Chapter 1: One Outfit
“I really don’t want to do this. Why are you making me do this?”
Beverly ignored his objections, her long stride full of purpose as they walked over to a high-end clothing store that Will had never dared to enter.
“Don’t ignore me, Bev. I really won’t have any need for…”
“Will, you only seem to own flannel shirts, white undershirts, and what? 3 or 4 pairs of pants? You need clothes.” Will couldn’t help the scoff that slipped past his lips.
“I have more than 3 pairs of pants…” Will defended himself softly, knowing full well that she was correct. His face flushed, embarrassed that she took note of his wardrobe.
“Still, these clothes are going to be way too expensive. I won’t have any use for them.”
“They may be expensive, but you will need them once your horror novels get published. What about meeting with publishing firms? Interviews?”
Will let out a dry laugh, and Beverly shot him a sharp look. It always amazed Will when his friends and colleagues had such strong faith in his writing. Their belief in his inevitable success made him feel wonderful and horribly disappointing. Writing horror novels had started out more as a hobby, almost therapy. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but a lot of the content in the rough drafts of his novels came to him in nightmares. Will was embarrassed that nightmares plagued him regularly even at his age, but he had been able to find some relief writing them down, expanding them and editing them into odd and bizarre stories.
Others would tell him, considering his current career as a forensic specialist and special investigator working mostly with homicide cases, that nightmares are normal. What they didn’t know was that Will had always been plagued with nightmares.
“You laugh, but the sooner you realize you don’t really have a choice in this, the easier it’ll be.”
Will could see the outside of the clothing store already, and his stomach clenched painfully with the anxiety he was feeling. The store was set up on a corner in one of the oldest buildings, and the outside of the shop was elegant and obviously dated. The stone was shaped and carved beautifully, reminding Will of a boutique you would find in Europe rather than this kind of city. The windows were lit with radiant lights, the clothing inside shining and sleek looking. Will gulped as they approached the copper colored door, opening it to allow Beverly entry, his ears tuning into both the soft bell attached to the door and the classical music that softly wafted out the door. He contemplated running away once Bev was inside, but knew that she would catch him.
Will stepped inside and immediately felt alienated and out of place. Some of the scarce clientele looked at them sideways, Beverly impervious as she started scrutinizing the items. Will tried his best to ignore their hot and prickly glances, judging eyes groping at his outerwear and overall composure. Will redirected his attention to the clothes, raising a hand into his hair to try and calm the curls while idly looking at a price tag for a simple white undershirt that was nearby. He had to bite his tongue to keep him from exclaiming, his eyes bulging slightly at the price.
“See anything you like?” Bev asked, feeling the cuff of a dark green sweater that was on a surprisingly realistic mannequin, him looking nothing like Will.
“Bev… this undershirt is 120 dollars.” Will tensely whispered to her.
“Yes, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
“This is unbelievable. I mean, what’s the big deal?” Will continued to whisper, picking up the neatly folded shirt. Bev scoffed behind him and took one of the dark green sweaters she had been inspecting, walking away, already in search for something else.
Will felt immensely grateful that Bev continued with her mission, his body tense and his cheeks blooming a different shade of red now. The feeling of the undershirt he had picked up was unreal between his fingertips, even with such minimal contact. It was unworldly soft, and the sheen of the white fabric was very attractive to him. Peering up to make sure no one else was watching him, he unfolded the shirt, holding the collar in his left hand and cautiously running his right hand down one of the side seams. His breathing hitched with the movement, the rough texture of his hands grabbing and sliding down the shirt without any effort. It felt wonderful, he was sad to note.
He lifted his hand once it had reached the bottom, slowly repeating the stroke down the side of the shirt again. The ethereal material made his skin spark, Will swallowing thickly when he felt his arm hair shiver alive, pressing uncomfortably against the rough flannel sleeves. He started to imagine his whole torso covered in the material, the rose of his cheeks spreading down his neck as he felt the shirt tight against his chest and stomach without putting it on. Shaking his head, he ran his hand down the shirt one more time before folding it exactly how the store had it folded, putting it back perfectly, as if he hadn’t tainted it at all.
