#the mannequin gallery chapter 4 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thelioncourts · 5 years ago

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title: the mannequin gallery fandom: captive prince pairing: damen/laurent rating: mature words: 5228 for chapter four (4/?); 20080 all together

story summary: If things would have gone the way they were supposed to, Damen and Laurent would have never met. But things didn’t go the way they were supposed to, not at all, and their meeting ended up being the equivalent of skydiving with a malfunctioning parachute. Damen tried not to complain. After all, he was now living his dream; he was travelling with his best friend without having to make sure their “I"s were dotted and their “T"s crossed. And, sure, Laurent was difficult to work with, to work for, but he was also great to look at and they made it work well as long as they were anywhere but in Paris. But when Laurent’s past begins to cause present-day problems, Damen finds out those difficulties Laurent constantly displays were a bit more warranted than he could have ever imagined. And Laurent? Laurent finds out the truth – and finds out how to smile.

The next day, their walk to the gallery was accompanied by rain. It wasn’t a hard rain, much more of a drizzle, but it left the sidewalks darkened, the population outside scarce, and the tops of Damen and Nik’s shoes wet.

“Is today going to be like yesterday?” Damen asked from underneath the black umbrella.

“Essentially,” said Nik. “We’re not getting there until eight o’clock because they don’t need to introduce us, and I know we’re photographing a different line than the gold label, but everything else will be the same.”

“Why aren’t you doing the gold label again?”

“They want to see how we work with a bolder color as opposed to the shine of metallics. The lighting to capture the two is so different and it will be a really good way to gage if the photographers know what they’re doing.”

They turned a corner and narrowly missed colliding with a man wearing a suit and holding a cup of coffee. Though they did avoid such a disaster, their umbrellas got briefly intertwined, allowing for rain to fall on them while exposed to the elements. Damen’s right shoulder took most of the water. Unperturbed, Damen shook it off and they got back to their steady pace.

“I remember the first time you really had to work with color,” Damen said.

“Do you?” Nik asked with an amused raise of his brow.

“I do,” said Damen. “Vihaan was getting married. We were invited, of course, and he wanted to hire you as the wedding photographer. You tried to decline, saying that you didn’t have enough experience to be responsible for such a day, but Vihaan insisted.” The gallery was just ahead now and through the windows they could see a few people walking around. “We were about three weeks away from the wedding and you started to freak out about all the color that would be at an Indian wedding. So, instead of letting you freak out, I scheduled a trip for us.”

“Old San Juan,” Nik said.

“Old San Juan,” Damen repeated with a smile. “Puerto Rico had so much color for you to practice with. It wasn’t any surprise that your photos for Vihaan’s wedding turned out as good as they did.”

As he opened the door to the gallery, Nik said, “They wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for you.”

“Not true,” Damen argued. They both shook off the umbrellas as much as they could before closing them and letting the door close behind them. “They would have turned out great no matter what. I just,” Damen trailed off, looking for the right thing to say, “gave you the placebo you needed to think you could take those kinds of photos.”

There were more people here than there were yesterday, but they both decided that was because of the hour later start time for the photographers. Much like yesterday, however, was where people were. Damen recognized their friend Vannes from yesterday, standing at the beverage station with another delicate black stir stick in hand, stirring it clockwise while she chatted with Audin. Across the way, Talik couldn’t take her eyes off of the female designer, the camera in Talik’s hands long forgotten in its importance. Charls, who Nik had said was even cheerier than he had seemed when Damen saw him, was in the back at the makeup vanities, his joyous laugh carrying through the echoing gallery brightly. Juerre and Guilliame were huddled by the curtain the photographers had disappeared behind the day before, no doubt speaking in French, and, from the fiddling of Guilliame’s fidgety hands, talking something serious; probably gossiping about which photographers wouldn’t get picked for the show. Then they saw a flash of red.

