#built on my mannequin Rue

[ropesbypatricia]

🌈 Double Coin Karada

~ 32m of 6mm jute

[thelioncourts]

title: the mannequin gallery fandom: captive prince pairing: damen/laurent rating: mature words: 9758 for chapter eight (8/?); 51050 all together

Damen was good at keeping himself busy, and that was a great thing because he liked being busy.

It turned out, however, that it was a little more difficult to accomplish a nonstop business, especially for almost an entire week, without Nik. It wasn’t impossible by any means, but it was more difficult. After all, Nik was a constant presence, had been since they were school children playing kings and knights on the sand while Damen’s stepmother watched on. Him not being around felt different.

Still, Damen had plenty to do while Nik was off attending photography sessions, lunches that were more planning than eating, and dealing with the multitude of models that would be walking the runway tomorrow. There were photos to be edited and posted from their time in Cortina and their brief week in Berlin, there were longtime sponsors to be called, such as Damen’s favorite supplement company over in New York that truly had the best tasting protein powders, EAAs, and pre-workout on the planet (rumor was they were coming out with collagen peptides soon too and Damen couldn’t wait to get his hands on those), or the company they got their luggage from; and there were potential sponsors to email to see if a partnership could be worked out on terms preferable to both parties. It was a full-time thing, truth be told, especially navigating the time zone differences Damen did his best to be cognizant of.

So yeah, Nik wasn’t around, but Damen was good at keeping himself busy.

It wasn’t going to be necessary after tonight though. Today at three on the dot was the dress rehearsal for the show, scheduled so they had plenty of time to fix anything gone wrong with enough time for the models and crew to get home and rest before the big day tomorrow. Damen, of course, was going to both the rehearsal tonight and the show tomorrow. He had been told that Charls had yet one more suit for him to wear that the man was ecstatic about getting around Damen’s shoulders. It all meant that Damen’s next two days were packed and, after those days were said and done, Nik would be back on his side and they could leave Paris.

And as much as Damen was enjoying Paris and all its sights, he was ready for new scenery. After the show tomorrow it would be time to start planning their next place. Damen was already thinking about Spain and then maybe a trip across the ocean to Canada. It’d been a while since they’d had a chance to really go on an adventure.

With a click, he sent out one last email to a wireless headphone company that had contacted them last week and then he leaned back in the chair he was sitting on and took in the view.

He had decided to do work out on the balcony of their hotel room. Part of him had wanted to go out, settle in at a cafe somewhere, and pretend to be Parisian for a few hours, and the other part of him knew that, had he done that, he would have been too distracted by everything around him. But here on the balcony wasn’t such a bad deal. He had the sounds of car horns, engines, murmurs—  and sometimes yells — in a variety of languages, and the gentle rustling of the air to be a sort of white noise that kept him grounded and focused.

But now his work was done and he could look, could take in the sky that was a blank slate of gray, could take in the people cautiously walking around with umbrellas already out in case it rained, could take in the insane increase in traffic on the road leading into Paris Fashion Week.

Damen was in the middle of keeping a mental tally of every person he saw pulling luggage out of a car to stay in the very hotel they were staying at when the door opened.

The first thing Damen was hit with was a sense of déjà vu. Over his shoulders, Nik had two black garment bags that Damen could only assume had each of their names written in gold upon. The second thing Damen was hit with was one of the said garment bags as Nik threw it and it landed on his face.

“What’s this?” Damen asked, holding the bag at an arm’s length. It was heavy, the fabric inside a kind with a weight to it that Damen immediately was worried of getting hot while wearing.

“Your outfit for tomorrow. Beware, it’s just as gaudy as the one last week,” Nik said. He hung his own bag on a hanging attachment between the two closets in the room.

Damen snorted. “At least it should be our last gaudy outfit while we’re here.”

“Oh, mine isn’t gaudy, just yours,” Nik said. “I have to be inconspicuous as I’ll be up around the stage. My outfit is just a black suit with a black undershirt.”

“What? And I’m getting stuck with some atrocity that’ll make me wish I couldn’t see in color at all?”

[Continue on AO3]

There hardly was time to dwell on his new Charls’ creation, however. Now that Nik was back, Damen’s busy two days finally began. They had early lunch plans at Massale and it was going to be a sprint to get from there to the space where the show was being held for rehearsal at three. Only the gods knew how long the rehearsal would be, but at a minimum it was going to take near three hours.

“Does the rehearsal have a dress-code?” Damen asked as they exited the hotel. He looked down pointedly at his outfit which consisted of the black joggers he’d been lounging in all morning, a crisp white tee, and a zip-up black jacket with white stripes down the arms and circling his shoulders. Nik looked him up and down and then made a face.

“They didn’t say anything. I’m wearing this,” he said, motioning to his own outfit of light wash jeans and a dark blue tee. “Besides, I don’t think they’re going to care at the rehearsal. You’re not exactly who they’re focused on today.”

Unsurprisingly, lunch was delicious, but some of the enjoyment of its deliciousness was lost as they truly did have to sprint from the restaurant to a cab that got stuck in actual lunchtime traffic for so long that they put a handful of bills on the center console and, once more, sprinted. This time they sprinted all the way to the Grand Palais, the stage for the show tomorrow. They made it on time though, walking in with Nik’s photography pass and its fine print stating that he would have a manager with him, and they even appeared to beat Charls who wasn’t flitting around in an anxious tizzy quite yet.

