#flamboyant black tie or birthday suit

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

now that i've read qon...

i hereby stand by my earlier declaration that i would let the greenbriars repeatedly and perpetually run me over with bus.

[mclennunf]

This Boy - Chapter 29

~John's~ I woke up in our hotel room due to the bright Paris sun beaming through the window. This day was important, and nothing could mess it up for me or for Paul. I decided to take my medication then, and again later that night. Just to be sure. I noticed the bathroom door was shut, so I assumed Paul was in there. I knocked on the door. "Y'there, m'love?" I asked. "Don't come in!" Paul yelped from the other side of the door. I was confused and a bit worried now. "What's going on?" I knocked again, a little more aggressively. "It's just that, well," Paul opened the door a little bit and peered his head out, hiding his body. "What is it?" I asked, trying to see around the door. "I'm wearing my tux. It's bad luck to see it." I chuckled as Paul spoke. "I'm gonna see it in a few hours anyway, m'love." I tried to argue, picturing how dashing he must have looked. "I know, but just wait. For me. Ye best go off and get ready yourself." Paul nodded at me, gesturing for me to leave him alone. 

"Baby, you saw the place yesterday. It's pretty grotty." I reminded him, feeling a twang in my heart of guilt. I hated that I couldn't take Paul to a beautiful chapel to get married, like he deserved. "Everything will be perfect." Paul smiled pushing his head out of the crack in the door a bit more and pursing his lips. I smiled and kissed him. "I'll see you in a couple hours, handsome." I said as he closed the door. "See you. Soon-to-be Mr. McCartney." I heard Paul chuckle on the other side of the door again. "AY! We did not agree to me taking your last name!" I laughed too. I went into the sitting room and closed the separating door. I grabbed the long bag that was hanging by the window and unzipped it. I pulled out my tux and examined it. It was a nice typical black suit with a white shirt and slim black tie. I decided to pour myself a drink, knowing it would calm my nerves. I knew Paul's tux was going to be more exciting, and that's what I wanted. I wanted him to stand out, although nobody would be there to see us other than the man who would be marrying us. It seemed so odd to me that we were actually doing it, getting married. I imagined what it would be like if I hadn't been on my medication, what the voices would be telling me. I knew that it'd be nothing but negativity, and they would be trying to talk me out of it. Thank God Paul talked me into getting that appointment, or our relationship may not have lasted let alone come this far. After my third drink, I heard Paul rustling around in the other room. I realized the time, and almost jumped out of my skin. I had twenty minutes to clean myself up and get ready. I grabbed my tux, and leaned into the separating door. "Baby, I've got to use the washroom. Is it safe to come in?" I said loudly through the door. "One second!" I heard his loving voice yell. I waited a few moments before he gave me the okay. I walked through the door, and saw a lump hiding under the covers of the bed. "You're fuckin' adorable." I laughed and slapped what I assumed was his arse. "Bugger off, Mr. McCartney!" Paul giggled under the covers. I rolled my eyes and went into the bathroom. I changed into my tux and stared at my reflection for a while, thinking of how I was about to become a married man. I began combing my hair, slicking it back in my quiff with vaseline. I brushed my teeth to get rid of the beery scent, and smiled as I looked at myself once again. I was happy. I was ready. I straightened my tie before I heard Paul's voice behind the door. "I'm heading down there now, love. Don't be late!" He said, I could almost hear the smile on his face. "You got it, babe." I smiled, not taking my eyes off my reflection. Who would've thought that John Lennon, registered psycho, was getting married to his best mate? I had a cigarette on the bed before deciding it was time for me to go down to the venue. As I entered the building, I remembered how horribly it smelt of stale beer and old cigarettes. But from that point on this room was going to be the most memorable room for the rest of my life. The man who was to marry us, Peter, stood at the alter, if you could even call it that. He was a very flamboyant gay man. "Good evening, Mr. Lennon!" Pete greeted me with a thick French accent. "Hello, Pete. Call me John." I smiled as I shook his hand. "I just spoke with Paul, he's ready when you are." As Pete spoke I felt my stomach fill with butterflies. It was really happening. "Paul told me you have your own vows prepared. I'm excited to hear them." Pete went on as he began getting himself ready, grabbing a thick book that I imagined was a bible. "W-what?" I asked, our own vows. Shit. I had forgotten to write my fucking vows. "Ready, John?" Pete asked, pointing to the spot beside him where I was to stand. I tried to slow my breathing. "Yes." I smiled nervously. I looked over to the door where Paul was going to enter, mentally preparing myself for his arrival. There was a guitar player sitting in the corner beside me, sitting with his classical guitar, who began playing some beautiful finger picking. The perfect sound. Suddenly the door opened, and I almost felt blinded by the man who entered. He was no less of an angel. His skin glowed, and his eyes were shining brighter than any star I'd ever seen. He walked in rather slowly, slower than I expected, giving me time to take it all in. His suit was also black with a slim black tie, but he wore a pink carnation on his chest. I smiled as I stared at it, being reminded of the young boy I had fallen in love with in Strawberry Fields. As he finally stopped in front of me, he flashed his signature Paul McCartney smile. "Wow." I managed to say, my heart absolutely full. "I could say the same." Paul smiled as he spoke, looking me up and down. "Lovely. Shall I begin?" Pete asked. We both nodded. "Now, we are gathered here in this gross little room to join you, James Paul McCartney and you, John Winston Lennon in holy matrimony. Though it may be unholy in the eyes of some, to us it is sacred. You may now start your vows." Pete nodded toward Paul, who blinked nervously. "Ah, John. I promise you to be your friend, lover and partner against all else. The life we've had together has not been an easy one, it's been a long hard road, but with you by my side I know we can accomplish absolutely anything." Paul began to choke up, as did I. "I promise that on this day, I give you my heart, that I will walk with you hand in hand, wherever this crazy journey leads us. Living, learning and loving together. Forever." Paul smiled as he spoke, I could barely believe the words coming out of his mouth. I wanted to kiss him, but I knew I had to think on my feet now. I had no vows prepared. "Now, John." Pete gestured toward me. I took a deep breath. "Paul, I promise you that for the rest of my days, however long that may be, I will try in every way to be deserving of your love. You have been my best friend, my bandmate and my greatest challenge. But most importantly, you are the love of my life and you make me happier than I could ever imagine and more loved than I ever thought I deserved. Paul McCartney, you have made me a better person and for the rest of my life I want to thank you for that." Paul had a tear rolling down each cheek now, with a large smile spread across his face from ear to ear. I fought back tears, wanting to keep my composure for Paul. "Beautiful." Pete smiled. "The rings, Paul." He ordered. "Rings?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "I saved up. Count this as your birthday present from me." Paul grinned, wiping his eyes before reaching into his pocket and pulling out two matching gold rings. "I had 'em engraved." Paul told me as he handed me his ring. I examined it and saw Lennon-McCartney engraved in small cursive letters. "Paul.." I couldn't keep speaking, my voice choked up and I almost broke. He placed the ring on my finger, and I placed one on his. "John, do you take Paul to be your partner in sickness and in health?" "I do." I nodded with a huge smile on my face. "Paul?" Pete turned to him. "I do." He choked up again. "I now pronounce you, partners. You may kiss." Pete smiled and stepped back. I grabbed Paul by the small of his back and pulled him into me as quickly as I could, crashing my lips onto his. I could feel both of us smiling against each other. When I finally pulled myself off of him, Pete and the guitar player began clapping. "Wow." Paul chuckled at the small audience. "Let's get out of here. Thank you, Pete." I said, shaking his hand. Pete shook Paul's hand and wished us the best. We thanked him and ran out of the venue holding hands, all the way back up to the hotel room, not caring who saw us. Paul quickly closed the door behind us and jumped up into my arms, wrapping his legs around my waist and giggling almost uncontrollably as he kissed me. "What are you on about?" I smiled as I asked into the kiss. "I just can't believe it!" He pulled away, his arms wrapped around my neck as he spoke. "Me neither." I agreed as he slid out of my arms. "What now?" He asked. We sat down on the bed, he kept both my hands in his. "Now we spend the rest of our lives together, Macca." I kissed his cheek lovingly. "You look so handsome." I added, looking down at his tux. "Look at you!" He smiled, looking down at my tux and then pointing to my hair. "I clean up when I have to, m'love." I winked at him. "I wrote a song, y'know, as a wedding present." Paul grinned as he stood up and grabbed his guitar out of its case. "You didn't." I laughed, almost feeling giddy. Paul fumbled on the guitar a bit before finally beginning to pluck a few chords and opening his beautiful mouth. If I fell in love with you Would you promise to be true And help me understand Cos I've been in love before And I found that love was more Than just holding hands If I give my heart to you I must be sure From the very start That you would love me more than her If I trust in you oh please Don't run and hide If I love you too oh please Don't hurt my pride like her Cos I couldn't stand the pain And I would be sad if our new love was in vain So I hope you see that I Would love to love you And that she will cry When she learns we are two Cos I couldn't stand the pain And I would be sad if our new love was in vain So I hope you see that I Would love to love you And that she will cry When she learns we are two If I fell in love with you.

[everlarkbirthdaydrabbles]

Hi, my birthday is February 19th and I'd love something along the lines of enemies to lovers Modern AU (smut) if that's possible. Thank you so much to all the authors who contribute!!

Wishing you a wonderful birthday! To start you days off right, the always delightful @appleblossomgirl0305 has written this perfect bit of Everlark, just for you! Enjoy!

Treed

Rating: M/E

Trigger warnings: Logging operations? Heights? The mating habits of quail?

A/N: Happy birthday! I hope all of your birthday wishes come true! Never-ending gratitude to @xerxia31 for helping in every way possible.

Peeta hunkered down in his chair, swiveling away from the opening of his cubicle. He had two immediate problems; his editor was looking for him and he was hungover. Again. Plutarch Heavensbee was hard to take on a normal day, but with a blazing headache and already sour stomach, Peeta feared the consequences of a run in this morning.

“Damn,” he muttered, sucking a sharp whistling breath as he burned his tongue on his scaldingly hot coffee. Why did the little kiosk in the entryway always insist on making horribly weak, but ridiculously hot coffee? Maybe a better question was why he continued to buy it. But every time he walked into the chrome and marble opulence of the Capital Media Corps foyer, with its twenty stories of frantically busy, hungry machine of information and commerce looming above him, he felt like an imposter. He felt like every silk-shirted woman in her clackity-clacking heels determinedly running to the next important story, each shiny-shoed, cuff-linked man barking into his cell phone that he “needed it yesterday, dammit!” could tell he didn’t really belong there. That he was a small-town boy from District 12 who still dreamt of his parent’s bakery, cinnamon and dill-scented tendrils curling through his dreams.

He knew how lucky he was to have landed a job at the Capitol Media Corps. The cutthroat elite clawed each other apart, climbing over the backs of their fallen colleagues to nab a position at the exclusive media conglomerate. Unbeknownst to Peeta, the editor at his hometown paper had entered some of his articles and cartoons into several competitions and Peeta was shocked when he received the letter that he had won the Snowbird Award for Outstanding Young Journalists.

