thecapitol | out and about [open!]

Who| Lestat & you!
What| Down time in the common room, and then a shopping spree.
Where| Starting off at the District 6 Common Room, then all over town.
When| Week 6
Warnings/Notes| General warning for terribleness, will edit if needed.

District 6 Common Room
Lestat was not looking forward to this idea of 'mentoring.' He didn't want anything to do with these people, no matter if they were from his District or not. Besides, he was watching the Games (of course-didn't everybody?) and some of these people were simply...he had his work cut out for him, at least.

If he was to mentor these people, then he had at least put in a minimal effort. After all, the Capitol had told him in no uncertain terms to put in effort and do things-something he wasn't looking forward to. They never said he had to actively search them out, though. They'd some through the Common Room eventually, that was good enough. So, slouched on a couch in the Common Room, he flipped through a trashy magazine. As people entered, Lestat lazily waved them over, to talk about whatever stupid article he was reading.

"You, come over here. What do you think of this?" he asked, pointing at an inane article-possibly about clothes, possibly about a celebrity, possibly about both.

All About Town
After he got the traditional boring mentoring bits out of the way, Lestat had decided to hit the town. After all, if he was going to spend time in these boring quarters, he needed to personally outfit it a bit more. So, Lestat meandered from shop to shop, looking at fancy clothes, lavish home goods, way too expensive and gaudy curtains, things like that. He was dressed to the nines today, which in Lestat's fashion sense, translated as lots of frills and ruffs. Waaaaay too many frills.

He walked from shop to shop, not really caring about others as he did. Why should he, after all? They were just normal, average citizens-he had proved himself better than them ages ago. So, as he shopped, it is entirely possible that he bumped into people, accidentally trod on some feet, cut someone off in line without second thought, etc. etc. without even realizing it or giving a damn.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

As he hears R's voice, Lestat turns around and oh good Lord. He pauses for a moment, looking at the young man. He wasn't entirely sure if it was the lights in the store or his complexion, but he looked, for lack of a better word, dead.

Lestat can't help his staring and the slight look of confusion and disgust on his face. He hadn't seen anyone who looked that bad in...well, ever. It was a bit disconcerting. At R's statement, he nods, still looking rather confused.

"Of course," he responded, frowning slightly. "Are you thinking of anything in particular?"

He's used to that mixed bag of reactions. Even the few fans he has get that way if he accidentally touches them when he's, say, signing autographs. Supposed to be signing autographs: kind of hard to when you don't remember your name or how to write. Even holding a pen's iffy. R tries not to take the stare personally.

He gestures at his mouth, the gleaming muzzle that protects the Capitol from his teeth.

"New...one. Nicer...?" R fishes about for something else, something to say that isn't just awkward shopping advice. He settles for jutting his hand out, his gray skin even more desaturated looking compared to the warm teals and browns (running District 4 ocean theme) he's stuck in. "I'm...Rrr. By...the way..."

He twitches his mouth into what he hopes is a friendly smile. This guy's so classically good looking R suspects he'd feel in shambles standing next to him even if he wasn't a zombie.

Lestat continues to look at R, obviously slightly disgusted. He was gray. Surely the Capitol could do something about that. Gray just wasn't aesthetically pleasing at all.

When R pointed at his muzzle, Lestat's frown only intensified. "Truth be told, I know absolutely nothing about muzzles." Which was a sentence he never thought he'd utter in his life. "But perhaps a brighter color would be best? It would certainly draw attention away from your...skin."

He felt so sorry for the poor boy's stylist: they must have their work cut out for them.

At this point they've practically given up on him and focused on their other Tributes.

"Like..." R racks his brain for all the words he knows for really obvious beach colors. "Not...blue and...green. Red...?"

Okay, so he's falling back on his default. He knows he looks okay in red. R feels Lestat studying him and probably finding what he sees lacking, self-consciousness starting to rise in his guts. It might've been different if this man wasn't so obviously handsome he even stands out around the rest of the Capitol citizens. It's like rubbing it in his face somehow.

Lestat frowns, looking at R. Red...it would look good in him. He taps his finger to his chin in thought, as he looks at R, then looks at the selection of other accessories.

"Perhaps a dark crimson would be good, if you want to go for red. Something the color of blood?" He had no idea that R was a zombie or even what zombie's connections to blood were (Lestat was not very book smart about certain things.) But a crimson red against that gray skin...it could be worse.

"Yes," R winces behind the muzzle. Not the way he would've liked to put it, but accurate. Zombies gravitate toward that particular shade of red for a reason and as much as he hates to admit it, he's no different. "But not...District...colors...?"

Lestat waved a flippant hand, letting out a small scoff. "Just make sure to wear your District colors whenever you're doing interviews or such. I'm sure those poor people in Twelve don't wear that ugly coal gray all the time." And if they did, then he really felt sorry for them.

It was obvious from Lestat's tone that he really didn't put much pride in his district.

Put like that, it sounds so easy! R's a little jealous.

"Grey...ugh..." R can agree on that. Grey's boring, lifeless, monotony. "Not...good at...inter-views. Tips...?"

When it takes you forever to groan up a sentence, an interview can be a torture for the interviewer. R looks hopefully at Lestat over his muzzle, expecting answers to life, the universe and the Capitol from him now. No way you could fake that smooth confidence.

"I can tell." A small smirk spread across his face. The boy had trouble stringing more than two words together. Interviews would be hellish for him. His smirk faded, as Lestat put his hand up to his chin in thought.

"Can you cry on command? Perhaps if you seem so distraught and mortified at the thought of going back into the Games, the interviewers will hold back on the questions."

It was a horrible idea. But really, R looked like he needed as much help as possible.

R looks trapped at that suggestion because on paper, it's a really good idea. Who doesn't feel a little tug when they look at someone crying? But that hinges on the fact that you can produce tears and R's tear ducts are as dry as a mausoleum: he couldn't cry even if his un-life depended on it. Embarrassed, R hangs his head, feeling like a new zombie in front of this man.

"Can't," R mumbles. "Can't...cry. Other...way? Win...hearts?"

It can't all hinge on faking it, can it? R couldn't fake his way out of a paper bag or look half as marvelous as this guy.

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chill with me!

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