The Grand Palais des Champs-Élysées, commonly known as the Grand Palais, was an immaculate building located in the 8th arrondissement of Paris and could be seen from the Eiffel Tower. Built at the end of the 19th century, the building was a masterpiece of classicism and art nouveau. Its classicism could be seen in its stone facades, columns, and friezes, and it was the intricate metalwork that structured the famous glass ceiling that showcased its art nouveau touches. It was a stunning building, its attraction as a tourist sight obvious, and Damen smiled at how fitting it was for Etoile to have their show here.

But the Grand Palais’ artistry was almost a second thought when the set for the show came into view. Neither Damen or Nik had known that fashion shows created entire sets, like a stage production, for their shows. It made sense, Damen thought later. Oftentimes, these fashion lines had tangible themes to them. The set designer for Etoile had told Nik and the other photographers about several of their past shows, some of which included fashion lines centered around clothes inspired by Itay’s romantic rues, clothes inspired by Riviera cruises, and clothes inspired by the alpine winters. The set for the alpine winters had been covered in something to give the appearance of snow, that’s how much work was put into an Etoile show. But even knowing that, Damen and Nik were taken aback by the extravagance of the scene underneath the glass ceiling.

They recognized what it was an imitation of right away. After all, it was one of the few places they had traveled to here in Paris in those earliest days of getting to the city. In front of them was the Palace of Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors.

Chandeliers had been assembled to hang, each one an endless shimmering of crystal and gold and light, and their light glinted off of all the gilded gold statues and reliefs adorning the walls. Marble columns lined the Grand Palais, making it appear like a hall, and between each column was a golden arch. In the true Hall of Mirrors, there were seventeen of these arches. On one side of the hall were arched windows that overlooked the gardens below. Across from these windows were mirrors, the very mirrors this hall received its name from. For Etoile’s show, every archway held only a mirror.

It was beautiful and something worthy of royalty to be seen within. And it wasn’t done. There were men hanging paintings from the ceiling, hanging them in the way the chandeliers were, but they were not centered; the paintings were being hung over the archways as though they were lining the walls, and Damen recognized they were paintings like what decorated the ceiling in the Hall of Mirrors. Paintings of Louis XIV’s greatest early triumphs.

“They don’t play around do they?” Nik asked rhetorically, his eyes scanning the hall in disbelief.

“Haven’t you been practicing with this all week?” Damen asked back, his voice holding the same kind of disbelief Nik’s eyes held.

“In separate pieces. I mean, they’ve had us practicing shooting in front of mirrors, in front of reflective surfaces, in front of light backgrounds, and then all of that combined. But I didn’t expect it to be this,” he paused, “extra.”

Damen laughed and put a hand on Nik’s shoulder. “Really? After two weeks of being around Etoile and you weren’t expecting something this extra?”

“Nicolas, there you are,” said an older man suddenly -- an older man who was definitely flitting around in a tizzy while Charls was absent to do so — with a thick French accent. “The photographers are meeting in the dressing rooms alongside the models. You will need to be practicing how you will move from there to the stage as unobtrusively as possible.”

“His name’s Nik,” Damen said even though it wasn’t him who had been addressed. He was smiling, but anyone that knew him, Nik as a prime example, would be able to see the way his shoulders had tensed, would be able to see the way the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Nik reciprocated Damen from moment’s ago and put a hand on Damen’s shoulder instead.

“I’m sorry?” the man — Audin, one of the other designers, though Damen couldn’t remember if he designed set or clothing — asked, sounding anything but sorry.

“His name’s Nik. It’s not short for Nicolas, but Nikandros. It’s a Greek name.”

“Of course,” Audin continued. Damen didn’t miss the way the man looked at Damen’s clothes with distaste. Then he was gone, walking as though knowing with utter certainty Nik would follow. Damen made a sound.

“It’s fine, Damen,” Nik said, his hand still on Damen’s shoulder. “You settle in to watch, I’ll go do what I need to do, and then we’ll be done for the day.”

“I can’t wait to get back on the road,” Damen said. His shoulders were still raised.

“Me too. It’ll be nice for some normalcy.” Nik paused for a moment, and then said quieter, “I’m sorry for throwing this on us.”

“Hey, no,” Damen started, pulling back. “This is incredible for you. I just wish it wasn’t like —” Damen used both hands to motion at the everything around them.

“It really hasn’t been that bad. Sure, some of the older guys aren’t the nicest, but no one has been outright cruel. Yet.”

“Not even Laurent?” Damen asked, eyebrows raised.

“Laurent has been completely professional. The biggest issue with the models has been Ancel. And he’s just inappropriate,” Nik said, mouth twisting. Damen’s shoulders fell back to their normal hold after a second.

“I think a redhead might be good for you,” Damen said.

“Hell no,” Nik laughed, and he was walking too, following the direction Audin had just left. “I’ll catch up with you after.”

Damen spent a few minutes walking around and taking in the art that transformed the Grand Palais into the Hall of Mirrors, but after some walking he found a seat and sat down in it to wait for the show to begin. He waited, and he waited, and he waited, and nearly drained his phone battery in the process. There weren’t many people out near the front where the show would be, mostly a few assistants given tasks of perfecting every minute detail. Damen was beginning to fear that something had gone horribly wrong and they wouldn’t be able to get out of here for some time, but just as that worry was festering, the lighting changed and a voice rang out over the Grand Palais.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice started, its pitch low and breathy, its French accented heavily. “The French Revolution began in 1789. We, the people of France, had grown tired of the disparages between our King and ourselves. There was struggle, and pain, but we emerged victorious from the battles and slowly began to make our country what it is today through hard work and dedicated leadership that focused on bettering each citizen. Now, the great places, like Versailles, are for the people, just as they were always by the people. Though we relish each day in our freedom, we keep the beauty of the past alive by embracing it through every step we take in our great country. Today, we bring the beauty and elegance of that timet to you. Please welcome Etoile and its spring line entitled The Regency.”