Within days, Peeta was contacted by Plutarch Heavensbee himself and the renowned Editor in Chief had offered him a prestigious job at CMC. Peeta had wanted to be proud, to feel the undeniable tug of ambition, but all he felt was hurt. Hurt that Haymitch had gone behind his back and seemed happy to tie a bow around his neck and send him off to the Capitol. Saddened that his father had patted him on the back and told him he’d be a fool not to go. Devastated that even this grand achievement hadn’t been enough to attract the attention of the girl he had loved and pined for his entire life. So he accepted the job, drove everything he owned across the country to the god-forsaken Capitol and began what had turned out to be an incredibly depressing chapter of his life.  

When he had begun his job as the sole political cartoonist for CMC, he had been told that he was welcome to be funny, and reasonably political, but that in no uncertain terms he was not to bite the hand that fed them. And President Snow fed them all. And held their collective nuts in a vice. So the very things that had made him valuable, his shrewd wit and political astuteness, his ability to see several moves ahead to an inevitable end, were cut off at the knees. And thus, he had become a neutered journalist, reduced to drawing caricatures.

He tried not to care, to make the most of this charmed life, which people never tired of telling him how lucky he was to have. He spent the first year playing the part of hard-hitting, hard-partying member of the press. He drank too much, slept with way too many women who called him “Peter” and didn’t even ask if he wanted their number. He bought terrible, blistering-hot coffee as a prop, he dressed ironically in wingtips and open-collared shirts because he could never get the knot on his tie to sit right. He was just the quirky political cartoonist anyway. Most of his co-workers preferred to consider him invisible.

Now, four years later and nearing his thirtieth birthday, he was hungover, rapidly running out of creative ways to depict President Snow’s political rivals as zoo animals. And he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the clock and wondering if his dad, flour-dusted and ensconced in the warmth of bakery, had put the cheese buns in the oven yet.

“There you are, Mellark,” boomed Heavensbee from directly behind Peeta. Peeta sprang forward, juggling his coffee to prevent third-degree burns. “I’ve got an assignment for you.”

Coffee safely deposited on his desk, Peeta swiveled to face his editor. Plutarch Heavensbee was nothing if not flamboyant. Currently, he was decked out in an amethyst waistcoat with gold brocade and persimmon-orange scarf tied around his neck. “An assignment?” Peeta asked cautiously, he’d never been given an actual assignment before, just general instructions to point out the obvious buffoonery of Snow’s chosen targets.

“Yes,” said Plutarch, examining his nails. “We’re sending you home. To District 12.” Peeta’s heart took flight before he could stop it. Then he remembered that it was no longer his home. “It seems,” Plutarch continued, “that some silly girl has taken it upon herself to stop logical progress of an important logging project by taking up residence in some old tree.” He sighed heavily, as if the very stupidity of such a nonsensical act exhausted him. “The President himself has taken an interest in getting her to come down.”

“But, Mr. Heavensbee, I’m a political cartoonist,” Peeta felt the need to remind his editor, he couldn’t blame his boss for forgetting based on his unremarkable work to date.

“Of course you are, m’boy, but you were an investigative journalist before you came to us, were you not?” Before Peeta could answer, Plutarch continued, with a dismissive wave of his heavily ringed hand, “And regardless you’re from 12. Your lot are notoriously unwelcoming to strangers. Throw a Capitolite into their midst and their lips close up tighter than a clam shell. No, I need you to cover this story and do your best to make sure the community understands that it’s in everyone’s best interest if she comes down.” Plutarch’s pink-rimmed eyes narrowed as they met Peeta’s and Peeta was surprised to feel defensive on behalf of the unknown girl in the tree. You can take the boy out of District 12… Maybe Plutarch had a point.

Peeta ran through a litany of possible responses. He could claim he was too busy, but who was he kidding? He could refuse, but that seemed destined to end in him being fired, which was only partially attractive. He could try to wiggle out of it, claim he was sick or something, but he couldn’t muster the necessary conviction. What was the point? Then he was assaulted by a series of images that nearly stole the breath from him: his father’s soft chuckle, the smell of cinnamon buns fresh from the oven as he drizzled them with icing, the soft thud of hickory nuts falling into the sun-warmed earth. He sighed, shrugging, “When do I leave?”

“You’re on the noon train. Just enough time to pack and call your folks to let them know you’ll be staying with them.” Peeta tried to object, but Plutarch cut him off. “No hotels for our hometown boy. People need to see you coming out of the bakery every morning on your way to talk this crazy girl out of the tree.”

Peeta sighed. There was no use arguing with Plutarch, he’d figure it out when he got there.

Peeta stood, slung his bag over his shoulder and went to retrieve his coffee off the desk before deciding the trash bin was a better place for it. No matter what potential horrors the next few days held, strong black tea and cinnamon rolls would temper the experience.

As Peeta walked down the cubicle alley, Plutarch called out to him, “You don’t happen to know this girl, this,” he looked down at the note in his hand, “Katniss Everdeen, do you?”

All of the blood rushed to his feet, making him light headed as Peeta shook his head feebly and resumed his walk to the elevator. He wasn’t lying, he didn’t actually know her. Though she was the only girl he had ever loved. And as he imagined her lithe body scaling a tree, her signature braid trailing behind her, his stomach seized in humiliation. Now, in addition to his memories and dreams, he was going to be chasing Katniss Everdeen professionally.

xxxxx

It was surprisingly boring being an eco-terrorist. That’s what they were calling her now: Katniss Everdeen, the Eco-terrorist. At least that’s what the logging executives from the Capitol called her. Last she heard from Gale when he dropped off her latest supplies around 2:00 am, several of the more radical environmental groups were claiming responsibility for her “activism”. She wanted to roll her eyes at all of them. Better yet, she just wanted them all to go home and leave her and the forest alone. She wasn’t doing this for them (or god-forbid to be famous?), she was doing it because it had to be done. The trees and the creatures that depended on them couldn’t fight for themselves, so she supposed she should do it. Probably should have been Gale, he was definitely prettier than her, more charismatic and photogenic, but she was lighter and the better climber, so this one fell on her shoulders.

Since she’d climbed up here ten days ago, she’d spent most of her mornings negotiating via cell phone with irate businessmen who alternated between cajoling her to come down like a good girl and threatening that they’d cut the tree down with her in it if she didn’t get her ass down, then the rest of her day watching and listening, both of which suited her fine. They’d sent a few guys up on the pulley system they’d rigged with the order to “bring her down”, but who were they kidding? She just scampered out of their reach on the branches that couldn’t possibly support their weight and gracelessness, and at the first ominous crack, they had predictably retreated, swearing all the way down.

Gale had informed her that the press was “finally taking notice” and that they’d be showing up anytime now. Katniss hoped most of the interviews would happen from the ground anyway, she figured it was unlikely that anyone would be willing to climb up to talk with her. Haymitch Abernathy, who ran the local paper had sent up a fifth of good whiskey in her bucket and a note that read, “Good luck, Sweetheart.” That was pretty much her idea of a perfect interaction with the press.

But just as the sun was starting to dip down towards the treetops, she saw that someone was being raised up to her in the harness. She had positioned her camp 20 feet up the tree on branches too small to support a pulley system, but she was curious enough to go down to the branch where her visitor would soon be deposited. Of course, she’d stay a good four feet out of his reach, she wasn’t going to make this too easy on him, but she was a tiny bit impressed that he’d elected to meet her on her level.

But when the reporter from the CMC (she could tell from the orange vest emblazoned with their symbol) finally made it up to her, he grasped onto the branch in a way that made her heart clench in sympathy. She recognized his fear and climbed down to him. When he had stopped shaking enough to raise his head, from beneath the ridiculous hardhat, Katniss was met with the blue eyes and freckled cheeks she only saw in her dreams. And her heart clenched for an entirely different reason.

xxxxx

God, it was humiliating to see her like this after all this time. Being hoisted up in a harness, wearing a hardhat and neon orange safety vest. What these accessories were supposed to keep him safe from was a complete mystery. Maybe they just thought it would make him a little more visible as he plummeted to his death from the top of this damn tree. He hoped he wasn’t visibly shaking, but he figured he probably was, since his insides felt gooshy and his hands wouldn’t grip properly. Leave it to Katniss to make him feel even more ridiculously useless. As if silently pining for her for several decades wasn’t pathetic enough, now he got to hang from a harness and quake clamily. This was the farthest thing from the reunions he had fantasized about over the years. It was as if all those years of exile in the Capitol had meant less than nothing. The harness jerked as he reached the end of the cable and he squeezed his eyes closed and bit the inside of his lip to keep from crying out.

His own cowardice disgusted him. But then, he’d always had a weakness for this girl. And suddenly, confusingly, he felt more like his sixteen year old self than he did his 29. He was still a wreck for this girl in all the ways that mattered.

When he had steeled himself enough to open his eyes, there she was. Katniss Everdeen was perched, harness-free on a tree branch seventy feet in the air like some kind of fucking wood nymph. And she had the audacity to look like she was worried about him! Fuck that, he was not going to be undone again by Katniss Everdeen. He was going to interview her, write up his article and get out of District 12.

He forced himself to look at her with a journalist’s eye. The truth was, she wasn’t that big or that pretty. So why did she always make his heart race like he’d sprinted a mile? Why did he feel that it would be worth the risk of probable death to reach out and run her braid through his fingers like he’d always longed to do? There was something about Katniss, there always had been, that made him feel too raw. That made him acutely aware of how sub-par he was and how desperately he wanted to be better. The truth was also that she was magnificent. He gritted his teeth. Screw her. He was a successful Capitol journalist and she was sitting in a tree.

Suddenly realizing that he’d just sitting there staring at her for several minutes, Peeta cleared his throat and spoke. “Hi, Katniss, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Peeta Mellark. We went to school together.”

xxxxx

She scowled at him. He had be kidding her, of course she knew who he was. In fact, she couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t aware of him. Painfully aware.

She couldn’t stand Peeta Mellark. Mostly because he made her want things she could never have. He made her painfully aware of all of the things she lacked. Next to his golden beauty, his broad body that emanated health and calm, she was nothing but darkness, sinew and bone, and hunger. But worst of all, he was the embodiment of an unpaid debt. And even though he very obviously didn’t need anything from her now, she couldn’t help hating him a little for leaving. After all, Peeta Mellark was the only boy she had ever loved.

She nodded curtly, not trusting her voice. Peeta pulled out his phone and, with one arm still wrapped in a death grip around the branch, asked if he could record their interview. Considering that his hand was shaking too hard to write effectively, she agreed. She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. This is what she had been waiting for. She needed to focus and speak for the forest. Even if what she really wanted was to know every detail of Peeta’s life since he’d left year ago. No, she admonished herself, what she wanted was to save this damn tree.

“Let’s start simply, shall we? Why are you sitting in this tree?” Peeta asked.

“Because those idiots want to cut it down.” Katniss gestured towards the ant-like people moving below. She saw Peeta glance down, then his head snapped back up and he swallowed visibly.

“Isn’t that their right? Isn’t it their tree?”

Katniss snorted. “This tree is at least 300 years old. Can it be owned by someone? Especially by someone who has no idea of it’s real value?” she snapped. Peeta looked away.  

She inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to stay calm, but calm just wasn’t her thing. Cold, stoic, unconquerable, yes; calm and diplomatic, not so much. She asked, “Have you ever heard of a keystone species?” When Peeta shook his head no, she explained, “It’s a… a species on which other species in an ecosystem depend. If it were removed, or destroyed, the ecosystem would change drastically, it would essentially collapse. This heritage oak is holding down this part of the forest. If they cut it down it will be eliminating food and habitat for all sorts of wildlife. It will impact the stream that flows from the spring on this hillside, which is the summer water source for the Seam.” Katniss took in the tree around her. It truly was magnificent, towering over the surrounding forest, and its extensive branches looked as though they were standing as a sentinel between the earth and the sky.

His voice broke her reverie. “How can one tree have such an impact?”

She shook her head in frustration. She herself understood how one vitally important thing, or person, could be the point upon which everything else pivoted. She had spent years trying to forget Peeta Mellark, and the debt she owed him. But five minutes with him and she was positive she had never been around a braver, more compelling, more captivating person.

“All of the plants and animals that live is this forest rely on a fragile ecological balance. If this tree is cut down, everything else falls out of balance.” How could she adequately explain that the forest simply made sense. She understood its rhythms, felt a peace here that she felt nowhere else. How was it possible that some greedy men hundreds of miles away could make a decision to exchange this exquisite complexity for a wad of cash that they didn’t even need. If they would just pay a little attention they would realize that this tree, and the forest it supported, could actually support them.

She’d spent years in the forest, making a living, feeding herself and her family, becoming self-sufficient. And four years ago, she’d nearly gotten to a point where she thought she might have something to offer Peeta, might be standing on stable enough ground that she was ready to return one of his shy smiles and see where it took them. She had thought that once she was good enough for him, that he might be satisfied with what little she had to offer. But instead, he’d left and she’d gone numb. And stayed numb until his cornflower-blue eyes had met hers moments ago and jolted something inside of her awake.

xxxxx

With some effort, Peeta tore his focus away from her lips. It was mesmerizing to hear her speak like this. So many words at once in that raspy, intoxicating voice of hers. She sounded so sure, so competent, he couldn’t find anything to argue with. “Okay, but why are you endangering yourself? None of this can possibly be as important as your safety.”

She huffed out a frustrated breath. “Without this forest, I…” And Peeta knew what she wasn’t saying, that she would died without the food she’d found here. The vision of her as a bedraggled, emaciated eleven-year-old floated before him and made his stomach clench uncomfortably.  She looked away from him, her face flushed, and continued, “Well, let’s just say that the health of this forest is vital to District 12.”

Then with her eyes hardening to a sharp steely gray, she added, “I don’t expect you to understand. You left. You chose the Capitol, you care about different things.” That stung. How dare she tell him what he cared about? She didn’t have the slightest clue how much he loved this place. How much it hurt to feel unwelcome here and miss it at the same time. He hadn’t wanted to leave, it was just that no one here needed him or wanted him around.

Katniss continued, “Maybe you even look at this tree like Snow and his profiteering henchmen and all you see is board feet and dollar signs, but it’s more than that. This tree is the life of the forest. And I’m going to protect that life until those men down there see reason. Or they give up and go home. That’d be fine too.” And she set her jaw and stared out at the horizon. He knew that look, and that this conversation was over.

All of the fight just drained out of him. “I need to go,” he said.

And though she looked slightly startled, Katniss just nodded and said, “Don’t hold onto the ropes, they’ll burn your hands.” And then she was gone, scampering up the tree like a gravity-defying squirrel. His heart sank as he descended to the earth, away from her. Again.

When Peeta had divested himself of the hardhat and safety vest and soothingly explained to the irate logging company executives that no, he had not managed to drag “that damn girl” down from the tree, he headed home to the bakery. My parent’s home, he corrected himself.

But as he trudged up the back steps of the bakery, knocking his boots against the top step out of habit as he entered the kitchen, his entire body being relaxed into the familiarity of it: the warmth of the ovens, the light dusting of flour over every surface except the spotless marble counter, the smell of yeast wafting from the bowls of proofing dough.

His father walked in from the storefront and stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of Peeta standing just inside the door. Those blue eyes, the same exact shade as his own widened in surprise. “Am I dreaming?” he asked breathlessly before lunging forward to capture his youngest son in a crushing hug. Peeta couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him. His dad must of have squeezed the sound from his lungs.

“Look at you,” his dad said, taking a step back, but leaving a large, warm hand on his shoulder as he assessed him. “How has it been four years?” He shook his head incredulously then said, “Grab an apron, I’m just about to start rolling out the dough for the cheese buns.”

“He didn’t come here to bake.” His mother’s sharp voice surprised Peeta from behind. “He’s here to do a story on that Everdeen girl nonsense. Why anyone would give her any attention for her ridiculous behavior is beyond me.” She added in an accusatory tone, “Your editor called, said you’d be staying for a few days.”

“Only a few days?” asked his father.

“I’m sure he’s anxious to get back to the Capitol,” his mother answered, pretending to brush something off of Peeta’s shirt. That was as close to affection as he was likely to get from her. In their infrequent phone conversations, his father always talked about how proud she was of Peeta for going off to Capitol and making a name for himself, but Peeta always suspected what she appreciated most was that he had left.

“Oh,” responded his father, sounding crestfallen. “Well, at least we get a couple of days.” And despite the tightening in his chest at the thought of leaving here again, Peeta grabbed an apron off the peg, scattered some flour on the countertop and turned out a bowl of dough. He closed his eyes and savored the feeling of his fingers sinking into the springy concoction, the slightly sour smell of the dough and sharp scent of the cheese, the sound of his father’s cheerful chatter and the tinkling ring of the storefront bell. God, he loved this place, perhaps even more than he’d allowed himself to remember.

xxxxx

She watched as the next day he was hoisted up into the tree again. This time, he was able to manoeuvre himself so he was sitting on one branch and could sling his arms over a nearby branch. He settled in and waited. When it became evident that he wasn’t going to leave without speaking to her, she slithered down with some reluctance.

“So you’re still here?” she asked, sarcasm oozing from her tone.

He flushed, looked sheepish. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I really do want to interview you.”

She looked at him skeptically, but gestured for him to continue.

He pressed record on his phone and said, “Okay, Katniss, tell me why this tree is so important.”

She nodded, and relaxed a little as she explained how this tree was the largest and oldest tree in this part of the forest and how the acorns from this tree had helped seed most of the trees that grew around District 12. She explained that the extensive root system of this massive tree spread underground to stabilize the hillside and was like a sponge that helped to recharge the springs that fed the Seam’s watershed. And that if you cut the sponge it half it would obviously hold less water.

It hurt to look at him, that spectacular blue of his eyes, those damned freckles brushed across the bridge of his nose, those dimples. She thought she had loved him once. But that was years ago and whatever this feeling ricocheting through her chest was, it was just an echo, a remnant of what used to be. She should be used to it, she was so hollow now, everything got lost in her bottomless heart.

And he had done this to her, made her like this. She ground her teeth together and lifted her chin. That hurt girl, who had allowed herself to hope for him and lost, was in there somewhere. But before anything else, Katniss was a fighter, a survivor and she had a point to make.

“So what are you hoping to accomplish. What good can come out of your sit-in? Do you want more attention? Are you hoping to garner more allies?” he asked.

“I want what everyone in Twelve wants, I want the Capitol to leave us alone.”

There was something electric between them, his eyes continually flitting to her lips, as if drawn like magnets. She watched as he sat up straighter, as that confidence, that steadiness he’d always exuded settled into his features.

He started to speak again, but Katniss caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She shushed him as a round bird landed a couple of branches down from their perch. Peeta looked confused, took a breath as if to ask her something, but she held up her hand, “Quail,” she said softly. “Wait, another will come. His mate.“

She smiled, just slightly, as another softly cooing, comically round bird landed a few feet away and joined the other on its branch. The male sidled up to the female and cooed softly to her. Katniss was surprised to see quail up this high, they were ground nesters and usually stayed down in the understory. It felt meaningful, like some kind of sign.

“They mate for life,” she said quietly.

Peeta leaned forward, so close that her hair brushed his arm. So close that she could hear him swallow, see the way his long golden lashes fanned across his flushed cheeks. It felt intimate, cradled together in the keystone oak, silent but for the whispers of the forest all around them.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

Peeta stiffened, something unreadable flickering across his features. He cleared his throat and flashed her the kind of smarmy smile that probably got him lots of female attention in the Capitol. Katniss just pursed her lips and looked at him skeptically, her defences rising, her walls falling back into place. The moment was lost, if it had ever existed at all. “I’m great,” he said, unconvincingly. “I just remembered that I’ve got an appointment. Gotta go. I guess I know where to find you if I need you!” He barked out a laugh that didn’t sound even a little bit mirthful.

She scowled at the blatant brush-off and said, “Keystone tree. Don’t forget to look it up.”

xxxxx

Peeta remembered something important. Something his teenaged self had known. He knew where to look for help. He needed the research capabilities of the newspaper, so he went to Haymitch’s office.

The old man’s bloodshot eyes widened in what appeared to happiness, but at the very least recognition, when he saw Peeta.

“The Prodigal son returns!” he exclaimed patting Peeta on the back.

“I just need to use your database, can I work from here?”

“You can stay here as long as you want. The desk you like by the window is all yours.”

Peeta rolled his eyes, but took his laptop over to the desk. It hurt how incredible it felt to settle into this place. The rightness of it making his skin crawl in recognition of how long he’d felt wrong, how out of place he was in his own life. He tried to ignore the ache in his chest as he sat down and got to work.

After a couple of hours, Haymitch dropped a turkey sandwich from Sae’s Deli onto the desk beside him along with a mug of dark tea. “No sugar,” Haymitch gestured to the cup.

“Thanks,” Peeta said and began to wolf down the sandwich. He was starving.

“So you’re gonna help the girl?” Peeta felt he should point out that Katniss was nearly 30 years old and that it was demeaning to refer to her as “the girl”, but this was Haymitch and there really wasn’t any use. So he just took another bite of his sandwich and nodded.

Haymitch perched on the edge of the desk and stared down at Peeta with an unnervingly sober gaze. “You know I never wanted you to take that job in the Capitol, right?” he asked gruffly.

“Is that why you entered my drawings into those competitions instead of giving me a promotion?” He wanted to sound sarcastic, but he just sounded wounded.

“I entered you in those damn competitions so that you’d see your own worth. So you’d recognize how gifted you are and stop wasting your talents. I never imagined you’d fall right into Heavensbee’s greedy clutches.”

“You gave him my number!” Peeta exclaimed indignantly.

“Yeah, so you’d tell his pompous ass to fuck off.” Haymitch said, scratching his jaw. But something in his demeanor was sheepish. Peeta was pretty sure he meant it. “One of these days, Peeta, you’re going to realize that mother of yours got it all wrong. You’re going to look around and see that everyone, including you, knows you belong here.” And with a swig of his flask and crack of his knees, Haymitch stood up.

“You’re going to help me with Katniss, right? You know how to fix this?” Peeta asked, hating the hopefulness even he could hear in his voice.

“I’ve got some wheels in motion,” Haymitch said. Peeta chuckled. Of course he did. “They just need some blue eyes and dimples to add some grease to the gears.” Haymitch slid a card out of his pocket and placed it next to Peeta’s tea, as he ambled off.