Bev was half way across the shop when Will came out of his reverie. Slowly, he padded his way through the shop, his hands stealthily reaching up at some of the clothes he was walking by. Each thing he touched made his heart palpitate, his hand slowly becoming more sensitive to the different textures and kinds of fabric the store had to offer. He finally caught up to Beverly who unfortunately had an arm full of clothes for him to try.
“What do you think?” Bev turned and held up different items to him, trying to gauge his reaction. He could feel that his face was still flushed and hot, and with some hesitation, he reached out to a few things that Beverly had picked out.
Will threw on a calm, collected face as he began scrutinizing the clothes, his rough fingertips seeking out a collar or seam of the pieces of clothing in a hopefully casual manner. Although he kept his eyes on the clothes, his mind was with his hands, the feel of the diverse materials lighting him up and stirring something inside of him.
“Wanna try any of them on?”
“Do I have a choice?” Will tried to ignore the triumphant grin that slipped on Beverly’s sharp face.
“Why don’t you go back and grab that undershirt you were admiring? I’ll meet you at the changing rooms.”
Will rolled his eyes, mimicking his behavior from earlier. Inwardly, the excitement he was feeling flowered aggressively at the idea of wearing the undershirt. As he was walking back, his hands found more things to touch, more textures to explore. There was a mannequin not far from where he was, donned in an extremely sharp, dark blue plaid suit. Curious, he reached out and started to feel the along the bottom edge of the blazer. Even for a suit, the material slipped smoothly between his fingertips, and he couldn’t help but let out a sigh.
The wanting sigh died immediately as the blazer suddenly slipped out of his grasp, the definitely not a mannequin’s body turning around to face him. Pain spiked roughly into his stomach and chest at his embarrassment, his hand coming up to cover his mouth in horror, his ears filling hotly with white noise. Will stepped far back and looked up into the face of the man he had accidentally fondled.
The man in front of him was tall, olive-skinned, and had swept back ash blonde hair. His face was softly lined, like someone who had just began to show the signs of aging. His dark, oddly maroon eyes sparkled with obvious inquisition and concern. His mouth was pursed, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips.
“I… I am so, so sorry. I thought that you were a mannequin!” Will hoarsely whispered, his shock apparent.
The older man tilted his head almost imperceptibly, and his dark eyes infinitesimally took in Will’s appearance. Will could feel how intense his gaze was even through his overwhelming shock, this man’s gaze firing up his skin like the fine materials did.
“I’m so embarrassed… I hope I didn’t ruin your suit!” Will continued, speaking past his sensitive fingers, his eyes unable to focus on the gentleman’s face any longer.
“The suit is quite alright, I’m sure. I appreciate your overwhelming concern for it.” An indistinguishable European accent slipped past the gentleman’s lips, the deep timbre of his voice completing the persona. He took his piercing gaze off Will to inspect the back of his suit minimally, adding,
“I suppose I should be flattered that I could be mistaken for a mannequin, considering.” Will peered back up to the man’s mouth, seeing that he had smirked softly, realizing that the purse of the man’s lips was natural.
“Please, let me know if there are any damages. I don’t have much, but surely we…” The man raised a hand unexpectedly, requesting his silence, which was granted. Will noticed some callouses on the gentleman’s hand and the sides of his fingers, recognizing them as callouses from continual use of pencils or pens.
“I assure you that the suit is just fine. No compensation necessary, although the gesture is surprising. To be honest, I hadn’t been sure I felt anything at all.” The older gentleman’s head was still slightly cocked, maroon eyes sparkling as he peered down at Will.
Will awkwardly shifted between one leg and then the other, his hands finally dropping away from his face, rubbing against the fronts of his pants. His eyes darted around the suit, alight with anxiety. Now more than he had before, he felt his middleishness, his lacking, in comparison to the gentlemen’s composure.
“Is there anything I can do to…?” He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, fear making him imprecise in speech.
“To do what?” The gentleman prompted in Will’s sudden speechlessness. Humor floated on his accent, although his face appeared calm when Will managed to sweep his own eyes up to the maroon ones again.
“To repay you, is what I wanted to say, but the words felt odd.” Will dryly laughed, and he could feel his awkward grin, more habitual than anything.
“Would it make you feel better to offer some personal information in case I happen to find anything?” Will thought that his tone sounded practiced, like he often made compromises similar to this one.