There was a lot Damen could have said about the show. In the grandeur of this mock Hall of Mirrors, the clothing on the models truly appeared to be something made for the kings and queens of the days of a monarchy, where royalty was more than a symbol of the past, a romanticized view of history, but true rulers that relished in their greatness. Like the hall, many of the models were wearing golds and whites that were both glamorous and yet a camouflage, making them appear as glittering decorations that walked center until filing back against the mirrored ‘walls.’ Damen was struck by the interesting lines of the shoulders on many of the outfits, half of which were straight and wide, almost reminiscent of the 1980s shoulder-pad fad, and the other half of which were puffed and large, like a woman’s dress may have boasted in popular fashion in the past centuries. But then, at the end, were the stars of Etoile’s show.

Draped in blood reds, these models were clearly meant to be the kings, the queens, the princes and princesses of King Louis XIV’s rule. They stood out amongst the hall, amongst the other models, each dressed in the same color of the very throne that sat in the very same palace miles away. The first person that came out was Aimeric in a chunky red sweater that made him appear daintier than he was. Deep red velvet pants complimented it, especially as they ended just below his knees in a loose fit, bringing it together as a modest outfit worthy of all its attention. Then came Ancel, who stood out with his hair to match, in a red dress littered with cutouts that showcased freckled skin in all different places. Most prominent was the bearing of his sternum that begged for all eyes to look center. And lastly, Etoile’s face, was Laurent DeVere dressed in an outfit for a prince. Covered neck to toe, it was tame and utterly sensual all at once, no doubt due to the golden corset that cinched in his waist to almost nothing, that gave him such an untouchable look, that matched the crown upon his head dripping in rubies that brushed his forehead.

His crown was the only crown in the show. Etoile knew what they were doing. His beauty was unmatched.

Laurent walked like he’d been born on the runway. His footsteps fell to the barely-there beat of the music playing over the Grand Palais, his strides were long and they accentuated the length of his legs. His back was straight, his core tight, and it made him look taller. His shoulders were back and down in a way that took the attention away from any breadth and instead put the attention on the elegance of his neck and all the way to his face that was beautiful and the ultimate eye-catcher of the entire show. The jewels embedded into his crown were nothing in comparison to his eyes.

But beyond that actual magic of the show, of how beautifully it all came together, Damen was struck by how short it was. For some reason, he had assumed this show would be a long event, something to take up the entire day. Only fifteen minutes after the voice first rang out to introduce The Regency did the show come to a close, each model strutting to the front of the set, smiling instead of holding their faces in that high fashion seriousness as they brought up Laurent’s uncle for his own recognition. He was, after all, their boss, creator, and the genius behind the line.

The music died off and the lights came back on, blinding after the subtle lighting, to bring attention to the final product that was the show. Laurent’s uncle clapped his hands together once, the sound reverberating off of all the surfaces in the room to provide a near echo, and then he began to speak.

“Charls,” he started, voice loud and face relaxed. He looked ginormous on stage next to all these models, many of whom were so young they hadn’t grown into who they would be. “How were things on your end? Any complications?”

For the first time since Damen got to the Grand Palais nearing two hours ago, he finally got to set eyes on Charls who had apparently been peering at the show from one of the marble pillars nearest to the front of the mock Hall of Mirrors. He was physically flabbergasted, his hand at his heart as though begging it to stay in place, his eyes brimming underneath all the lights.

“Oh,” he said, and then he stopped to compose himself. “Oh, everything was perfect! You’re all perfect, your outfits were perfect, this set — !” He stopped again, taking in a deep breath. “This is, by far, the best show Etoile has ever done, and our past shows have been tremendous feats of beauty. Sir, you have truly outdone yourself. Your vision remains unparalleled.”

Charls was bowing at the man that was center stage. It was quite a sight, the man surrounded by models he had honed, all wearing clothes he had brought to life. Everyone began clapping, and Laurent’s uncle took the praise humbly, his smile small and his acknowledgment gracious.

“I believe that, since we have plenty of time given the perfection of everyone here today, we should celebrate. Dinner tonight at Restaurant Le Meurice Alain Ducasse. On me, of course. We’ll begin soon, say no later than seven, so our lovely models can be well-rested and beautiful come tomorrow’s show.”

As the man went to leave, clearly still having much work to do for tomorrow’s event, he was followed by more applause. Some of the models even cried out lilting thank yous at his exiting frame. Charls took his place center stage, his eyes still adoringly fixed on where Laurent’s uncle had disappeared, and then he began giving out a list of times that needed to be remembered by all parties involved for tonight and tomorrow morning.

“As we have just been told, dinner will be an early event tonight. Models, if you are not out of the restaurant come after nine, I will delicately throw you all out myself as I need you all in your rooms and resting! Regarding tomorrow, our show will begin at 10:30. Yes, we did, in fact, get Chanel’s envied time slot given their grievances of last year. As we are the first show of tomorrow, we need to make a lasting impression to last attendees through the other eight shows they will be viewing throughout the day. That means I need everyone, and I do mean everyone, here no later than 7:30. Does everyone understand?”

There were murmurs of agreement, a few excited squeaks from gods-know-who, and then the crowd of models, photographers, makeup artists, hairstylists, set designers, clothing designers, assemblers, assistants, and all others involved in creating such an elaborate show dispersed. The only two left on stage were Charls and Laurent, Charls’ hands unable to stop touching the crown on Laurent’s head, the fabric at his wrists, the stitching at the hem.