As he lay in his old room above the bakery that night, Peeta thought about what Katniss had said, about the vital importance of that tree. How its role in the forest was greater than the sum of its parts. Kinda like Katniss herself.

He had felt so useless for so long. But the dawning realization that he had the ability to help Katniss, to help his District, was settling solidly in his bones. There were so many things in this universe that were out of his control. But this wasn’t. He could do something about this. There was still time to right this wrong before it was committed.  He wanted to climb that tree and say to her face, “This is still my home. My heart still lives here.” But, he realized, he couldn’t just tell her that, he was going to have to show her. He was going to help her save the tree. And maybe somehow, in doing so, he’d find his way home.

He pulled out his laptop and got to work.

xxxxx

Katniss awoke with a gasp. She was bundled in her sleeping bag, strapped into her favorite tree nest. She could see the bright pricks of starlight stitched across the night sky. She was fine, she told herself, taking gulps of cold, sweet air. But the dust in the nightmare still threatened to choke her. The weight of the rock from the collapsed mine shaft still pressed against her chest. She whispered her father’s name into the night sky, promised him she would fight for the forest they both loved, find a way to keep her and Prim out of the mines forever.

As she settled back into the rough-barked embrace of the tree, a wish came unbidden to her mind. She imagined Peeta’s arms wrapping around her, his broad chest cradling her from behind. She allowed herself to long for the soft rumble of his voice, his cool lips on her temple, as he assured her that everything was going to be alright. She allowed herself to fall into the dream of him. But it felt more like a wish.

xxxxx

Bright and early the next morning, Peeta found himself staring up into Katniss’ tree. He adjusted the straps on his backpack, said a silent prayer that he’d survive the next few hours and started to climb.

“Katniss,” Peeta whisper-yelled into the canopy. The sun was just peeking above the horizon, sending shards of golden-pink light through the filter of leaves. He wanted to run the light though his fingers, to separate it into tendrils of pure color. He was sweating from the exertion of climbing, but it was so much better than the harness. It really was magnificent up there. Without warning, Katniss appeared about ten feet above him.

“Peeta? I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said sleepily. And his heart broke from the intimacy that he was the first person she was seeing today, the first person to hear the raspy scrape of her morning voice, her disheveled braid and sleep-soft eyes.

“How do you sleep safely up here?” he asked, still gripping the trunk so he had to swivel his head around to see her.

Her lips quirked up in a half smile and she looked around before asking suspiciously, “You promise this isn’t some kind of trick to get me down?”

“I promise. I’d cross my heart and hope to die, but I’m pretty sure that if I move my hand I will actually die.” And then she was behind him, chuckling softly.

“If you follow me up  a couple of branches, I’ll show you one of my favorite places in the world.” Even if it meant certain death, he was pretty sure he couldn’t refuse. “Just watch my feet,” she offered and climbed up to the next branch. She reached back and grabbed his hand, pulling him up behind her before resuming her climb. He followed her without hesitation. If Peeta’s last sight was Katniss Everdeen’s ass swaying just out of reach, his life might be a fair price to pay. Moments later, Katniss had somehow gotten him nestled into a junction of three branches that formed a secure cradle, complete with a mossy backrest.

“Now this is more like it,” he sighed, feeling the solidity of the tree all around him.

“I used to come up here all the time to read,” Katniss admitted quietly. “After my dad died, it was one of the only places I ever felt safe.” And as nonsensical as it was to see safety over fifty feet in the air, as he settled into the cushiony nest, it made sense. He nodded and carefully slipped off his backpack. “On really windy nights, sometimes I sleep here,” she confided, then immediately scowled, looking regretful. Just because he comforted her in her dreams didn’t mean she could start telling him all her secrets.

“Your secret is safe with me as long as you let me sit here while I give you my proposal.” He winked and pulled out the thermos of cocoa and tin of cheese buns.

“Did Prim tell you?” Katniss asked, her eyes wide with longing.

“Tell me what?” he asked, wanting nothing more in this world than to touch her, to run his thumb over the softness of her cheek.

“That cheese buns are my favorite.”

Peeta grinned at her, but didn’t confess that he had watched her devour one in tenth grade and had to do some creative rearranging to hide his body’s response to her licking her fingers clean.

As Katniss inhaled the first cheese bun he handed her the thermos top full of cocoa and instructed her to dip the next bun. She looked at him skeptically then shrugged and complied. The resulting moan of pleasure had him pulling his backpack back onto his lap.

In an effort to keep his body in check, he laid out his plan for her. He asked her about this tree, what she knew about it, what it meant to her. And with the sun rising behind her, creating a spectacular backdrop of vibrant pink and orange streaks through a cloudless morning blue, Katniss perched above the treetops and told her story of the forest. She talked about wild strawberries in the spring and trout in the summer, hickory nuts in the fall and mushrooms in the winter. She told about the quail pairs who mate for life, the deer who steal silently through the undergrowth, the music of the wind through the trees. She painted the picture of the paradise, the subsistence she had found.

And Peeta sat reverently in the tree’s embrace and filmed her on his iphone.

When she ran out of words, she turned to face him with flushed cheeks and shining eyes.  

“So,” he asked, clearing the lump from his throat, “Is it fair to say that the forest saved your life?”

“No,” she cocked her head slightly, “You saved my life.” Peeta drew in a sharp breath at the mention of the thing that lay between them. She continued, “The forest allowed me to keep saving it. Over and over again. My dad always told me, there’s food in this forest, if you know how to find it. There’s also the means to give a girl who’s never had the odds in her favor, choices in her life.”

Peeta turned the camera on himself and added in a voice clear and strong, “This tree is the beating heart of the forest. This woman is the beating heart of District 12. Let’s make sure we save them both.”

“So here’s the plan.” He outlined the idea to distribute the video online, how his article had gotten the attention of the conservation groups, who were rallying their constituencies, their attorneys and their donors. He explained Haymitch’s idea of the protective easement and how the District would own the lands clear to the ridgeline.

He knew her private nature, but as much as the idea of being a symbol probably repulsed her, she agreed that the concept was sound and acquiesced to her role.

As Peeta gathered up his things and donned his backpack, Katniss laid a feather-light hand on his arm. As hard as he’d tried to keep this professional, to focus only on the story and doing what was right, her touch raised gooseflesh up his arm and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Thank you, Peeta. I appreciate your help.” She smiled, admitting reluctantly, “It’s really nice to have some company.”

“Do you have wifi?” he joked, “I think I can make this my new office.”

She rolled her eyes, but as he climbed down from his perch, he felt more like himself than he had in years.

Peeta spent the rest of the day with Haymitch and Mayor Undersee finalizing the acquisition of the forestlands with the heritage oak sitting like the crowned jewel in the middle. By the late afternoon, he strolled out to Katniss’ tree as the logging company broke down their operation and left the District.

Katniss was perched far out on a tiny branch, looking like she might take flight. Peeta called to her as he made his way up to her as high as he dared.

“What’s happening?” she called as she met him halfway.

“You did it,” he grinned. “They’re going to leave you alone.”

His heart nearly stopped as she grinned right back, “Don’t you mean, they’re going to leave us alone?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I do.”

He called out to her as she climbed out of reach, “Where are you going?”

“To grab my things. I cannot wait to take a proper shower.”

A couple of hours later, Katniss Everdeen was knocking on the backdoor of the bakery. Peeta tried to temper the smile that was making his cheeks ache as he pulled his apron off over his head.

“Hi,” he said, stepping out to meet her on the porch.

“Looks like I owe you again, Mellark,” said Katniss, shaking her head miserably. “Let me buy you a beer. It’s the least I can do.”

“My preferred payment method is actually kisses.” Peeta waggled his eyebrows at her, “C’mon, Everdeen, pucker up.”

She scowled at his teasing. But she didn’t flinch when he reached for her hand.

They walked down to Rooba’s, the only bar in town. Peeta was so distracted by Katniss’ ass as she walked in the door a couple of steps ahead of him, the resounding cheer from the bar patrons made him jump.

They sat down at the bar next to Haymitch and accepted the collective back pats, free drinks and congratulations on their small victory over the Capitol. When Gale came up and wrapped Katniss in a bear hug, Peeta slid off his seat to give them some privacy, though it made him a little queasy to see their knees touch as Gale slouched onto the barstool next to her.

But a couple of minutes later, Katniss appeared beside him. She levered up on her toes and leaned into him, pressing her breasts against his arm as she whispered into his ear, “I kinda still owe you that drink. Wanna walk me home?” Boy did he ever.

It was a balmy summer’s night, the kind that he’d loved as a child because every window was left open. The crickets serenaded them as they meandered through town along the edge of the Seam to an unremarkable three story apartment building at the edge of the forest.

“This is me,” Katniss said, gesturing to the door, which had been propped open with a rock. She seemed shy and had trouble meeting his eyes when she said, “I really can’t thank you enough, Peeta.”

“We made a pretty good team,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess when all is said and done, we did,” she responded, a small smile playing at her lips. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of her mouth. He cleared this throat.

“So… I guess-” he began.

But she cut him off with a blurted, “Do you want to come up for a drink?”

“Yeah,” he breathed in relief, “I’d love to.”

They stood in front of her elevator for a moment, stealing glances at each other, her shifting impatiently from foot to foot as she watched the down arrow, him chuckling nervously from time to time.

“Stairs?” she asked, gesturing to the stairwell as she took a step towards it.

“Right behind you.” They hustled up the steps, arriving breathless on the third floor.

He leaned against the wall, watching as she tried to get the key into the lock. She cursed softly under her breath in frustration and he couldn’t stand it for a second longer, he had to touch her. He reached over and tucked a loose lock of her hair behind her ear, letting his fingers ghost over the shell of her ear and glide down her neck.

She exhaled a quivering breath and melted into his touch. Then those silvery eyes met his as she said, “If you want me to get this door open, you better keep your hands to yourself.” He smiled, hearing the key slide into the lock and felt the jerk of her body and she wrenched the door open.

Once he was inside, she threw her keys in the bowl by the door and shimmied out of her light sweater. She reached for him, but he was slumped against her door, his eyes closed. It was the smell. Her apartment smelled like forest and burnt toast and coal dust. It smelled like home.

He felt her cool hands on his flushed face and opened his eyes to find her staring at him with concern. “You okay?” she asked.

“Better than okay,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. He reached up and took one of her hands in his. She smiled that soft smile that he was rapidly becoming addicted to, the one that made her eyes crinkle, and led him into the small apartment. He wanted to spend a month just taking in every detail of her living space. This was where she lived! He never wanted to leave this sacred place.

She led him into the kitchen. He was so close behind her, he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, just like he had in the tree. He started to get hard just remembering it, and admonished his body to slow the fuck down. They were just walking to the kitchen, for Christ sake. His dick was getting a little ahead of itself.

Katniss stood at the counter opening a cupboard door before turning to look up at him, her lush bottom lip firmly between her teeth.

“I, ah, don’t really have anything to drink. Not unless I can find that flask Haymitch gave me.” She shrugged, looking apologetic.