“Uhm, you know that could work.” His rough hands dug into the pockets of his cargo-style jeans, pulling out a very small notebook with matching miniature pen. He always carried any kind of paper with him, in case inspiration, or something much more dreadful, struck him.
He flipped open the notebook to a page in the middle, seeing for an instant that the back of the page that faced the gentleman was a dark drawing of something he had dreamt. Embarrassed, and reacting a little late, he flipped the pages forward into a clean area of the notebook. Hastily, he scribbled down his name and cellphone number, ripping the pages carefully along the perforation and handing it to the silent man.
“Here, please don’t hesitate to call if you notice anything in disrepair.” Will’s eyes watched the olive-toned hand grasp the small piece of paper, his fingernails manicured and tidy. The gentleman’s eyes flashed down at the note briefly.
“You’re an artist, Will?” An unexpected reply, Will already forgetting he had signed his name, flipping his notebook closed once the note had been exchanged and shoving it back into his pocket.
“Not really, no.” Was all that he could really come up with, wanting to be honest.
“Your notebook tells me otherwise.”
“I won’t keep anymore of your time. I apologize again, sir.” Will backed away from the gentleman, small talk honestly abysmal, even with the hint of curiosity he heard in the other gentleman’s voice.
“Doctor,” The gentleman corrected, his tone not harsh. “Dr. Lecter.”
To Will’s surprise, the gentleman reached out his hand for a civil handshake, Will obliging. With the teasing of all the clothes, his hand lit up as he shook Dr. Lecter’s hand, his skin smooth even with the gentle lines and writing callouses.
“I would say it’s nice to meet you, Dr. Lecter, but I’m afraid that my embarrassment will solidify this exchange for some time to come.” Another dry, breathy laugh. Will felt awkward, desiring to leave.
“Will?” Bev’s voice, his savior. He tried to keep the relief out of his face.
“I’m coming, hold on.” He called over to her, flashing another awkward smile before heading toward his original destination, refusing to reach up to touch any more clothing.
He had been sure that Dr. Lecter had said ‘Until next time’, but when Will had turned back after grabbing the undershirt, he was gone. No bell had sounded.
“What took you so long?” Bev casually questioned, her face naturally looking harsh although he doubted that she cared.
“I just had the worst encounter.” Will clarified, shaking his head and putting his back against the door to the dressing room. “I had thought some gentleman was a mannequin, felt up his suit.”
Expectedly, Bev laughed.
“You laugh, but I might be traumatized.” Will opened the door to the dressing room, seeing a multitude of fine sweaters, button up shirts, and nice slacks. No suits, he was happy to note.
“Oh, come on, Will. It couldn’t have been that bad. It was an honest mistake… I hope.” She had mumbled the latter phrase under her breath, just as he slipped into the changing room.
“I heard that, and yes, it was an accident. He took it well enough, I think. Gave him my contact information in case I damaged it.”
“You are such a nerd.”
Now that Will was alone, Bev securely outside, he let his guard down. He started to feel each item of clothing she picked out in earnest, sighing gently as all the clothes felt amazing. He wanted to linger among the fine textiles, but instead slipped his own clothing off, flushing as he unfolded the undershirt. He slipped it over his head, his arms gracing through the silky sleeves, causing the hair to stand on end again. He lifted his now seemingly too rough hands, smelling something very fine on his right hand from Dr. Lecter’s handshake, pulling the shirt down by the waist seam over his body. Will felt himself bit his lip, his nipples responding and hardening against pure heaven.
“How are you doing?” Bev’s welfare checks, although unnecessary, were deeply appreciated. Will tended to get lost in things, both physical and otherwise.
“Fine. Just a second.” His voice sounded thick, hoping the door masked it. He stopped wasting time, sliding on a barely blue dress shirt and tucking it gently into black slacks, refusing to wrinkle the bottom of the shirt. He felt suspended in a soft world, the material clinging to him and fitting around him wonderfully. Bev had a good eye for size.
“Want to grab me a belt, too?” He asked, looking between the available sweaters, sliding on a black one to match his pants. He stepped out of the dressing room, walking to the mirrors and feeling uncomfortable judging himself.
“Wow.” Belt in hand, Bev’s eyebrows were toward the top of her forehead in surprise.
“Yeah, yeah.” He dismissed, a smirk gracing his face as he slid the belt through the loops on his slacks.