Damen was just getting ready to find where Nik and the other photographers had disappeared off to, assumingly back to the dressing rooms, when he felt a hand tug at the arm of his jacket, not kindly whatsoever. He turned, unsure of what to expect, but what he found was definitely not anything that would have come to mind.

“For reasons that don’t make any sense to me,” began the child from Etoile’s office — Nicaise, Damen remembered Laurent saying — without preamble, “you are wanted.”

“What?” Damen asked with an aborted and incredulous sort of laugh. “What for?”

“I’m not your fucking errand boy,” Nicaise said, spat, “Go find out or don’t, I don’t care.”

Damen was so taken aback by the language from someone, something, so delicate and small that it took him a moment to get his feet underneath him to follow Nicaise’s already moving feet. He gave one last sparing look to the set with its mirrors and marble pillars as though he could will Nik’s presence from where he was still meeting with the photographers, but Nik didn’t appear and Damen was off following where Nicaise had disappeared to, out a set of double-doors with large, flat golden handles.

The Grand Palais consisted of three separate areas: the Galeries Nationales, the Palais de la Découverte, and the Nave. The Nave was where the famous glass ceiling was, was where Damen had been since he had arrived earlier in the afternoon, and Nicaise had disappeared into the Galeries Nationales, located in the east wing of the building. The Galeries Nationales was often the sight of major art exhibitions and even when there was no exhibition it was brimming with all kinds of artistry. Today was no exception. The art was similar to the art that made up the entirety of the building, a display of classicism and art nouvea. But Damen didn’t have time to focus on that, not when Nicaise’s curled head was twenty yards ahead and showing no signs of slowing down.

Eventually, however, Damen’s long legs and his full grown height put him at the advantage to catch up, and he was right at Nicaise’s heels just as the boy began to slow his pace. It was right in front of a painting that Damen couldn’t see due to it being blocked by Laurent’s uncle.

“Damen,” he began as a greeting, not bothering to turn and face Damen as he came to a stop just a few steps behind him. “Or do you prefer Damianos?”

“Damen is fine, sir,” Damen said. His thumb hooked into the soft fabric of his joggers’ pocket in an attempt to stand casually.

“Damen it is. How did you enjoy the show?”

“I enjoyed it very much,” Damen said, mind whirring. “I was floored by the set design. It truly brought a line titled The Regency to a different level.”

“And the clothes?”

“Stunning as well.” Damen hesitated for only a brief moment. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about fashion, sir, so I hope you can forgive me for being at a loss as to what I could say. It’s not my area of expertise at all.”

The man finally looked away from the painting on the wall, a classicist painting that looked almost like a Poussin, and he smiled at Damen as though utterly amused and appreciative of Damen’s honesty. Then he said just that.

“It is refreshing having a person admit such a thing. Too often do I have men attempt to talk in circles in order to appear as though they know what they’re talking about.” He was making intent eye contact when he changed the topic and it was as though the change twisted his face into something different. Damen didn’t know what to make of it. “But there are several areas you do have expertise in.”

Damen cocked his head. The man smiled again.

“I must confess,” he started, “that I was curious about you and your friend, Nikandros. Of course, we as a company had done basic research on him during his application process, but given the influx of applications we receive there simply isn’t time to do an in-depth look at each candidate. But, as I said, I was curious after meeting you both that first day. You were both quite unlike anyone that has been involved with us here at Etoile.”

At a loss, Damen didn’t say anything in response. He didn’t know what to say. Luckily the only person who seemed to be making a big deal out of it was Nicaise who rolled his big blue eyes with the force of his entire little body.

“Your father owns a business in Greece. Akielon Tech. It’s a billion dollar company, Damianos. And not just any company, but an arms-producing company. According to several articles dug up in our search, you were the preferred heir to take over the company one day. Yet,” the man trailed, still looking at Damen with an intensity, “you’re here in Paris as your friend photographs a fashion show. How is that?”

To say that this was an unexpected conversation would be an understatement. Damen knew that a basic search of his name would bring up, nowadays, his Instagram and Youtube accounts, and no doubt the other social media accounts he held, all alongside some articles he and Nik had been featured in regarding their travels. He also knew, however, that searching his name would lead to Akielon Tech and all that it was — which was more complicated than just an arms-producing company as its focus could be found in the specific area of cybersecurity and other technological aspects of military weaponry. It wasn’t a secret, but it also wasn’t something he brought up in casual conversation and, when one was only in places for a week at most, almost all conversations were casual.

“I wasn’t ready to settle into an office for eight hour days the rest of my life,” Damen said slowly. “Not then. Not yet. I took a gap year, as expected, and things got away from me. From us. I thrilled in discovering new places, in revisiting places and finding beauty in the familiarity, in meeting new people and experiencing things I would have never experienced in a boardroom. And I still thrill in those things. Until that thrill begins to fade, I don’t see why I should change what’s working.”

“I assume your father is displeased by this,” Laurent’s uncle said, turning to face the painting once more.

“He’s not ecstatic with the decision, no,” Damen admitted, “but he’s gotten better with it. Or he’s completely resigned to it. I’m not actually sure on which of the two it is and I’d rather not know if I’m being honest.”

“Does he fund your adventures across the globe?”

“No. He helped pay for my gap year as a sort of graduation gift, but it was made quite clear if I wished to continue traveling it would be up to me. Nik and I have made it work. Those earliest years were a little rough, but we really have lucked out with sponsorships turned partnerships.”