“I’m not remotely thirsty,” he said, licking his bottom lip as he tugged hers gently from between her teeth. “But I’m absolutely dying to kiss you.”

“Thank fuck,” she sighed, levering up on her toes to capture his lips in a breath-stealing kiss.

He grabbed the counter behind her and held on to steady himself as he surrendered to the frenzy of lips and tongue and gently nipping teeth that had become his entire reality. So this must be what Haymitch meant by living in the moment. His entire being was so rooted in the experience of finally kissing her, so consumed by it that there was no room for any other thought.

Her arms were wrapped around him, one fisting the back of his shirt from his shoulder, the other snaking under the fabric, both grasping at his back.

“Touch me, Peeta. Please!” she demanded and he practically growled in response.

He released his death grip on the counter and wrapped both of his arms around her, squeezing her tightly against his body. She moaned against his mouth and he hoisted her up on the counter and pushed between her legs.

He was achingly hard.

They began to touch each other. And as their clothes fell to the floor, the world fell away, replaced by the certainty that there was nobody and nothing but the two of them and this perfect moment that had been in the making for decades. When she was finally naked before him, Peeta dropped to kneel before her, kissing her hip bone, then trailing his lips along the petal-soft skin below her belly button.

A soft whimper escaped her as she gripped his shoulders. “Bed,” she moaned, as he ran his fingertips up the back of her knees. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed laying on a bed.” His responding chuckle was met by her shocked gasp as he stood suddenly grabbing her ass in both his hands and hoisted her up until her strong legs were securely wrapped around him.

It was his turn to moan as he felt the slick heat of her against his skin. He carried her into her bedroom and laid her reverently on the bed. He ran his fingertips down between her breast down the length of her belly before kneeling and ghosting his lips over her pussy. She squirmed against him as he slowly ran his tongue up the length of her. As he feathered his tongue over her clit she buried both her hands in his curls and pulled his head up. “I’m so close,” she said almost apologetically, “and I want you inside me when I come.”

Peeta trembled as he slid into her wet heat, choked back a sob at how good, how unbelievably right, she felt. He tried to go slowly, to make it last, but as she ran her hands up his back and into his hair and he couldn’t help deepening his thrusts.

“Oh, please, Peeta,” she whispered and he flipped them over so she could control this, set their rhythm. He had never seen anything as treacherously beautiful as Katniss Everdeen coming undone above him. She arched her back, her pussy clenching around him and he surrendered to her, pouring his love, his devotion into her body in hot waves of ecstasy.

xxxxx

As she gazed down at Peeta’s beautiful face contorted in pleasure, Katniss accepted that she wanted to be close to him. Part of him. She wanted to look at that lovely face forever, watch lines form at the corners of his eyes from the endless smiling, the gold of his hair fade to gray. She wanted a lifetime with Peeta Mellark.

As soon as their bodies stopped spasming and they caught their breath, Peeta popped up and pushed the window wide, bathing Katniss’ sweaty body in a soft breeze and slivers of moonlight. He collapsed next to her and propped himself up on one elbow. He traced patterns on over her breasts and belly before asking, “So how are we going to do this?”

“Do what?” she asked, rolling slightly to kiss his shoulder.

“Make a life together, obviously.” He rolled his eyes and collapsed onto his back, pulling her against him.

“Oh, that,” she responded, stretching out and slinging a knee over his thigh. “I can’t live in the Capitol.”

“Oh, me neither,” he said shaking his head like that he’d never heard anything sillier.

“But what about your job? Your things?” she started to ask.

He cut her off, “I’m pretty sure Plutarch never wants to see me again and they can keep my stuff. I’m never making the mistake of leaving here again.”

“Good plan,” she said, yawning contentedly.

The next morning as they watched the story unfold online, watched Katniss become a symbol of forest conservation, Peeta kissed her nose.

“You’re basically the Lorax. But cuter.”

She narrowed his eyes at him and he held up his hands in defence and asked, “Less cute?”

Then she lunged at him and kissed the adorable grin right off his face.

[ecotone99]

[MF] Egg Society

The Welch family had passed down ownership of ‘Welch’s Tailor and Men’s Apparel’ at 1679 Haywood Street in downtown Asheville, North Carolina since 1918. As the shop approached its one-hundredth birthday, the keys to the building were passed from Gregory Welch to his son, Scott Welch, on his thirty-second birthday. With this change came a rebranding of the store, with the word “men’s” being dropped to promote what Scott called “inclusion of everyone, for everyone.” So this became the motto of the shop, and under its window-top sign sat an inscribed gold plate confirming this exclamation.

Scott loved the store, if not for the work, then for the simplistic routine it represented. He had spent hundreds of hours in the store as a boy, and continued to do so as he worked his way through grade school and The University of North Carolina. Since taking over the business eight months prior, he repeated the same ritual daily. He would wake up at 6:00am, run three miles at 6:30, eat two eggs and a small bowl of cereal with his first cup of coffee at 7:00, and get into the shower by 7:30. From there on began the real work, his grooming routine was meticulous and obsessive, involving fifteen minutes of washing and rinsing every string of skin and hair on his body, followed by at least seven minutes of hair brushing and gelling, ensuring perfection in his deeply brown pompadoured hair. Following that, he would shave his chin and face as tightly as possible without leaving a cut, rub deodorant under his arms, and brush his teeth. After his initial cleaning he would shuffle into his room and pull on a clean white t-shirt, boxer briefs, and a pair of flamboyant dress socks that fit the season. He would then examine the suit he had ironed the night before, iron it again, and put it on as carefully as possible. Finally, he would slide on a pair of loafers and his Masonic ring, and stoll out the door.

On this particular day, Scott completed this routine as usual, pulling into the employee parking lot on Haywood Street and unlocking the store fifteen minutes before opening time at 9:30am. He sat in the front desk of the store as usual, reading a book (‘In Cold Blood’ by Truman Capote, today) and reading through emails on his computer. As was normal, a few customers, mostly local lawyers and business owners, came in and out of the shop asking for a new order or an up to date fitting. Around 1:00pm Richard Meyer, a seventy year old county judge, struggled into the shop on his lunch break and greeted Scott with a warm and exhausted “Hello!” “Hello sir!” Scott responded with the spirit of a salesman “How’s it been today, Scotty?” Judge Meyer responded, starting to catch his breath “Well, you know how it is in the summer, we’ve been a little slow” Scott said, pushing himself up using his desk. “Well” Meyer said briskly, cutting himself off at that word, seemingly losing his train of thought as he peered around the room slowly as old men do. “You know son, I can tell you’re ambitious about this place,” he continued, in a breach of character that surprised Scott. “Ambitious, sir?” Scott responded, wide eyed “Yes son, ambition” “What makes you say that?” Scott said, pushing further up on his desk Meyers bent down, grabbed his knee and let out a prolonged sigh, before groaning “I’ve lived in Asheville my whole life, my Daddy took me here to get my first suit when I was little, when I started working at Johnson & Salem I got myself fitted here, and I cannot imagine myself going anywhere else,” Scott looked up at him in increasing curiosity “And do you know why that is, Scotty?” “Why, sir?” Scott asked, the anticipation further building within him “Because it’s steady here” “What do you mean?” “I mean I don’t care too much for changes. I like simplicity, and with all the changes going on in this goddamn town I could use some more of it, a lot of us could” Meyers said with a hint of old southern aggression. “So you’re saying not to change much?” Scott said, shocked by the seeming outburst “I’m saying not to change at all son. Keep the place simple, and it’ll never fail, because it never has before” “Of course sir, because it never has before,'' Scott said in agreement. Meyers shook his head up and down in affirmation “Good.”

Meyer shuffled out of the shop with a similar exasperation to that which he came in with, and Scott couldn't help but mumble under his breath, “Miserable old man.” Behind this congested statement was the worsening of an intense inner anxiety that had troubled him since being handed the business. His anxiety was one derived from an idea much more intimidating than failure, the reality of plausible failure. ‘Welch’s Tailor’ was a one-hundred year old business in a city comprised of largely first-generation residents with an entirely different cultural scope than that of the slow southern money that dripped from Asheville in the prior century. The new generation of monied residents came from a foreign source, one that had a disdain for any old order or perceived bigotry. Being a tailor had meant to Scott’s predecessors holding deeply ingrained relationships with the permanent names of Asheville’s elite across the professional fields. Tailoring had meant attending Masonry meetings, congregating at the First Baptist Church, and exchanging favors with any repeat customer that held merit in the community. These community members, such as Judge Meyer, still comprised the majority of the customer base at ‘Welch’s Tailor’; but Scott knew well that relying on them would be impossible in the near future. Their children and grandchildren had all moved far away from Asheville, and the shop, and new money had moved in. The repetition and comfort of 1679 Haywood Street was a niche habitat that Scott had grown accustomed to, and would fail without. With this an ever present anxiety had stayed with him up until that moment, as he searched for what it meant to be a tailor in the new Asheville.

As the temperature reached its peak on that yellow July day, so did Scott Welch’s anxiety. He sat with his legs crossed up on the front desk, distractedly reading one paragraph of ‘In Cold Blood’ repeatedly, and sweating through his thick white shirt. For the two hours since Judge Meyer’s visit not one customer had walked through the front doors. Summer was the slow season for tailors anyways, as heat and the absence of any special occasion drives customers away; but this day seemed to be particularly devoid of business. Just as Scott determined that Meyer’s visit had been a harbinger for the end, a customer strolled through the doors. He was a thin, slim man of about forty, who appeared to have been successful in warding off his impending middle age years. He wore a slim-fit light grey suit, with a neatly knotted pink bow tie, and matching brown glasses and loafers. A glowing brown belt lined his thin waist, and he continually adjusted it as he walked into the store. He peered through the shop with intelligent eyes, and more purpose than Meyers had. His eyes finally settled on Scott Welch sitting at the counter looking back at him. The man walked over to the counter, pulled back on his well-combed black hair, and said “hello there, sir” with an extended hand and the arrogance of a successful social climber. “Hello, sir” Scott responded after a moment of hesitation. Scott’s encounters with new people always were filled with these hesitations. “This is a wonderful store you’re running sir! Very classy, very good vibes” With these words, Scott’s anxieties from before melted from his mind, and in response to this said “Well, that's what we're all about here in Asheville, good vibes” elongating the “i” in vibes. “Of course sir, that's the reputation” the man said, resting his arm on the desk, leading Scott to notice a black sapphire ring on his left pinkie finger. They sat in silence for a moment, both pretended to appreciate the moment in contentment, looking around separately and smirking while nodding their heads “What did you say your name was again sir?” The man said, breaking the silence “I’m Scott Welch, and your name?” “You can just call me McKay” the man said, looking up with a bright, inclusive smile. “Well, it's nice to meet you Mckay” “It’s wonderful to meet you too, sir.”