“There’s the answer on what bold color you’re going to be dealing with today,” Damen said. The redhead, whom they had learned yesterday was named Ancel (courtesy only of his agent pleading at him about something) was prancing around with a confidence unlike any of the others, already dressed in clothes that matched the fire of his hair. They seemed to prefer him in sheer fabrics, or maybe he preferred himself in them, but he was wearing a shirt that wasn’t a shirt at all, but red fishnet fabric that went from his neck to the tops of his ribs and all the way down each arm, cinching tight right at the wrists. His pants, shiny red leather, were no doubt similarly cinched around his ankles if the red thigh-high boots he had on were any indication. But the most striking was the simplistic styling of his red hair and the red liner winged on his eyelids.

[Continue on AO3]

“At least it wasn’t something too bright, like yellow or something,” Nik said. He adjusted the camera back over his shoulder, heaved a sigh, and looked at Damen. “I should go start fiddling with my camera again. All my settings are going to need adjusted.”

“Go,” Damen said with a jut of his chin. “I’ll go make a fool of myself again. After a coffee, of course.

“Right.” Nik stepped once then immediately turned to face Damen again. “If you see Laurent anytime in the next hour, try not to sexually harass him. He’s the one person here who can really make or break me. Him wanting to rip your dick off so you’ll stop thinking with it will definitely have him wanting to do the latter.”

“I have never sexually harassed anyone in my life,” Damen argued, sounding utterly indigent.

“No,” Nik said after some consideration, “but you’ve pursued and never been told “No” a day in your life. Laurent doesn’t seem like a “Yes” kind of guy.”

Damen waved him off, ignoring the call of, “Damen, I’m being serious!” and made his way over to get himself a coffee. After a minute, he didn’t see so much as hear Nik stomp away in a huff of fond annoyance. He was smiling to himself when Vannes said, “And how did your friend survive yesterday, Mr. Influencer?”

She had a smug grin on her face, something that seemed permanent in her disposition, but Damen met it with a steady gaze. “He did more than fine. How are you today, Ms. Vannes?”

“I’m quite well,” she said. It was obvious that she made note of how quickly he shifted the conversation. “I’m reminiscing while seeing pieces from one of our older lines running around here. It speaks volumes into how we’ve changed.”

“How old is this line?” Damen asked.

Vannes hummed. “It was from a winter line we launched three years ago. Many of the models that were here for that line have left the business. The ones still with us have different measurements than they did then. In turn, it’s been a puzzle refitting things this morning.”

The coffee maker, just as yesterday, hissed and steamed.

“Many of the models have left the business?” Damen asked. “Is there often a high turnover rate in modeling? I feel like the same girls have been walking for Victoria’s Secret for the last decade.”

“You would compare this to Victoria’s Secret,” Vannes muttered. “Etoile is predominantly a youth modeling agency. Our models normally range from only the ages of fifteen to twenty. After that, our models’ contracts are up and not renewed.”

“Fifteen? That’s young,” Damen said.

“Laurent was signed on when he was thirteen.” Vannes placed her red mug onto the table. “Laurent is Etoile’s star.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Damen said, his smile telling. “I saw him yesterday.”

Vannes hummed again. “Well, enjoy it. He’s turning twenty-one this year. And I highly doubt he’ll be renewing his contract.”

“Why wouldn’t he? He’s the owner’s nephew, right? There have to be some kind of familial advantage that would let him do this another few years if he wanted to.”

“He’s a spoiled and entitled brat,” Vannes said matter of fact. “Over the years, he’s gotten mouthier, refused to listen to his uncle or the Etoile board on what he needs to do to represent us. He won’t re-sign because he doesn’t want to be told what to do.”

Charls voice, like yesterday, interrupted to ring out through the gallery. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to start by thanking you all for such a lovely day yesterday. All your work is much appreciated. None of our designs mean anything if we don’t have the stylists, artists, photographers, assistants, and, of course, models to make them magical.” Vannes waved at Damen with a fluttering of her fingers as she made her way over to where Charls was standing. Audin was doing the same. “Today we have dusted off one of our past winter lines to see how our photographers do with bold color. The day will go much as it did yesterday, with preliminary group photos followed by a rotation of our models in small groups or duos. After a discussion with our photographers yesterday, we are going to double the time of rotation, however. This will, hopefully, allow you all to get to know one another much better and will allow our photographers opportunity to get the best photos. Are there any outstanding questions or concerns to address before we begin?” Charls paused, turning around the room in search for a raised hand, and when no one responded, he clapped his hands together and said, “Then we will begin shortly! Our beautiful models are almost ready.”