Just as Nicaise had tugged on Damen’s sleeve without preamble did the man begin walking, motioning with his heavily ringed hand for Nicaise to follow. The boy plastered himself at the man’s side, his own glittering rings shimmering as his arms swung at his sides. Damen looked around once, twice, as if waiting for a sign as to if he was to follow or now.

“I have a proposition for you, Damianos.”

Damen followed. Nicaise turned around to watch him as he caught up with the two of them, and when Damen was back in step, Nicaise faced forward once more, his tiny jaw clenching.

“Etoile is quite a successful company. Globally, we’re renowned for our clothing, and our models are some of the most sought after in the business. But, like all successful companies, we’re looking to expand. In today’s day and age, the best way to enhance one’s self is to expand social media presence. That won’t always be the case, but it is right now.” He was still walking, the exit from the Galeries Nationales and back outside just ahead, but he was walking slowly. Damen was grateful for it as it allowed him to try and process the meaning of the conversation. “Though we have a wondrous team, we do not have the social media expertise that we should. Yes, we have all the accounts that are expected, and yes, there are posts on plenty of those accounts, but we lack the experience to make it what it needs to be. I would like for you to join Etoile as a social media manager.”

They had just reached the doors and were pushing them open when the man said that last sentence and Damen almost tripped at the threshold at the unexpectedness of it all.

“What?”

Nicaise audibly scoffed.

“I would like for you to join Etoile as a social media manager,” the man repeated. “You would be in charge of running what is and isn’t posted on our social media accounts, you would analyze daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly statistics, you would assist in navigating partnerships with other brands, you would help us script videos for any and all occasions, whether it be photoshoots with magazines, interviews during fashion week,” he motioned around them, “and, eventually, as Etoile grows, you would be one of the many needed voices as we begin our own magazine. But keep that last part under wraps for now.”

“Sir, I —”

“You would be based here in Paris, of course, but traveling is part of what makes this industry so desired. There are the Big Four cities that host two fashion weeks every year, those cities being Paris, New York, London, and Milan, but there is also a growing fashion scene in a dozen other cities. Those cities, ones like Shanghai, São Paulo, Sydney, Dubai, Tokyo, and many others, are hosting their own fashion weeks now, and Etoile is itching at the chance to attend those as well. And if any of our models are to be in a magazine, you could be needed anywhere in the world. Last year, my nephew was in Vogue’s September issue and the press surrounding that was enormous. He was in six different cities in just one month.”

As he had talked, he had kept moving towards a sleek black Rolls-Royce whose back passenger door was being held open by a stoic man that definitely wasn’t Jord. Damen had followed until his toes were at the curb of the street.

“You’ll have to forgive me again, sir, for not knowing what to say,” Damen started after it became evident the man was done speaking. “I didn’t expect this. My mind is still trying to process it all.”

The man smiled.

“I don’t need an answer today. We haven’t even begun to talk compensation, though I can assure you the number will be higher than whatever you’re currently thinking of. But I want you to think about it. You would still be able to do what you do in any spare time, you would have the means to travel on your own when nothing was scheduled, and you would be a wonderful asset to Etoile while doing so.” The man nodded once at the stoic driver holding his door open before sliding into the seat. Nicaise boosted himself into the car and slid in as well. His feet were a foot above the car floor.

“I will think about it.” Damen paused again. “I’ll have to tell Nik we’ll both be employed. He won’t know what to think about that.”

“Oh,” the man said, his voice almost sad. “I’m afraid this deal is only for you, Damianos.”

And just like that, all mind whirring and processing came to a sudden halt. Like he’d been for most of this conversation, Damen was speechless, entirely unsure of what to say besides ‘What?’ or ‘Excuse me?’ or —

“Nikandros is a talented photographer, I don’t want you to mistake my intentions there,” he said. “But Etoile has plenty of photographers ready for work who are specialized in high fashion photography. I don’t think that’s any reason to fret, however. You’ll make plenty of money working for us that neither of you will know what to think, and he will have opportunity to expand his work with the constant events occurring here in Paris. Think of how that will grow his own resume into something even more impressive.”

It was clear the conversation was over as the driver was slowly beginning to shut the door. Damen got one last view of Nicaise’s dangling feet and glittering rings as the boy waved in the rudest way Damen had ever seen anyone wave. Then the man said six words just as the door was closing, his voice prompting.

“We’ll talk after the show tomorrow.”

Damen watched the car drive away, its windows darkened so it was impossible to see the figures inside, and he took in a deep breath that had his chest rising so high that his sweatshirt pulled tightly, if only for a moment. Then he retraced his walk from the Galeries Nationales back to the Nave, all in a near daze, and he found Nik waiting for him with a questioning expression on his face and his camera hanging at his hip.

“Where’d you disappear off to?” Nik asked.

“It’s a long story,” Damen said, shaking his head slightly in disbelief at what the last twenty minutes or so had brought on. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I don’t even know how I’d begin talking about it right now. Let’s talk about this instead.”

“This is starting to feel overwhelming again,” Nik said. He wasn’t pressing Damen’s disappearance and Damen was grateful. He had a lot more processing to do, a different kind of processing than what he had thought he would be doing, and he didn’t want to ruin Nik’s mood before the show tomorrow. This wasn’t the time for that.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’ve been watching the floods of people coming here all for fashion week and it’s as though it’s finally becoming obvious to me just how big this all is. These events are immortalized through their pictures, Damen,” Nik said and he pushed his hair back.

“Nik,” Damen smiled, easing back into something he did know the answers to, “I don’t know what else I could say to tell you how great you are and how great this is all going to be, so I’m just going to ask you to focus on enjoying dinner tonight and trying to remember everything about tomorrow. This really is a once in a lifetime kind of thing and no one is going to be there to immortalize it for you except you.”