The pair walked around the store with McKays initiation, in search of a pair of Navy pants to replace a pair he had ruined the day before, spilling coffee on himself flying into Asheville. McKay explained to Scott Welch that he was involved in the business of shipping and distributing construction materials, and was based out of Columbus, Ohio. As Scott searched for the perfect pair of slim-fit Navy pants, he was preoccupied with the persona of his customer. McKay was clearly a man with high levels of social awareness, he used each word and facial expression as an opportunity to convince his partner in conversation that he was being entirely genuine in communicating himself. Whereas often a pat on the back and an attempted charismatic smile come across as unnerving, McKay used his gifts so masterfully that he was able to relax even the most critical and awkward persona, in Scott Welch. In discussing business, hometowns, and menswear, Scott felt as though his presence in that moment was the only thing in the world that mattered to McKay. Scott’s prior uneasiness was quickly replaced by a sense that he was taken care of, which was his main desire since being given the responsibility of the family business. So, in twenty minutes of pants shopping, Scott became enamoured by the magical figure in a pink tie. When Mckay finally decided on a deep navy, and slightly less slim, pair of pants, the two exchanged business cards and began to discuss mutual connections that they had. “I cannot believe you don’t know Roger Prescott” McKay would tell Scott laughingly, among a multitude of other names that were seemingly important and definitely unknown to Scott. This blindness to the modern names of business reinvigorating Scott’s feelings of incompetence as a tailor.

“You know, you could always come to an Egg Society meeting” McKay told Scott, sensing his worries. Scott asked “What is the Egg Society?” Recognizing his naivety, silently thankful that McKay was there to take care of him. “Well, Scotty, the Egg Society is a group of men throughout the country that have the unified purpose of empowering community leaders” “That sounds very important, much too important for me” Scott said laughingly “No no Scott, we would love to have a man like you join, guys like you are the pillars of our community” “I very much appreciate the offer, I do, bu-” “No but”! McKay interrupted affably, “you’re coming tonight buddy” Both of them laughed, and Scott agreed. McKay wrote down “42 Old Revis Road, West Asheville, 10:00pm” on the back of his card and handed it to Scott. He pointed down at it and commanded “be there.” “I’ll be there” Scott responded, with another hesitant pause. “Maybe it’ll help business” he thought to himself.

The remainder of the day went by as any summer weekday at ‘Welch’s’ did, a few familiar customers strolled in and out of the store to greet Scott and buy something minor. In contradiction to the earlier half of the day, Scott even fit a few new customers, which he hadn’t done in days. He assumed this must have been a sign that McKay and the Egg Society would bring him good fortune. As the day wound to a close at 6:00pm, Scott’s nervous excitement rose. He shuffled through the shop blaring Neil Young as he swept and dusted its whole radius. He locked the door with a pleased skip, with “Alabama” still blaring in his head. He drove home faster than usual, fifteen miles over the speed limit, rather than ten. When he reached his house, he ran inside with the intention of maximizing the success of that night.

McKay hadn’t told him what to wear, so he decided that wearing a shirt, tie, and slacks should suffice for a meeting with such important figures, and decided to bring a jacket just in case he was under dressed. He repeated his morning grooming routine, and compulsively ironed out any wrinkles in his clothes. “Scott Welch, you are the man” he said to himself, staring at the mirror. He passed the remaining minutes until 9:36 (which is when he determined he should leave his house) by pacing and distracting himself with cleaning, as he always did when he was nervous. He felt almost child-like in his excitement, which embarrassed him. He worried that this new acquaintance was out to ditch him in a dirt field, or prank him in some way. This made him feel even more like a child. So when 9:36 hit, Scott Welch was dreading the drive.

Scott arrived at 42 Old Revis Road at exactly 10:00, as would be expected of Scott Welch; and no one was there. It was a small, closed off dirt parking lot, surrounded by thick bushes and collapsed wooden fencing. “Oh God” he whispered nervously, with his mind wondering to all of the possibilities for why MacKay wasn’t there. Had he lied to him, playing a practical joke that would result in public shame? Maybe he died on the drive over, or even worse, right after he left the shop! Scott sat with anxiety sending shock waves through his body, and his heart rate further increasing. It finally broke its pace when a shiny black Escalade pulled calmly into the parking lot at 10:12, and only did so to skip in his chest. Out of the Escalade hopped McKay in a large dark purple robe, large ovular glasses (with no spectacles), and what appeared to be slacks, a white collared shirt, and a black tie underneath the robe.

“Hurry!” He aggressively whispered to Scott as he knocked on the drivers side window of his car, “No one can see me in these!” “Alright, alright” Scott responded in a hurried anxiety. He hesitated to speak again, coming out of his head for the first time in hours. The two shuffled into the Escalade, dipping their heads for secrecy on McKay’s request. “We made it” Scott said in a confused relief “Well, we don’t know if we made it, at least we hope no one saw us” “I don’t think anyone did” Scott responded, trailing off at the end of his sentence to show his confusion The two sat in silence, and Scott looked out the window and slouched down into the seat. This often happened to him after moments of severe worry. “Where are we going McKay?” Scott questioned in annoyance “What do you mean where are we going?” He gave little time for Scott to respond, “We’re going to the congregation of course!” McKays eyes opening wide with these words. “The congregation of the Egg Society I’m assuming?” “Of course that’s what I mean!” McKay’s voice continuing to get more and more excited “Where exactly is this meeting?” “Oh, you’ll see soon enough, we generally don’t just outright tell embryos like you where we meet. Security purposes” “Embryos?” “Yes newcomers, do I have to explain everything to you?” McKay commanded, losing his patience. Scott Welch has always had a problem with asking too many questions.

Eventually, the Escalade pulled onto a long and bumpy gravel road, and drove up what seemed to be an entire mountain. Scott’s mind wandered to the thought that he had hastily gotten into a car with a lunatic, the egg society? He couldn’t believe he had fallen for that. He determined he must be in the car with a schizophrenic sociopath, which would explain the paranoia and charismatic charm.

After an eternity of bumps, nearly falling off of the side of the mountain, and quiet anxiety; the pair arrived at a large, imposing house at the top of the mountain, surrounded by dozens of cars and covered in egg paraphernalia. Scott looked around hurriedly and noticed that there was at least one carton of eggs on each car, two large gold painted ovals at either side of the door, and a sign that looked like an advertisement in a ballpark outfield reading, very simply, “Egg.”

“Here you go Scotty, you’ll need these” McKay said, reaching into the back of his car and pulling out a large pink robe and a copy of the ovular glasses that he wore. “I put them on?” Scott asked again, continuing his nervous habit “Of course you do!” McKay said excitedly The two men hopped out of the car, and while Scott dressed himself, McKay walked around to the back of the car and pulled out two cartons of eggs. “I got a dozen for you, we put these on our car as a sort of offering” “Okay” Scott responded nervously, unable to think up a response to such a ridiculous statement. “Now listen, we’re going to go up to the front doors and a man in a tuxedo is going to open the doors, just let me do the talking” “Don’t worry, wasn’t planning on saying anything” They walked to the front door, and McKay knocked twelve times , and just as he said, a man came to the door sporting a thin, well-kept mustache, and a butlers tuxedo. “Good evening gentleman” the man at the door said calmly “Hello sir, I have brought a friend with me this evening, a potential embryo” The man stared deeply at Scott, with empty, calculating eyes. He leaned towards him with only his upper body, and sported a pretentious facial expression. Scott had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. After an uncomfortably long moment of that, the man said, “Very well sir, you both may enter”, and relaxed back into an upright position. McKay led the way into the house, and Scott followed, sweating intensely and pulling on the shoulders of his robe. He was beginning to feel self conscious about his attire. He followed McKay through what appeared to be a silent and empty house, beside a massive stairwell, under dozens of extravagant light fixtures, and across a creaky, thin-paneled hardwood floor. The house reminded Scott of one he had seen in a Scooby-Doo cartoon as a child, a mansion “haunted” by greedy relatives seeking a wealthy inheritance. So this is what he imagined as McKay led him down into the houses large empty basement, where he began to hear voices of people quietly socializing, a group of wealthy social climbers looking to gain more from each other. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, McKay stepped beside him, guided him by his back, and announced to the room “Hello everyone! This is my dear friend, Scott Welch!” McKay said this immediately as they turned the corner, giving Scott no time to scout out the environment before his presence was announced, making his introduction to the society a room full of strangers staring at him; which did not bode well for his already present sense of anxiety. His heart fluttered, and he felt an intense dropping sensation, as he overstimulated himself scanning hurriedly around the room. He saw white and yellow painted faces staring back at him blankly, all dressed in magnificent robes of flamboyant colors, all covering men in white collared shirts, ties, and black slacks. The room was decorated with professionally photographed shelled eggs. It contained no windows, and was comprised of dark grey concrete walls, and a brown carpeted floor. There was a piano in the corner of the room occupied by a man wearing a large egg mascot head, complete with webbing in front of the eyes for him to see out of. The members of the society congregated across the room, but were specifically concentrated around tables on each wall of the room that were covered by pastel Easter table covers, and large silver bowls containing deviled eggs, egg salad, scrambled eggs, and what Scott deduced must have been eggnog. In the center of the room was what appeared to be a shrine, where more photographs of eggs and dozens of small candles surrounded a mature hen locked inside of a black cage that appeared to be meant for a much larger animal. After a few moments of staring, the crowd chanted to Scott in unison,

Welcome, welcome brother egg

Young one born of feathered kind

To the white one we shall beg

To welcome your incipient mind

“Come on in Scott,” McKay whispered, leaning into his ear. Scott raised his eyebrows in nervous agreement, and followed McKay’s leading hand that was placed on his lower back. He took him around the room, introducing him to each person in the room. They greeted him pleasantly, but it was a disturbing pleasantry. Their smiles were artificially wide, and their eyes were opened to an extent that wrinkled their entire face. Scott tried to match them, but his face could not extend itself as far as those staring at him. He began to notice patterns in the flamboyant dress of the members of the society, those dressed in purple or red robes were those with the most power and social clout in the club, and were surrounded by the largest numbers of people. Scott estimated that there were around forty members in the basement, of which about four wore purple and red robes, with the rest in pink or baby blue. Every member of the club was a young, in-shape man, all but one of which was white. The lone non-white member was an African-American man who called himself ‘Sunrise’. Scott got in a long conversation with Sunrise, as McKay had politely excused himself to have a discussion with the other men in purple and red robes.

“You look like a very nice man” Sunrise said with an eerily large smile, barely spreading his teeth as he spoke “Thank you sir, you look nice too” Scott said, looking around the room nervously “I can tell you aren’t very comfortable here” sunrise said, not breaking eye contact and sending a chill down Scott’s spine “You can?” “Of course” he paused “everyone is at first, but you get very, very used to it” “I hope I do, you seem like a great group of guys” “Oh yes, but the focus isn’t on us” Sunrise said with a closed mouth giggle “Now let's go get your face painted, silly!” The pair walked over to one of the tables across the wall and were stopped by McKay with a push. “And what do you think you’re doing, Sunrise” he commanded, not breaking his artificial smirk. “H-he needs his face painted” Sunrise stumbled, for the first time losing his smile “Oh well, Scott here will be painting his face using a different instrument tonight”

Scott and Sunrise went back into the corner they had talked in earlier, and stood silently while other members greeted Scott. “It’s such a pleasure to have you here tonight, you’re truly doing The Society a service” he told Scott, rubbing gently down on his red robe. “Why don’t you have some eggnog, brother.”