“No seriously, Will. Wow.”
Will turned this way and that way in the mirror, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He tried to keep the pleasure out of his face, biting down the rising blush as the materials lit up his skin with each movement.
“You say wow, but the sweater alone is 450 dollars.” He started to shake his head, continuing,
“As if I have this kind of money.”
“You know you won’t be walking out empty handed?” A counter argument, Will’s frustration with her refusal for non-compliance aggravating.
“Think this store even knows the word layaway? I’ll have to ask for a personal loan if you really want me to buy this stuff.”
“You act like you are the poorest person on earth. Not to embarrass you but I roughly know what you make for salary, and I really think you can squeeze a few nice items into your wardrobe.” Bev’s face was set, and she meant what she had said. Will audibly sighed, mostly in defeat.
“One outfit.” He settled, not looking at Bev’s victory.
Chapter 2: Hopeful
There was something wholly thrilling and completely satisfying in having a peculiar kind of total anonymity. Although there always seemed to be people who were eager for greetings and salutations in the opulent markets and weekly spectacles he visited, Dr. Hannibal Lecter found that it rarely took away from the delight of playing double agent in society. What a joy it was to be the only one who knew, leaving him often feeling elevated above the mass.
The store owner always greeted him with a lipstick stained smile, her avant-garde fashion swaggering to him for a soft offering of a more wrinkled hand than her face was. Always the gentleman, Hannibal obliged, offering a light kiss. Polite conversation, although boring, was a painful necessity as upkeep for his anonymity. He had no problems directing people, elegantly twisting his way in and out of conversation as he pleased. When the store owner finally left him to his devices, a promise of an intimate dinner party to placate her, Hannibal wiped the retinol cream residue off his lips. His hyperosmia and vomeronasal organ often betrayed him for fragrance free cosmetics.
Hannibal often supplemented and amplified his wardrobe, and this was just one of the stores he intertwined in his shopping. Although this place didn’t do much for custom design, the ready to wear by common sized garments were wonderful in their own way, the owner meticulous about fabric and color choices that suited Hannibal’s taste in casual wear. For her scrupulousness, he would spare her.
Perusing in his own time, he tuned out the modern classical music gently playing overhead and replaced it with Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5 in E Flat, known as ‘The Emperor’ concerto. He often favored any recording by the Canadian pianist and baroque style aficionado that was Glenn Gould, his works with Bach his ultimate favorites, but today he chose the Vienna Symphony Orchestra recording, Felicja Blumental delicate but considerably bold when she needed to be for the romantic era piece, the orchestra wonderful but not drawing away from the piano. She was an expert interpreter of Chopin more so than Beethoven, but currently preferable as Glenn Gould often brought out underlying mixed emotions he readily denied in public.
Although his commitment to keeping the emotions he did feel at bay, there were some things that even the steadfast doctor couldn’t control. As he was browsing and lifting things for intense scrutiny before putting them back pristinely, his eye was drawn toward an accessory to his immediate left. The Beethoven unfortunately left him at the sight of the tie, the sheen and aubergine color striking deep. His mind was blank for the moment, a suffocating emptiness in the wake of a grand concerto. Slowly, as he continued to perceive the dark colored tie, rough voices bellowed deep in his mind, angry German singing and sounding odd in Russian vernacular. Behind his eyes, he saw Mischa holding and admiring an eggplant roughly the same color of the tie. The copper door of the high-end store he found himself in often brought up memories of his childhood as well, causing him to see Mischa sitting in the beaten copper tub, water only deep enough to cover her pale cherub like legs, butterflies fluttering around her while she stared in a childlike state of intensity at the eggplant. Her eyes, crystal blue usually, seemed to turn purple as she stared at it.
‘Anniba!’ She had called back to him, too young to pronounce his name correctly, her skin insipid with cold and baby fat looking odd on her small, starved form. She had a horrid cough, the ultimate deciding factor.
As Mischa continued to call to him for help, knowing when children were dragged to ‘go play’ that they were never seen again. He felt her gently tugging on the back of his blazer, the lightest touch coming from her star shaped hands and chubby knuckles. Hannibal turned, desperately wanting to save her, seeing her bright blue eyes looking horrified as he turned around.