Nik didn’t say anything else, just let out a whistle of air that lessened the tension of his body, even just a little bit.

“Are we going to have to dress up again tonight? I’m so tired of suits.”

They did, in fact, have to dress up again tonight. A quick search of Restaurant Le Meurice Alain Ducasse showed them two things; the first thing was that the restaurant was, quite literally, just three buildings down from their hotel, and the second thing was that it was a two Michelin-starred restaurant. Damen dramatically groaned before he pulled his own suit — the only one he actually owned — out of the room’s closet where it had been hanging since they unloaded their bags. As he tugged it on, he suddenly heard Laurent’s voice in his head saying “My uncle hates black suits. He says it’s the most boring color of suit a man could wear and, as you know by now, Etoile is anything but boring.” He smiled, and he smiled even wider when Nik came out wearing a classic black suit as well.

“We can survive one more dinner,” Nik said.

“We can,” Damen said, though his statement sounded less convincing.

“No fighting any old French men that mispronounce my name.”

“I’m not making any promises there.”

“I know you think stuff like that is a big deal,” Nik said, adjusting his tie so the knot was a little looser, “but it’s not. A lot of the people at Etoile are like that, and they’re like that to everyone. Even each other.”

“Just because they’re like that to everyone doesn’t make it okay.” Damen opened the door for the both of them. “If you’re working, you’re part of what keeps everything turning the way it should. The least they can do is learn your name for that.”

“At least he didn’t call me Nikki,” Nik grimaced. A flood of memories came to them both at the name and Damen grimaced as well.

“Kyra was the worst. Nikki!” Damen imitated in a high voice, the hard ‘k’ sound clicking in a purposeful manner. “She tried all sorts of weird nicknames on me too. Dami, ‘Nos. She even tried to call me Big D one time and I shut that down real fast.”

“I think Vannes might start calling you that if you’re not careful around her,” Nik said with warning.

“Let’s hope we can live the rest of our lives without that ever happening again.”

Restaurant Le Meurice Alain was the most Etoile appropriate restaurant Damen could have imagined. Its interior was almost reminiscent of the set design for the show tomorrow, like a tamer Hall of Mirrors with similar white and gold walls, chandeliers, crystal, and grandiose paintings on the walls. It turns out, Damen wasn’t far off at all in that comparison as he quickly found out upon running into Estienne , alone, that this restaurant was inspired by the Salon de la Paix in Versailles. He found out a lot more he truly wasn’t interested in, such as the man that had interpreted and designed the restaurant, the restaurant owner’s philosophy, and the way in which Restaurant Le Meurice Alain truly embodied classic French cuisine. But Damen eventually got away, only to find the restaurant flooded with the very same people from the rehearsal, all of which cleaned up quickly and quite nicely.

Nik had been swept away by a group of antsy people the moment they had been escorted into the room with the white table cloth covered tables and crystal glasses upon every surface, and Damen gave him a wave before he found his attention diverted once again by a hand tugging at the arm of his jacket.

Nicaise.

“That suit is hideous,” Nicaise said, that very unpleasant sneer on his face.

“At least I don’t have to click my heels three times to go home,” Damen said, not missing a beat as he pointedly took in Nicaise’s glittering white dress that complimented the glittering jewels in his hair, all pulled together by rubied shoes that had laced up straps at the beginning of his tiny ankles.

“What?” Nicaise asked.

Damen had no idea how a face so young could look so haughty.

“The Wizard of Oz? No? You’ve never seen The Wizard of Oz?” Damen asked incredulously.

“If you’ve watched it, that means it’s probably made for toddlers. My tastes are more sophisticated than that.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Damen said honestly. “But you should check it out. It’s a classic.”

“No, a little black dress is a classic.”

Damen couldn’t help the laugh that exited at that. Nicaise didn’t seem amused at all and actually appeared to get almost angry that Damen was. “What are you laughing at?”

“You. Who taught you to talk the way that you do?”

Before even Nicaise’s quick wit could respond, Laurent’s voice said, “That would be me.” Nicaise visibly seethed.

“That would not be you,” Nicaise said. “I don’t take after anyone but myself.”

Laurent was dressed in a suit that almost matched Damen and Nik’s own. It was a classic black suit with a white undershirt and black shoes. There were a few notable differences though, namely the silk of the lapels and the lack of tie given that the white undershirt was left unbuttoned just enough to be considered a tease with the skin that it revealed. Nicaise clearly wasn’t a fan of the suit. He had the exact same unpleasant sneer on his face looking at it as he had Damen’s suit.

“If you say so,” Laurent said dismissively.

“I do.”

Nicaise’s arms crossed over his chest in a display of defiance, though Damen didn’t truly know what the boy was being defiant about. But then he turned his head to look at somebody or something across the way and it made the jewels in his hair sparkle like rain landing on dark asphalt underneath the lights of a city at night.

“I can’t be seen with you two and your horrid excuses for formal wear,” Nicaise said after a moment. “I’m going.”

“I bet if you ask nicely tonight, someone would let you sip from their wine. You’re almost old enough now, aren’t you?” Laurent asked.

If a look could kill, Damen was certain Laurent would have fallen over dead on the spot. But Laurent was unfazed, staring back with a deadly and steady stare of his own until Nicaise clenched his fists and stormed off to do whatever it was that fourteen year olds did at events such as this one.

“What is it you want with Nicaise?”

Immediately Damen felt ten steps behind in this conversation. There was something in Laurent’s tone as he asked the question, something that would have scared a man that wasn’t Damen.