“Of course I'll have some” Scott said hesitantly, it couldn’t be too bad he thought, everyone else is drinking it, and he had to do something to blend in with these people and get out of the basement safely at the end of the night. From the first sip, Scott was in heaven. His body buzzed in a pleasurable warmth, and he enjoyed spinning and wobbling around the room. Suddenly, he felt his own smile widened as his bliss intensified. He observed in flashes himself stumbling around the room, giggling with the rest of the club, and being handed more and more to drink.

As the night went on for however long it did (Scott was not quite sure) there was a growing tension in the room, despite his inner joy. An overwhelming sense that the evening was for him caused a great deal of nervousness. Eventually, the two members in purple, one of which was McKay, began to ring singing bells in front of the cage; and everyone in The Society moved in front of them. After a moment of this, the men in red appeared from around the back of the cage, with the unmasked one, a long, slim man of about forty sporting a neatly trimmed black beard, carrying a tray with multiple black straps and a knife. The man with the egg on his head, who could be easily decipher as the leader, began to speak in a commanding, fatherly voice. “Hello my friends!” he commanded, throwing his arms into the air to an intoxicated applause from the crowd. “May the white one be with us!” there was more applause, and with it, the crowd repeated back to him in unison “May the white one be with us!” “Very good, friends” the man with the egg on his head said, bringing his hands together. “Now. Let us discuss business! We have a new man in the crowd, his name is Scott, everyone greet him!” “Hello Scott” they said obediently, causing Scott to laugh intensely and fall to his knees. Everyone stared at him, so he decided he better stand up. “It is a pleasure to have us all gathered here today in appreciation of the white one!” this drew a cheer from the crow, a welcomed distraction from his mishap for Scott. “As you all know, we have brother Golden here today, all the way from Columbus, Ohio”! The man said, motioning at McKay and drawing another rowdy cheer “And let us not distract ourselves from our purpose tonight, brothers.” the crows looked over at Scott. “Tonight! Will be the night we welcome a new brother! Give our brother a new name! He will reinvent himself, through blood, for the white one!” this statement resulted in the loudest reaction yet from The Society, giving Scott pink cheeks even in his intoxicated stuper. “The time has come! Brother Scott, may the initiation begin!” The man with the egghead motioned at his partner carrying the, who proceeded to carry the tray to the cage, sitting it on the ground and pulling out the struggling hen that sat in it. He strapped its legs to the tray, expertly avoiding its wild claws and emotionlessly tying down the squawking bird against its will. “Now, brother Scott! The time has come! Remove the white one!” Scott was confused, and while he normally would have been shocked with empathy for the bird, he was intoxicated by the drink he had been repeatedly given and by the increasing roars of the crowd. “Brother Scott!” the man repeated, as the tray carrying the still struggling chicken was placed on back in the opened cage. “You are to take this knife, and remove the white one!” Scott was visibly shaking, and still a bit confused. Although the intentions of the club members were becoming more clear, he was expected to cut the chicken open, and remove any eggs it carried in its body. “I shink em not hearin’ you right” Scott slurred drunkenly, hoping he was misunderstanding. “Cut into the hen brother Scott!” The cheers of the crows grew louder, and Scott’s drunken haze more intense. The room was spinning now, uncomfortably so. He decided the only way to get out of this state would be to do what the man in the egghead said. He knew best. Scott approached the cage now, slowly stumbling, regaining consciousness with each step. The roars of the crowd encouraged him, these were his new brothers, the new generation of influencers. He grabbed the knife. Hadn’t the founders been fascinated by the occult? Weren't the Romans a beautiful and dark people? He stared down at the hen, squealing less intensely now, but still jerking its head around in fear. It didn't even notice him. He was no longer alone, the cheers of the crowd still grew in intensity, as did his confidence. He looked down at the bird again, finding confidence in his empathy for it. He could kill. So he drove the knife into its stomach, unsure of chicken anatomy, and cut all the way down to the bottom of its torso. It let out a painful scream, unable to let go of its grip on life as it lose control entirely. The crowd cheered, and Scott spread its intestines, exposing multiple fully developed eggs. He pulled one out, the biggest one, and the cheers of the crowd grew louder, making more noise now than the movements and fading squawks of the hen. He turned to the crowd now, and there was a moment of silence as he presented the object of their worship. The man with the egghead walked to him now, put his hand on Scott’s back, and cried out “He has found the white one, now let him paint his face in blood!” The crowd let out an enormous cheer, and Scott proudly lost any sense of empathy that he had left. He turned back to the chicken, and rubbed the blood from its opened stomach across his face. “He is born!” the man yelled. For just a moment, Scott Welch was proud. He had initiated himself into a society of men who could get him places, and had done so with joy. These were his brothers in blood, his brothers in the yoke that spilled on his face when he ate the egg under the man with the egghead’s command. Slowly, he lost this passion. As he slipped out of intoxication from the crowd and the drink, the crowd greeting him proudly suddenly became horrifying to him. “What have I done” he thought internally, looking back at the mangled body of the hen laying still in front of its cage. He no longer felt pride in its death, or even felt beauty. There was no beauty in that soulless mess of blood and struggle. He drank no more, and wanted nothing but to leave. His pain grew more and more severe, to the point that it was intoxicating him again, until he left the basement with McKay. “Wait brother!” the man with the egghead yelled at them as they left. “We must give you a name.” Scott inwardly dreaded the possibilities. He thought he would be named ‘hunter’ or ‘yoke mouth’ or something of the like, to always remind him of the shameful event. “We shall call you brother Birth!” “Brother Birth” The crowd repeated, all coming sadly out of their haze. Scott smiled, and left the room somberly.

The ride back down the mountain was quiet, with a bit of small talk between Scott and McKay that eventually died down. Scott could still taste the blood and egg on his breath, as well as the alcohol. “Brother Life” he thought, as the Escalade pulled slowly back into the dirt parking lot where the two had met hours earlier. “See you soon, Brother Life” McKay remarked with a wink. Scott said nothing. There was a thick musk of shame present. Scott went home, repeatedly looking at the clock that now read 4:13am, focusing on the anxiety of waking up in the morning rather than the pain of the events that just occurred. “Brother Life,” he could not get the words out of his head. He went home and tossed in bed, eventually leading to a shallow hungover sleep. He was in a repeating state of waking, but never fully got up until 11:00am. He was very late. So Scott Welch concluded that he had better sell the shop. It was better for someone responsible to be in charge of the family name, he decided.

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[ricogu-blog]

Self-Directed Study 1: Street Casting (teamwork) Spotify Playlist: street style 2017

On 14Oct, Sen, Cherry and I interviewed some people with style in Central London. The criteria of is that they must vary in gender, age, race and nationality.

We drafted six different questions, which is listed as following:

1.why do you choose your outfit for today? (Is there somewhere you're going? Or is it just your everyday style)

2. What do you think are the key pieces for your outfit today?

3. We all change our outfits regularly, so what do you think about when you choose your outfit?

4.what are some fashion icons or designers that you like? AND do you think they have some influences on the way you dress today?

5. Where do you normally buy your clothes?

6. Is there a culture or background that has influenced the way you dress?

We then interviewed five people, taking some photos and recording a video or an audio (in which case the interviewee didn’t want to show his or her face).

1) LT;  Artist

Q: Why do you choose your outfit for today? (Is there somewhere you’re going? or is it just your everyday style?

A: Everyday style, went out last night

Q: What do you think is/are the key items of today?

A: Once you know who you are everything in your closet represents you.” His ties and socks and his bag (accessories ) are his key pieces

Q: We all change our outfits regularly, so what do you think about when you choose your outfit?

A: Based on one piece and sometimes it shows up in my dream

Q: What are some fashion icons or designers that you like? AND do you think they have some influences on the way you dress today?

A: Don’t have one but consider myself as a brand and inspiration. I also look towards life and society for inspirations. “You find you from living” “I like wearing a tie everyday”

Q: Where do you normally buy your clothes?

Q: culture that inspired you?

A: Color and from my mom. My mom always wear colors. I don’t like black and white as it is boring for me.

Q: Where do you buy your clothes?

A: I don’t shop but I get clothes from designer friends or I’ve been gifted

(2) JIWEN, high school student

Q: What do you think is/are the key items of today?

A: My shoes by Raf Simons and my glasses (accessories)

Q: We all change our outfits regularly, so what do you think about when you choose your outfit?

A: My mood. My friends. How my friends wear my clothes

Q: What are some fashion icons or designers that you like? An do you think they have some influences on the way you dress today?

A: Streetwear brands and designers

Q: Where do you normally buy your clothes?

A: Streetwear stores

Q: culture that inspired you?

A: Street culture, hiphop culture. “It’s peace, respect and love.” There’s essence in hiphop culture.

3) Mark; businessman

Q: Why do you choose your outfit for today? (Is there somewhere you’re going? or is it just your everyday style?

A: I’m going to a friend’s 30th birthday today which has a dress code for suit

Q: What do you think is/are the key items of today?

A: My ties which I bought it seven years ago

Q: We all change our outfits regularly, so what do you think about when you choose your outfit?

A: What shoes I wear which for me dictates everything else

Q: What are some fashion icons or designers that you like? AND do you think they have some influences on the way you dress today?

A: David Gandy

Q: Where do you normally buy your clothes?

A: Marks and Spencer where I don’t have to spend a lot

Q: culture that inspired you?

A: Work/Professional culture and British culture

(4) Hannah;  law student

Q: Why do you choose your outfit for today? (Is there somewhere you’re going? or is it just your everyday style?

A: Because it was the first thing I saw

Q: What do you think is/are the key items of today?

A: My rings and my bell sleeve shirt

Q: We all change our outfits regularly, so what do you think about when you choose your outfit?

A: Choose around my hijab and my shoes

Q: What are some fashion icons or designers that you like? AND do you think they have some influences on the way you dress today?

A: Korean pop star G-Dragon, Dean and a youtuber/blogger called Dian Tokyo who does Hijab style

Q: Where do you normally buy your clothes?

A: Most of the time online I don’t have a shop particularly

Q: culture that inspired you?

A: My religion (Muslim) which inspires my style and into baggier clothing

(5)  Zahra; Student and a Basketball Player

Q: Why do you choose your outfit for today? (Is there somewhere you’re going? or is it just your everyday style?

A: Just my everyday style and I love white shoes and black clothing.

Q: What do you think is/are the key items of today?

A: My belt purse. I bought it from ASOS.

Q: We all change our outfits regularly, so what do you think about when you choose your outfit?

A: I like to be special I don’t want to look like the other. I normally don’t buy clothing that other people already have.

Q: What are some fashion icons or designers that you like? AND do you think they have some influences on the way you dress today?

A: Furla for bags. Nike for sneakers because I play basketball.

Q: Where do you normally buy your clothes?

A: In person. I don’t buy online bc I don’t know how they look in real life.

Q: culture that inspired you?

A: My mom has inspired me. Her style has def inspired me. Sneaker culture/brands, like Nike and Reebok, have a huge impact.

After transcribed the files, we started to do some research on their style, including the inspiration of their style and the background, history and culture behind it, and how such culture have influenced the current fashion trend.

Following is some of the research results:

1. For the first person LT, his style is mainly based on 1920s’ men’s fashion. Cultural background: Roaring Twenties, some people say “It is the most colorful decade in the history.”