It took a second for him to realize that the distress-filled eyes were almost eye level with his, surrounded by curly brown hair and not the pale hair of his younger sister’s. The tugging on the back of his blazer was not done by the work of a child but a stranger in the store. Music from overhead clicked back into his senses, remembering where he was, secretly glad to be out of that hell house where he had been kept captive.
“I… I am so, so sorry. I thought that you were a mannequin!” A mortified whisper, the anxiety and undoing of the man in front of him tasting delicious in comparison to his sister.
The man in front of him hardly looked like he would be in a store like this, Hannibal guessing that someone else had brought him here. His glasses were slightly askew, his eyes barely hidden, and his hair seemed naturally untidy, something that couldn’t really be helped. Even past the extreme emotion that he was currently experiencing, Hannibal knew by scent that he often dealt with fear. Fear and anxiety seemed interwoven in his natural smell, like horror you couldn’t wash off, or blood deep under the fingernails that couldn’t be scraped away no matter how hard you tried.
Despite his untidy hair and slightly unshaven face, his outfit, although cheap in materials, was meticulously in place. He recognized the careful tucking in of his plaid shirt, the straight, almost military style gig line down the seam of his shirt, through the edge of the belt buckle and down the zipper. His sleeves were also rolled up just as precisely and squarely. Hannibal guessed that back in his obvious country home, full of dogs by the after-scent wafting along the heat of the man, that his underwear and socks were folded and organized much like you would see in boutiques like this one.
Normally, rude or unpleasant interactions ended poorly for the individuals which crossed him, but the obvious terror from making an honest mistake didn’t warrant anything further. Better to keep a low profile.
“I’m so embarrassed… I hope I didn’t ruin your suit!” The man continued, Hannibal’s observations seeming to eat up a little time. It was curious to Hannibal that this man in front of him thought that such a light touch could ruin anything, like his presence alone tainted the world around him. Just as the man’s eyes darted away from him, shaking in his fright or possibly displeasure, Hannibal finally responded.
“The suit is quite alright, I’m sure. I appreciate your overwhelming concern for it.” He glanced at the back of his blazer, seeing absolutely nothing. He continued,
“I suppose I should be flattered that I could be mistaken for a mannequin, considering.” The mannequins in this particular store were as high-end as the clothes, realistic in body proportions and quite attractive by social standards. Hannibal had vaguely entertained the idea that the lipstick stained owner had a kink for dolls, not caring enough to find out.
“Please, let me know if there are any damages. I don’t have much, but surely we…” The man stammered, worried about conflict or an altercation, Hannibal thinking his groveling most likely defensive and learned from a time past. Hannibal raised his hand to stop him, melodrama mostly unwelcome.
“I assure you that the suit is just fine. No compensation necessary, although the gesture is surprising. To be honest, I hadn’t been sure I felt anything at all.” Social lies were flimsy, but he had a feeling that the other man’s state of shock would defuse the lie.
“Is there anything I can do to…?” The man was rubbing sweaty palms against the front of his pants, fear suddenly mingling in with the anxiety, Hannibal finding the fear curious. Hannibal knew he should be feared, and animals often reacting accordingly and submissively.
“To do what?” Hannibal found he enjoyed the man’s tentative glances up at him, Hannibal thinking that he was forcing his eyes up rather than doing it on his own fruition.
“To repay you, is what I wanted to say, but the words felt odd.” His breathy laugh barely revealed ibuprofen and coffee.
Hannibal continued to watch the man shift and twitch under his scrutiny, personally finding his uneasiness in his presence satisfactory. Delicately, like he would with one of his patients, he offered a resolution to the problem, wondering if the man would flounder when faced with a solution like most of his patients did. Some just liked to dwell in their misery.
“Would it make you feel better to offer some personal information in case I happen to find anything?” Normal people would think this a red flag, even in a place like this one.
“Uhm, you know that could work.” Hannibal declined the inclination to raise his eyebrows at the readiness, thinking the man genuine beyond most people he met. Genuine, or protected.
Hannibal watched him fumble for a small notebook, his eyes washing over the ink heavy pages with some artistic curiosity. He saw as the man flipped through the pages that the majority of the paper inside was filled with writing, both looping cursive and small, scared letters. In the middle of the notepad, the man flipped open revealing an almost black page, Hannibal finding the use of negative space impressive for an obvious ball-pointed pen. The sheen of the black ink had the unmistakable undertone of purple and green, thinking it most likely a BIC branded pen. Just as Hannibal was about to figure out what the shape of the monstrous form was, the man tossed the pages forward with another puff of heat radiating off him. In the same small, frightened lettering, he wrote down his name and phone number.