“Excuse me?” Damen asked, unsure if he had heard correctly.

“What is it you want with Nicaise?” Laurent asked again, his accent coming out heavily on Nicaise’s name.

“I think it’s more what is it he wants with me, and I’m fairly certain the answer to that is merely to insult,” Damen said. Confusion was evident in his voice. “He came over here to tell me how hideous he found my suit.”

Laurent didn’t say anything, but the way he was scanning Damen’s face made Damen feel as though he was being interrogated for something he hadn’t even done. But after a moment, Laurent seemed to relent, settling back on his heels. A server walked by with a tray full of glasses of deep red wine and Laurent grabbed one. Damen didn’t know why exactly, but he was surprised when Laurent took a long, deep drink from it.

“What did you think of the show?” he asked Damen, any and all malice from his previous question dissipated, and then he took another drink.

“It was beautiful,” Damen said, trying to keep up with today’s continued whiplash. “Your uncle has quite an eye for beauty.”

Laurent took another drink after Damen said that. “Indeed. But did you really like it?”

“I was telling your uncle today that I don’t know much about high fashion,” Damen admitted for the second time that day. Laurent finished the wine with one last final long and deep drink. His lips were tinged red close to the seam of his mouth.

“I don’t think anyone thought you knew much about high fashion to begin with. I don’t mean that as an insult either, but merely an observation of your repetitious fashion habits yourself.”

“What do you mean then?” Damen asked. He silently quirked an eyebrow when Laurent grabbed a second glass of wine from another server’s tray as they passed, leaving his old one in its place.

“I heard what you and your friend wore to your first meeting with my uncle. It’s all anyone at Etoile could talk about for days upon your arrival. Then today you wore,” Laurent paused as if trying to remember and he took another drink from his glass then. “You wore joggers. You wore black sweatpants to an Etoile dress rehearsal.”

Unlike when Nicaise spoke, Laurent didn’t necessarily sound offensive. He sounded more like his uncle here, amused by what Damen was saying even if Damen wasn’t trying to be funny. Damen almost preferred Nicaise’s tone.

“Wait, you saw what I was wearing today?” Damen asked instead of letting whatever else Laurent was saying get into his head. He asked it lowly, smiling with a flirtatious smile that came without thought, but Laurent’s blue eyes only flicked away.

“It’s a little difficult to miss the singular person wearing sweatpants while everyone else is dressed for the runway. Quite literally, I might add.”

“I’ll pretend it’s because you couldn’t take your eyes off of me.”

“You pretend that to be truth and I’ll pretend like I can actually eat any of this food tonight. Deal?”

“What do you mean you’ll pretend you can actually eat any of this food tonight?” All casual flirting — the kind that came naturally to Damen’s charm — died at Laurent’s sardonic tone as he struck their imaginary deal.

“Look around you,” Laurent said, lifting one elegant finger to circle the room. “The only people you’ll see eating tonight will be those who work behind the scenes. Everyone else will nitpick at their meal, pretend to eat whilst they prattle on about how overrated Prada’s show will be, and the models won’t eat a thing.”

“Why?”

“To be thin for all the cameras tomorrow. Haven’t you ever seen photos after the Victoria’s Secret show where all the models are picking up In-and-Out the second the show has ended? You seem like a guy that would be familiar with at least that. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. No water either. It makes my collarbones sharp and my cheekbones sharper. All the things the critics will care about beyond the clothes themselves.” Laurent was nearing the end of his second glass. “Thus explaining my diet of alcohol.”

“You’re just going to feel like shit tomorrow though,” Damen said, a worried furrow between his brows at, well, everything Laurent had just said.

“Mmm, no doubt. But after tomorrow I can sleep for the rest of the week if I choose and I very much might choose.”

Damen opened his mouth to respond, to ask about something, or comment on something, but there was an occurrence across the room that had clearly captured Laurent’s attention. From the side, his eyelashes were endless.

“I’m off to placate a fourteen year old before he stabs someone with a fork. I’ll probably grab more wine on my way.” Laurent handed Damen his current wine glass and said over his shoulder, “Enjoy your meal,” before he faded into the throng of people, leaving Damen’s head absolutely spinning.

“What the fuck.”

No one was around to hear it.

“Dude,” Damen started, aware of the crowd now all around him, when he found Nik again. “I can’t wait to get out of here and tell you about my day. You won’t even believe half of the shit that’s gone on.”

Nik looked up at him from the table he was seated at alongside Jeurre and Charls who were having a horribly deep conversation in slurred French. “What the hell could have happened today? We’ve been together half the day. In fact, today’s the first day we haven’t been in separate places all day since last week.”

“I know, but it’s been,” Damen huffed, “a day. I didn’t know I’d be getting stressed out while you were doing the work.”

“Well, dinner is supposed to start in about five minutes if my shoddy French is correct. We’ll talk later about whatever has you all frazzled.”

“We might want to snag a bottle of wine or five before I go into it because it’s seriously that kind of day.”

Nik’s shoddy French was correct though and they were once more treated by courses of food being set in front of them, all delicately plated and each one more delicious than the next. Impossibly, Damen found himself looking for Laurent in the crowds of tables. When he found him, he watched as Laurent did exactly what he said everyone would do. Damen watched as Laurent’s fork moved his food around on his plate, but never once left its surface to his mouth. Damen watched as he drank more wine. Looking around at others, Damen found none of Laurent’s fellow models eating either. It was unnerving, and by the third course Damen found his own appetite had dwindled into almost nothing.