Suits neutral color with pattern, but the accessories popped with vibrant colors. For example, tie and socks. and also the wide suit pants are significant in 20s’ men’s fashion.Unlike today’s two piece suits, men’s 1920s fashion required a three piece suit with matching vest. Newsboy hat is one of the classic hats of 1920s as well.1920s men’s fashion was the start of menswear as we know it today.  

Only little changes in menswear have come about since the 1920s. The essential part of a 1920s man’s wardrobe was his suit. For day, evening, office, or parties, a man always wore a suit. The only exceptions were for blue collar workers, sport players or young teen and college men who dressed more casually. But, even they owned suits and wore them with pride. 

What sets 1920s men’s suits apart from other decades are the material and fit. The other fun bit of color on a 1920s men’s outfit was the neckwear. Men either wore a bow tie in fun stripes or polka dots, a striped or plaid necktie or a neck scarf tie. And the most iconic shoe of the 1920s is the two tone lace up Oxford.  

LT also mentioned that his mother’s dressing aesthetics has influenced him. Jamaica color: As can be seem, Jamaican traditional clothes have always played with color. LT had grown up in his mother’s sense of color playing, so the color matching is his philosophy of dressing himself.

reference: https://vintagedancer.com/1920s/1920s-fashion-men/

https://vintagedancer.com/1920s/1920s-fashion-men/

https://www.leaf.tv/articles/traditional-clothing-in-jamaica/

2. For the second person Jiwen, all of this inspiration of style came from streetwear culture. Streetwear has become an indispensable part of the current fashion industry. Countless of people, especially the younger generation, nowadays are influenced by streetwear culture, dressed up in sneakers and streetwear brands

In addition to that, even fashion iconic brands, such as Balenciaga and Off-White, have borrowed elements from streetwear and incorporated their own idea on the pieces. “When you take a look at the most popular brands right now, especially those that blur the lines between high-fashion and streetwear, it’s important to note that their creators have been heavily influenced by earlier forms of street culture.”

Here are some the earliest labels/founding people of streetwear:

(1) Shawn Stüssy

He created one of the earliest labels in the 80s that catered to the subcultures of surfing, skate and punk.

“Based in California, Stüssy started out as an innovative surfboard company, which then became a clothing line featuring its logos in different designs and colorful motifs.”

(Stüssy campaign shot by Tyrone Lebon)

(2) NIGO 

He can be looked at as the person who was able to transcend streetwear across cultures and continents — he started Bape in 1993 in Japan’s Urahara neighborhood, which is considered to be the birthplace of Japanese streetwear. 

There is also a close link between streetwear fashion and hip hop culture. Many of the influential rappers, such as Lil Wayne, Pharrell Williams, Dipset … “During the 2000s many of hip-hop’s most high-profile artists such as Lil Wayne, Pharrell Williams, and Kanye West adopted the brand’s flamboyant fashions. Soon after, young style-minded consumers also wanted to dress like their favorite rappers, donning the brand’s signature shark hoodies, purple camouflage tees and multicoloured Bapesta sneakers.”

(Pharrell Williams wearing Bape’s signature camo shirt)

(Juelz Santana wearing Dipset Graphis tee)

reference:

 https://hypebeast.com/2016/7/founding-fathers-of-modern-day-streetwear

3. For the third person Mark, as a businessman, his style can be classified as British gentleman style, which featuring suits, shirts, scarves, pants, leather shoes, neck tie, etc. The suits should be absolutely fit and pants length till ankle. then slightly show the popped color of socks. Neck ties have always been the key item of British gentlemen style. Also, Mark had made the point of the importance of choosing shoes.

Working culture: when first got to London, it is easy to tell the special working culture which is different from other countries. Of course people go to work in suits. But people in London put their personality into suit unlike other countries. British office style are good at using colorful accessories to make their suits playful and interesting. And another important part of British working culture is social activities after work. Dinner with friends, drinking by standing outside of bar are common in this town. By the mood has changed, those hard working men switch their accessories to change mood.

It is still a standard norm for men to wear suits and ties to places such as official events, weddings, some job interviews, etc. It’s no exaggeration to say that styled suits are a big part of the fashion world, and definitely one of the oldest form of fashion style to date. 

“At the beginning of the 19th century, men’s style in England was basically a costumey nightmare: Well-heeled gents wore coats with tails, silk stockings, knee breeches, and worst of all, powdered wigs. But then Beau Brummell whole lot of fuss, thank Beau Brummell. Brummell was a mover and shaker in early 1800s English court life, and definitely the man who changed the menswear game forever by came along and basically invented the suit we’re all still wearing today.”  

“If you appreciate the way a suit consists of two simple pieces that help you get dressed without a rejecting the popular frock coats and powdered wigs of the time in favor of simple jackets and full-length trousers—which would eventually become the suits we know today.”.

Suit Style for men played a huge role in the western movie and entertainment industry in the U.S. and the UK. 

For example: 

Charlie Chaplin: “America’s first movie star wore an exaggerated version of the everyday suits of the time, namely a skin-tight sportcoat and ballooning pants.” Elvis Presley.

And American iconic singer and performer who rocked the stage and was a cult figure for many followers worldwide.  

And nowadays, the list of people who wear suits and blazers also includes women, not to mention that suits also have an impact on recent fashion culture, an example is fashion runway.

reference:

https://www.gq.com/gallery/the-gq-history-of-the-suit-by-decade

4. For the fourth person Hannah, a large part of her dressing inspiration is from her Muslim culture, and hijab plays an important role in her daily style.

“Islam, like most other religions, regulates the behavior of its believers. Like other faiths, its legal code lays down rules regarding the related fields of clothing and sexuality. One goal of these strictures is to prevent the exposure and highlighting of certain parts of the body. Especially those of women.” 

“Many modern, non-religious Westerners see Muslim dress as a salient example of the repression of women and denial of their rights.” Alma quotes, ‘Many of these people think that if a women is covered up, it means that she is being oppressed.’ But in reality, “the hijab remains an outward expression of a complex reality”. As it is a rather contentious subject, one theory claims that “the hijab is an empowering display of identity,” there are also people who “reject the hijab and vie it as a means of oppression”…

(fashion industry borrows ideas from the Muslim culture, especially from the hijab)

reference:

Dress and Ideology : Fashioning Identity from Antiquity to the Present, edited by Shoshana-Rose Marzel, and Guy D. Stiebel, Bloomsbury Publishing PLC, 2014.

5. For the last person Zahra, her style is mainly based on sports. It signifies comfort and flexibility and is something that you can easily spot on the street, especially on the generation of young people. 

T-shirts, hoodies, Sneakers, caps, bomb jackets, leggings are popular sporty items. People use them to do some mix and match with other fashion items like coats, skirts and even highheels.

A NEW TREND: Athleisure

It is a trend in fashion in which clothing designed for workouts and other athletic activities is worn in other settings, such as at the workplace, at school, or at other casual or social occasions. Athleisure outfits are yoga pants, tights and leggings that "look like athletic wear" and are characterized as "fashionable, dressed up sweats and exercise clothing". The idea is that gym clothes are supposedly making their way out of the gym and becoming a larger part of people's everyday wardrobes. It can be considered as a fashion industry movement, enabled by improved textile materials, which allow sportswear to be more versatile, comfortable, and fashionable. It has been identified as being sporty and stylish.

But technically speaking, the sporty style is originated in the U.S.

“Before the mid-20th century, U.S. apparel firms mostly copied French styles for the American market. The war years made communication with Europe difficult, and Americans began to appreciate their homegrown talent. As women started enjoying leisure activities in the early to mid-20th century, American designers developed sportswear to meet their needs...” — Lisa Lockwood on WWD Magazine

With the rising fame of sports associations like NBA and NFL, more and more fans started to appreciate sportswear. And some iconic sportswear brands have also shaped today’s fashion world, like Nike and Adidas.

(British singer Rita Ora dressed in sporty style)

(Iconic Air Jordan shoes endorsed by basketball player Michael Jordan)

What’s more, there is also a trend in current fashion world where many of the notable designers use elements from casual sportswear. Here are a list of collaborations

Fenty Puma

Sacai + Nike

Stella McCartney + Adidas (Adidas relaunch its Stan Smith collection)

references:

http://messmag.com/how-sport-has-influenced-the-world-of-fashion/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Athleisure

https://edelscope.com/2015/01/13/fashion-focus-the-history-and-influence-of-sports-in-the-fashion-world/

http://wwd.com/fashion-news/ready-to-wear/sportswear-an-american-invention-6241103/

And after finishing the research part, we started to make the powerpoint. We managed to do it in a creative way, in which we created a playlist in Spotify named “street style 2017″, to showcase each one’s style. So we selected songs according to their style and their cultural background, and used photoshop to design the playlist’s interface, which is similar to the spotify APP. 

And I also adjusted the pictures by photoshop, so as to make the image of each person clear. Also, I made a play interface for each person ( but at last it is not showed in slides though)

On the day of presentation, we first play the music we choose for the person, which lasted for about 15 seconds. Then we introduce the person’s style and our research on his/her style cultural background, and the connection with the current fashion world. Fortunately, we presented well on Tuesday and achieved a success.

Also, we have received many constructive advices from our audience, which can be listed as following:

1. We can add some interaction with the audience. For example, we can play the music first, then let the audience guess what kind of fashion style the person represent. This will increase the participation enthusiasm of the others.

2. And while introducing the style and the background of it, we can ask the perspective of the audience. 

3. We can also brief the process of our interview, for example, what have we overcome, what did we try, what didn’t work, and how we approached people, etc.

4. Except people’s name, age and occupation, we can add a question of where they come from, which is also an important element for research and analysis.

Besides, we also have learnt a lot from other groups’ presentation. And some feedbacks they received can also apply to our future presentation and research:

1. Try to be more creative and use for media forms to show your work and research process. ie. the moodboard is a good way to display your ideas. But when present, we shoult invite the audience to come around and interact with them. 

2. When you present, you should consider visually, for example, the way of shooting, how to show the details of the items, the layout of the slides, etc.

3. References are very important because it shows what comes from where. And your own evaluation of your research is very important.

4. The moving image (video) is also a fresh way to be included in presentation. But the framing and timing should be paid attention to.

In conclusion, I have learnt so much in our first self-directed assignment. Apart from what I listed above, I also know further about my two excellent groupmates: Sen and Cheery. They are so helpful and considerate. We three as a group, each have their strength. For example, Sen is good at research and brainstorming, so I have learnt from her about how to make the mindmap to improve my divergent thinking and critical thinking skills. I have a command of simple graphic design and photoshop, so I was responsible for the image making and transferred our common ideas into visual images. And Cherry is very patient, considerate, good at making powerpoint and lay out thing, so she adjust the slides at last, so that we can show our idea and research through ppt clearly. In addition, both of them are good at communicating with people, which I have little confidence in. So I have learnt from them how to approach people with confidence and express ourselves clearly when doing the interview. I think I need to practice more with my spoken English and social skills.

Last but not the least, I have realized again the importance of teamwork through the whole process of brainstorming, discussing, generating the idea, drafting the question, sharing out the work, and even sharing dinner together in China, etc. I’d like to say I really like and am truly grateful to my groupmates! They have helped me a lot indeed! I hope we three can collaborate again in the future.