“The models might almost be ready, but I’m not,” Nik said to Damen as Damen wandered back over.

“You’re fine. Just like yesterday, you’re fine,” Damen said.

“They’re not having me by the windows for the individual shots today. They’ve moved me over there,” Nik said, pointing over to the wall farthest from the windows he had been at yesterday. There were three columns, large and white, Corinthian styled, and nothing more besides the shadows they casted on the floor.

“So, adjust your settings and kill it like you did before,” Damen said. Nik shot him a glare.

“What do you think I’m trying to do?”

Damen put his hands up defensively. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it.”

Walking around felt different than it had yesterday. Already Damen had expectations as to what he would see. The biggest difference today, he noted when he was by the clothing carts, was that there were more clothes leftover than there had been yesterday. Vannes hadn’t been lying when she said a lot of the clothes didn’t fit the current models’ measurements. He was running a hand over a pair of large red hooped earrings when he heard a click of heels. It wasn’t hard for him to realize how like yesterday this was, him at the tables near the vanities.

Laurent was talking to another model, one of the pretty ones with honeyed eyes. The boy was talking with a smile and Laurent was smiling indulgently back and his smile would have been the most distracting thing, was the most distracting thing, but it also drew attention to the other most distracting thing which was the red lipstick on his mouth, accentuating its fullness with the adroitly smeared bit at the right corner as though it was daring Damen to look anywhere else.

Still, he eventually did look anywhere else; he had to look at what Laurent was wearing because it was so excessive, so demanding of attention. The red lipstick on his mouth was the only color on his face. It made the color all the more sensual, the appearance of it looking kissed off and ruined. His hair, like Ancel’s, was simplistically styled and that in itself drew more attention to the less than simplistic ruby necklace on his collarbones. It was a large piece of jewelry, the beginning of it a choker that started low on his neck before scooping down to rest on the flat of his chest. Its width was at least four inches at the curve where his neck met shoulder. Damen wasn’t certain how much a necklace like that would go for, but if he had learned truly anything in the last few days it was that Etoile wasn’t cheap; this thing easily had to cost more than ten thousand dollars. But even it wasn’t enough to take away from the red suit Laurent was wearing. The suit jacket, sans shirt, was buttoned just up to the button between the top portion of Laurent’s ribcage. It was a single-breasted jacket with notched lapels and angled pockets, and it was fitted like a glove, so tight to Laurent’s body that Damen could make out the precise movements of his shoulder blades underneath the fabric. There was no vent to the back of the jacket, and it fell far enough to hide the pockets of both the front and back of the pants he was wearing. Even with the pockets hidden, it wasn’t difficult to notice three things: that the pants were made of the exact same material as the jacket, that the pants were tight too, and that Laurent had the most delicately shaped ankles on the planet.

In another life, one where Damen would have most definitely ran into Laurent on his own terms, Damen would have spent the last two days working all of his charms, the exact ones that have yet to fail him, just to see if he could get the blond underneath him in bed. But in this life, the one where Laurent was an integral part to Nik’s first break in the photography industry, Damen knew he had to behave. So, he did.

If Laurent had noticed him staring, he made no effort to disengage such actions. In fact, Laurent seemed to not know Damen was standing in the vicinity at all. After the honey-eyed model had finished talking about whatever had been on his mind, Laurent had said a few words with that same indulgent smile and then turned toward Charls, beckoning the model to follow.

Damen whistled lowly as he approached Nik again. “That blond, man.”

“You didn’t talk to him, did you?”

“Have some faith in me, Nik,” Damen said. “I didn’t say a word.”

“I feel like I need to reiterate it to you as often as possible,” Nik said.

“I promise not to jeopardize this,” Damen said, hand over his heart. “I’ll wait until the big fashion week is over before I tell him all the things I’d like to do with him.”

Nik made a face. “Gross.”

He was at the columns and Damen stepped to the side to allow him to test a few pictures. He tried one, two, three, and he must have done something different on each one with a simple twist of a dial, because he stared at his screen for a few minutes, analyzing the photos. “Hey,” he said after a minute, walking back up to Damen with the screen of the camera gestured out, “doesn’t this look like some of those pictures we took back home a few years ago?”