‘Will Graham.’ Hannibal denied the smile to grace his face, knowing FBI special investigator Will through his endless psychological resources. Alana Bloom had mentioned him once or twice, her curiosity about him obvious as well as her denied physical attraction. The timing of this meeting couldn’t have been better, knowing that he was due to meet with Jack Crawford not too long from now. Although he was primarily a psychiatrist, he didn’t mind helping local and federal law enforcement with forensic psychiatry and evidence, profiling being a specialty of his.
He didn’t mind it, but liked it best when he was summoned to help inquire on his own works.
“Here, please don’t hesitate to call if you notice anything in disrepair.”
“You’re an artist, Will?” Hannibal couldn’t help himself but pry just a little. Alana had mentioned novel writing as a hobby, although she wasn’t sure what he wrote about, him never showing her.
“Not really, no.”
“Your notebook tells me otherwise.”
“I won’t keep anymore of your time. I apologize again, sir.” Will backed away from him, desperate, like a cornered animal.
“Doctor. Dr. Lecter.” Hannibal reached out for a handshake, thinking introductions should be proper whenever.
“I would say it’s nice to meet you, Dr. Lecter, but I’m afraid that my embarrassment will solidify this exchange for some time to come.” His honesty was refreshing.
“Will?” A woman’s voice, the one who must have dragged him her, saved him from further scrutiny. Hannibal could tell Will wanted to keep the relief out of his face, but he gave it away when he called out to her.
“I’m coming, hold on.” The smile he gave Hannibal wasn’t the awkward one he used when punctuating the ends of awkward phrases, but more of grateful and thankful smile, knowing now that social interactions had been completed enough to negate rudeness.
‘Until next time.’ Hannibal thought to himself, slipping backwards among suits similarly colored like his own, turning a corner toward the office where the owner was. He hovered there, seeing Will looking for him but not finding him.
Keeping his distance, he tailed Will and the woman who was with him.
“I just had the worst encounter.” More honesty, although Hannibal couldn’t blame him that he found the interaction painful. Embarrassment was tough for some people to swallow. The woman laughed heartily.
“You laugh, but I might be traumatized.” Hannibal heard the door of the dressing room close, using his mind’s eye to fill in the lack of visual representation by sound.
“Oh, come on, Will. It couldn’t have been that bad. It was an honest mistake… I hope.”
“I heard that, and yes, it was an accident. He took it well enough, I think. Gave him my contact information in case I damaged it.”
“You are such a nerd.” Hannibal liked the sharpness in which she spoke to him, thinking that Will must like it too. Will seemed to take a long time with the items inside the dressing room, Hannibal really not having much better to do in this current moment but to observe.
““How are you doing?”
“Fine. Just a second. Want to grab me a belt, too?” Hannibal slipped away, the woman striding confidently into the store, her head held high and her eyes swift. She must work with him at Quantico as well, Hannibal guessing by her demeanor. In her absence, he exited the dressing room and padded in heavy, most likely untied, boots over to the circle of mirrors. Hannibal wanted to look, but denied himself.
“Yeah, yeah.” Humble, or possibly self-loathing, as well as honest.
“No seriously, Will. Wow.” At her surprise, he peered, seeing him completely involved in his belt and own appearance to notice him in the distance. The man standing in the mirror was just as meticulous as he had been in less finer clothing, Hannibal appreciating the color of shirt that he was wearing in particular.
“You say wow, but the sweater alone is 450 dollars. As if I have this kind of money.” At this, Hannibal walked away from the pair of them, back toward the suits while simultaneously picking up the aubergine tie he had been staring at.
There was an employee waiting to help those who wandered into the suit section of the store, him completely uninteresting and lacking. Hannibal made idle conversation, selecting a few things that he didn’t need to be tailored to fit him. It took some time, but Will eventually made his way out of the story with a single outfit worth of items, the woman victorious looking. Through the clear plastic bag, he saw that Will had a cashmere sweater he also owned, thinking the color shared the likeness of the suit he was wearing.
Best not be too hopeful.