Kerosene (Hamilton/Hunger Games)

2~One Way Out

John was almost sickened by all the decadence around him. He and Mary both had been awed by the food, the showers, the decor, and of course, the absurd costumes worn my Capitol residents. But by late morning, when the hair his sister had done for him earlier was out, and his skin and hair were being scrubbed in countless substances, all with smells and textures he didn't recognize, he wanted to scream. He didn't even register the names of the three--or four?-- people scrubbing, shaving, filing, and trimming around him. He looked over at Mary a few feet away, who seemed overwhelmed. She was gritting her teeth, eyes squeezed shut and chest moving up and down rapidly. John wished he could reach out and take her hand, but both of his were occupied, nails being coated in a clear, chemical smelling substance.

"That'll do," He heard someone say from the doorway. The speaker was tall and slender, with a red silk scarf draped across their broad shoulders. "Giselle du Lafayette. Euh, Lafayette," they said to John, extending a hand. John took it, hesitantly. "The stylist for both of you. This must be your sister, no?"

"Mary, yeah,"

Lafayette nodded. "I saw the reaping. My condolences to both of you," They took the empty chair across from John. "I talked to Alexander earlier. He has a plan for the two of you, and a good one at that. My husband, he was up all night last night, designing the clothes,"

"For the chariot?" Mary interjected.

"Mary, don't interrupt,"

"Oh, she's alright," Lafayette smiled jovially, lifting the satchel that had been hanging from one arm. "Anyway, you will both change, and then we'll get to business. Here," They reached into the bag. "For John," They held out some kind of shimmery gold fabric. "And for Mary," They handed something similar to her.

John nodded. He stepped behind the three-paneled changing screen, while Mary went into the bathroom. The outfit turned out to be a metallic gold shirt and loose blue pants that had a bunch of horizontal slits cut into them. When John moved his leg, the slits fluttered, making the pant legs ripple. Like waves in the breeze, he realized. Mary came out, wearing a skirt of the same design, rippling gracefully. "So," John began. "This is..."

Lafayette shook his head, still beaming. "Oh, cheri, no. That's just the base. Now, the hair is going to take a while, so be prepared to sit still for a bit. Hercules?" She called.

The man in question was about the same height as Lafayette, but built with a bit more muscle. "Hey," he said. His voice was soft, calm. John liked him right away. "Hercules Mulligan, this one's lucky husband," He kissed Lafayette on the cheek. "What is it, honey?"

"Oh, I was just going to ask if you could do this one's hair," They pointed to Mary, who was sitting next to John, tapping her feet impatiently.

"Of course," Hercules reached for the satchel, pulling out a long, slender plastic box and setting in on the table. When Lafayette opened it, John saw it was split into two compartments, one filled with what appeared to be shimmering blue twine, the other with gold. Hercules then stood behind Mary's chair. "Could you sit up straight for me, kiddo?"

Mary nodded. John figured it was best to do likewise. The next twenty minutes or so were passed with John ignoring the faint tugging sensation on the back of his head, absentmindedly tuning into the conversation between his stylist and her spouse.

"So this whole 'siblings who can't live without one another' dynamic," Hercules was saying. "What exactly is that supposed to achieve?"

Lafayette hummed. "Tilt your head back," they murmured to John, who did so. She then addressed Hercules. "Well, Alex, Il veut pour les hommages à contraindre les gens dans le Capitole aimer elles. Il y a un risque, oui, mais je penser c'est très intéressant. Je ne sais comment Alex attendes pour ça à fonctionner en matiere des victory, mais il allers obtenir plus parrains, peut être. Et les parrainers pourraient aider John et Mary beaucoup" they replied. John couldn't even begin to place the language they were speaking, but he kept listening anyway, silently counting the white flecks in the blue tile ceiling.