Damen took the camera and smiled at the memory, and right as he was opening up to say so, Nik’s hand clasped around his wrist in a vice-like grip. “Damen, we haven’t taken any pictures for online. Shit, Damen, I’ve been so focused on this –”

“Nik, relax,” Damen laughed, unlatching Nik’s hand. “I took our scheduled stuff from Italy and changed it to post every other day instead of every day. We’re good for another two weeks. In the meantime, I’ve still been posting my workouts on my story. Those always seem to do well.”

“I forgot you were still working out at hellish early hours,” Nik said. His face screamed of relief.

“Parisian sunrises are pretty amazing. You should try to get up and see one before we leave,” Damen said.

Nik was better after that, better enough to start fiddling with his camera again. It was right after he had taken two more pictures that a clicking of heels and the shuffling of feet alerted them both to movement back at the center of the room. Sure enough, all the models were gathering together in the same places they had yesterday, Laurent, Ancel, and the green eyed one near the front.

“Look at our models,” Charls announced loudly, drawing attention from those still straggling. “This red was such a bold statement for our winter line, and we were thrilled to dust off its vibrancy. If we could have our photographers gather, we are now ready to begin!”

The group photos went just like yesterday; the models all had a unique energy and so did the five photographers. It was fun to watch Nik at first as he tried to find what angle worked best with this coloring, this lighting, and then when he found it, Damen’s gaze was allowed to drift and it found Laurent’s mouth.

Like yesterday too, Damen was struck by how Laurent posed or, more specifically, how he didn’t seem to pose at all. Ancel was exaggerated with his body, moving it in the obvious way meant for seduction. The green eyed one looked less practiced, but was doing the same, arching his back and drawing attention to the jut of his hip bones. And it worked for the both of them and the others, it did, but Laurent did his own nonexaggerated thing and it was effortless and beautiful.

Damen still couldn’t stop staring at the smudge of red on his mouth.

“I can feel your staring and it’s not even at me,” Nik mumbled. Damen turned his head so no one else would see his grin.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound it.”

Charls rushed forward to adjust the collar on the green eyed one’s shirt (Aimeric was his name) and then he rushed right back, his eyes shining as he took in what he had created. Then he announced it was time for the photographers to move to their designated individual places. Nik started to pack up his camera bag when Talik came up to him, and Damen, with a furrow between her brows.

“I’m in your spot from yesterday,” she said. “And I can’t figure out the lighting with the windows though. How did you manage it yesterday?”

“Here are the settings I used,” Nik said, showing her a sheet of paper stuffed in his bag. He had written down the numbers.

She thanked him and left, and Damen huffed. “Giving away your secrets?”

“It’s tough lighting to shoot in over there.”

“Well, wait to give away all your secrets until after you’ve been chosen to go to the Olympics,” Damen said.

Having had already figured out everything for his new place, Nik found it easy to set up. Damen, instead, watched the other photographers set up. He watched Talik adjust her settings to what Nik had shown her, he watched Jeurre’s manager talk animatedly to him under the crystal chandelier, and he watched Charls direct the models in the same groups and duos they had been in yesterday. Laurent went to Hendric first.

The first group sent Nik’s way was beautiful and dressed in silks, silks that draped and flowed like the wind was always caught in their weight. The twenty minutes gave Nik the time to actually pose the models in a multitude of ways, to space them between the columns, to take pictures in the shadows the columns casted, to take pictures of brown eyes against the white stone.

Charls called for the groups to move and Nik was graced with the presence of Ancel and Aimeric. They were a startling duo, Ancel’s pin straight red hair against Aimeric’s brown curls, but both with green eyes. Aimeric lacked Ancel’s confidence but made up for it with the aristocratic curves of his face. Nik asked for them to stand back-to-back, asked for Ancel to bend at the knees ever so slightly so he was at equal height with Aimeric and they could angle their faces up toward the light. Ancel said, with a sly smile on his face, “You two are by far the most handsome strangers I’ve ever had photograph me,” and Nik didn’t say anything other than a low hum of acknowledgment. And when Charls called for the groups to move, Ancel waved flirtatiously as he had the day before.

