but not OOCly, so feel free to tag in if you'd like to c:



The longer Arena this time around is a mercy for District 9's stylist; it means there's more time where he doesn't need to be frantically sewing, after all, and it means that as his tributes trickle back into the Capitol, he can take some time to see them one on one and discuss their images, style-wise. He doesn't want to get stuck in a rut, after all, and it'll be good to take a fresh look at each of his babies and make sure they're all getting the attention they're due.

So, when each D9 tribute arrives back from the Arena, they'll find a note and a little bag of chocolates waiting in their rooms, inviting them to come meet with Oliver at their earliest convenience. For many of them, it'll be the first time they've experienced their stylist out of drag, and it might be a tad confusing finding a tall, skinny twink in the workroom instead of an even taller, sequin-covered drag queen. Surprise, bitch.

Comments

[fuckingcool]

He's not exactly getting a pat-down; Oliver's not nearly as handsy as Daryl as he's been known to be with his other Tributes, all things considered, mostly because he's not sure if Daryl is one of those dudes who's afraid of a little mostly-friendly affection from another man. So when he complies and spreads his arms, Oliver just approaches with the measuring tape, taking his armspan, his shoulder width, and his neck-to-waist.

And, well, if he checks out Those Guns behind his back, can you blame him?

"See, this isn't so bad," Oliver says, trying to sound soothing. To set Daryl at ease. "Just a few measurements. You can drop your arms, honey." He bends down, taking Daryl's hip-to-floor, but hesitates before he goes to take his inseam.

"I'm not trying to pull a fast one on you, here, just your inseam. Any ball-grazing is entirely accidental, alright?"

[weaintashes]

Affection Daryl could deal with, even if he'd have no idea how to respond. Physical contact is the issue, and it's embarrassingly apparent in his rigid posture, the way he's holding his breath, the vaguely unfocused look when he realises he can drop his arms, then does so. This aversion to being touched doesn't discriminate against gender or appearance — all unfamiliar people are equally unwelcome when it comes to these deeply ingrained instincts, fostered by too many years of abuse.

It makes something as simple as being measured a sort of unique hell for him, though it helps that the whole thing is fairly impersonal, and Oliver's being more considerate than anticipated. It hadn't actually occurred to him that Oliver would even want to cop a feel, and his eyebrows are raised in surprise at the ball-grazing disclaimer. "Yeah...? Just do it," he says, the gruffness of his tone somewhat masking his nervousness.

Right. It's undeniably more awkward now. What's an inseam and what do balls have to do with it? Should he adjust himself? Thank god he'd remembered underwear, he supposes, and watches Oliver expectantly.

[fuckingcool]

Oliver can tell that Daryl's not a huge fan of being touched, just by reading his body language. Working with Tributes, you get used to the signs--especially when your tributes used to be overworked District kids, used to being pushed around by Peacekeepers. So he's careful, here, watching his hands, making an extra effort not to be too feelsy.

"Doing it," he chirps softly, bending down in front of the pedestal with his measuring tape. Gently, the stylist runs the measuring tape from the floor, up the inside of Daryl's leg, all the way to the top, ending at his crotch. Trying very hard not to make any hand-to-ball contact. He's sort of afraid that Daryl will kick like a mule if he does, honestly.

[weaintashes]

Oh.

That's an inseam.

Being warned about it had had Daryl anticipating something a whole lot worse than what it turns out to be, which while not exactly pleasant, isn't especially traumatising with Oliver's apparent level of experience. Efficiency minimises how weird it could have been.

Finally letting out the breath he's been holding, discomfiture is written all over his face as he looks away, glancing around the workshop, anywhere but at Oliver. Normal people don't have these kinds of problems — hell, not even other apocalypse survivors seem to — and he's well aware of it. Having such a vulnerability is sometimes maybe a bit humiliating.

"Y'actually enjoy doin' this stuff? Bein' a district stylist?"

He isn't the type to chatter uselessly when nervous, or in general; he's legitimately curious. Despite his unease, he's allowing himself to wonder what it must be like to be on the other side of this equation. Is Oliver a proud Capitol citizen who believes in what the death match arenas represent? Is it just another job?

[fuckingcool]

Mazel tov, Daryl.

Oliver's trying not to stare, but the poor guy is so fucking awkward and uncomfortable that it's almost comical. But he also knows about being awkward, about feeling weird about yourself, so he averts his gaze in order to scribble down some measurements.

The question gives him pause, however, and he glances up to where Daryl is towering over him, giving him a half-smile. "Yeah, I do," he admits. "I like helping other people feel better about themselves. Make 'em look good, help them learn how to strut their shit with finesse. I'm not good at much else besides drinking and fucking and lip-syncing, so this is my career choice."

[weaintashes]

Oliver certainly wouldn't be the first to find humour in Daryl's predicament, nor the last, but it's just as well that Daryl doesn't pick up on it, or he'd likely react like a sad, mangy feral cat whose tail accidentally gets stepped on.

As it stands, the District 9 stylist is expanding his narrow opinion of Capitol natives, his previously held belief that they're all miserable assholes being amended to a slightly more charitable: most are miserable assholes. It's no coincidence that the first Capitolite to change his mind is also the first to treat like him an actual person.

The candor with which his question is answered surprises a huff of a laugh from him. "This prob'ly pays better than the rest, too." He can also claim to be good at exactly one of those things. But hey, common ground is common ground, and it breaks the ice a little in a way that incidental ball-grazing couldn't; the stiffness in his posture is easing, ever so slightly. "How long've you been doin' it for?"

And so begins the tale of Daryl Dixon and his First Drag Queen Friend...

[fuckingcool]

"Fuck yes," Oliver agrees with a chuckle as he finishes up taking Daryl's measurements, rising from his kneeling position at Daryl's feet and rolling up his measuring tape. "It's not bad, anyway. I've been, uh..." He has to think. "I was an Assistant Stylist for three years, and I've been at this gig for about a year now, so. Four years."

He shrugs his skinny shoulders. "It goes by so fast. But I meet a lot of new people. Make a lot of friendships I never thought I'd be making, you know?"