After the entré of silk grain veal, Jeruselum artichokes, and ceps, people began to get up and wander again. Damen caught sight of Nicaise’s sparkling curls as he talked to Laurent’s uncle and received a gentle pat on the cheek before he was herded out the doors by the same stoic man that had driven the two earlier. It made sense as it was nearing nine.

Nik seemed to get along with Talik and her manager especially well and the three were in a conversation that was far over Damen’s head. It was something about lighting, coloring, and the disgrace of it all in regard to those with warm undertoned skin, so Damen skirted around the perimeter of the restaurant hoping to run into Jord. His no-nonsense attitude Damen had had the pleasure of meeting on a few occasions was something he thought would allow him to end his day on a semi-decent, non-dramatic note. But then he saw Laurent and all ideas of that vanished.

Laurent was in the place Nicaise had just been minutes before, talking to his uncle in a way that looked extremely calm and collected. But Damen could see he wasn’t quite as put together as he appeared, could see the way his finger kept tapping at his own leg incessantly, could see the flush of alcohol or anger or both across his ears, face, even the top of his chest underneath his white shirt. Laurent’s uncle did appear extremely calm and collected, however, and there were no signs he was anything but. He was regarding his nephew with patience, listening to whatever Laurent was saying, but Laurent was clearly displeased by the responses he was getting. Then, like it was in slow motion, Damen watched as Laurent turned on his heel and headed determinedly to the door to leave.

Damen saw him stumble. It was just a wiggle really. But Damen saw him stumble, and it was enough to have Damen following.

He cast one last look back at Nik, hoping Nik had seen, hoping Nik would at least see him so he could signal some kind of ‘I’ll be back’, but Nik was listening to Talik who talked louder with her hands than her voice.

Out the doors and on the sidewalk, Damen looked around once, twice, ignoring the welcomeness of the cool air, before he found Laurent leaning against a one-way street sign at the corner. Laurent’s eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the dark metal, and his chest was rising and falling just fast enough that it didn’t look quite natural. Those eyelashes Damen had briefly admired earlier were swooped against the apples of his cheeks.

“Hey.”

Laurent’s eyes opened instantly.

It was more obvious up close how drunk he was. There was a flush to his cheeks, to his ears, to the top of his chest that was most definitely alcohol, and there was a something unfocused in his gaze, as though finding Damen with his eyes required too much effort. Damen wondered how he had kept his balance so well on his own.

“Let me walk you home,” Damen said, taking another step closer.

Head still tilted back against the street sign, Laurent smiled. It wasn’t the small smile Damen had seen on him exactly twice in the few times they had met, but a full smile that reached all the way up to his eyes. Had this been almost any other circumstance, Damen would have told Laurent with all the genuineness in the world that his smile was truly the most beautiful smile Damen had ever seen in his life. But there was something unsettling about it with how today had gone, with how Laurent had just been before he had left the restaurant, with how he had been in his conversation with Damen before that.

“If I wanted someone to take advantage of me drunk, I would go off to one of the hundred parties being held tonight to kick off fashion week,” Laurent said.

Revulsion was like a punch in the gut, quite literally so like one that Damen took a physical step back. “What? No, Laurent, I just want to walk you to your apartment.”

Said apartment was across the street and three buildings down to the right. It would take five minutes, and that would mostly be due to Laurent’s expected stumbling. Still, Laurent made no effort to move, choosing to stay and watch Damen with a wary eye.

“One doesn’t leave the world of silks and bared skin unscathed. Chivalry, my dear brute in shining armor, is but a mask.”

Damen wondered, only for a moment, how Laurent was talking like that in his drunken state, but the deep-seated revulsion that Laurent thought Damen might do something awful to him was heavy. Looking around at the throngs of people still about and the cars still driving on the road, Damen couldn’t let his offer go untaken.

“Let me at least help you cross the street and watch you get into your building.” He put both hands up in a display of surrender. “I won’t follow, I’ll stay right here, but let me watch.”

Laurent’s gaze was still wary and a bit unfocused. “Why?”

“Because you’re beautiful and drunk and people are awful sometimes.” It was another heavy thing. “Plus, if anything happened to you I bet it’d be a nightmare for tomorrow’s show and Nik’s worked too hard for that.”

It took a moment, a moment in which Damen started pulling reasonable arguments to the front of his thoughts in case Laurent continued to be against such a simple request, but Laurent pushed himself away from the sign and swayed ever so slightly before settling.

“Fine. But just across the street.”

“You have my word,” Damen said, making a show of crossing over his heart.

Cast-iron will alone seemed to fuel Laurent into a briefly sober mindset, just long enough for them to cross the street without any issues. Damen knew better than to touch him given how the conversation had been going, but he kept one hand lifted and ready just in case Laurent actually fell. Once on the other side, the side of Laurent’s building, Laurent seemed to be entirely done with talking. He looked at Damen, sweeping over him as though he would find an answer to something, and then he left without so much as a wave or nod or goodbye, goodnight.

As Damen promised, he stayed put on the sidewalk and only watched as Laurent headed toward his apartment so steadily that Damen wondered exactly what Laurent’s alcohol tolerance was. It was only when Laurent reached the entrance that he looked back at Damen. It was one last look, maybe to see if Damen had kept his word, and it lasted only a second. Then he was gone, into the building and, assumingly, up the elevator to his apartment.

Crossing the street once more, Damen stopped at the same one-way street sign Laurent had been at and leaned against it, head tilted back in the same fashion to breathe in the chilled Parisian air. He was tired of trying to think, to make sense of a damn thing that had happened today. All he could think about was how there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world that would get him and Nik both through explaining today’s events.

And gods forbid Nik had any drama of his own.