Then there was Laurent.

His blue eyes were cool as he assessed the columns, assessed the light and the dark, assessed Nik and the camera in his hands.

“Well?” Laurent asked after a moment’s pause.

“Can we do something like what we did yesterday, with you behind one of the columns?”

Laurent moved in acquiesce, his feet quiet against the marble floor, and Nik took a picture of Laurent’s jeweled hand resting on the stone before anything else. They did a few variations there, some photos focused on the contrast of the bold red against the minimalistic background, others focused on the way Laurent could lean a shoulder against the white stone and look more becoming than anyone had a right to. It was when Nik motioned for Laurent to step forward that the blond spoke again.

“I heard your real name is Nikandros,” he said, pressing the palm of his head into the grooves of the column that were equally tall as his own eye level. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” Nik said simply.

“Very Greek,” Laurent said. He placed all his weight on the column, bearing it between his shoulder blades. The vent of his jacket was so tight that it didn’t lean away from his body as he arched away from the column. Instead it stayed in place, the lines of it all so clean, even down to the curves of his heels.

“And did you grow up in Greece your entire life?” Laurent asked. Nik snapped another photo.

“Yes. I went to the same schools my parents attended in their youth.”

“Why leave?”

Damen could see it in Nik’s shoulders that he wasn’t sure what to make of what was happening. Damen wasn’t quite sure what to make of hearing Laurent speak; his voice was like cold water splashed on your face after a day in scorching heat. He also wasn’t quite sure what to make of Laurent’s line of questioning.

“I – we – decided that there was more to see of the world than our city by ocean. We wanted to see it before we ended up like our parents, old and sheltered from sights different than the ones we were born surrounded by,” Nik said.

“By ‘we’ I assume you’re talking about your friend over there,” Laurent said as though Damen wasn’t in hearing-distance. “Friend? Brother? More?” Nik glared at his camera screen and adjusted a singular setting.

“Friends,” Damen supplied in answer, watching Nik get distracted. Laurent’s cool blue gaze landed on him. The red he was bathed in made his eyes look brighter.

“And you must be the face of the two,” Laurent said.

“The face?” Damen asked, taking a step closer. Nik was still fiddling with the camera.

“You two are the,” Laurent paused, “social media influences.”

Damen couldn’t help but laugh, even if his laugh was an incredulous one. “What is with you all and –”

“I had been trying to deduce which of the five of my uncle’s latest group of experimentees was the Instagram photographer, but I soon realized that looking at the photographers themselves would never do. I needed to look at their acquaintances.” Laurent had lowered himself to the ground without any direction, splaying his long, red-clad legs out and bending one just enticingly enough to look like temptation. “Everything about you screams it.”

“‘Everything?’” Damen asked. “How could everything about me scream something like that? Especially when it’s not true.”

For the first time since the shoot had started, Laurent smiled, and it wasn’t kind. He looked at Damen under blond eyelashes then spent a moment consciously changing the smile to something alluring. The entire display was magic. “You’re either extremely confident in yourself or extremely oblivious about the way life works.” He tilted his head to show off the column of his throat. “Or both.”

“We travel the world,” Damen said, taking another step closer. “We can’t help what it’s turned into, but it hasn’t changed us. We’re still doing this for us and no one else.”

“Everyone is always doing something for the approval of someone else. Even if they don’t think they are, they are.”

“You seem young to be this cynical,” Damen said.

“You seem old to be relying on teenagers on social media for your career,” Laurent said right back. He moved again, laying down, spreading his hair out like a halo on the marble floor, and turning to look at the camera.

“Can you lower your left arm?” Nik asked. Laurent complied.

Damen realized he was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking. He was pretty sure that lashing out at Laurent would have the same effect as trying to come on to him, and both of those ended with him and Nik packing their bags in two days.

“What is your backup plan?” Laurent asked to neither of them in particular. “Social media is currently what is bringing in the money, but social media didn’t exist in this capacity ten years ago. In another few years, something newer will take over in rank.”

“We haven’t thought that far,” Nik said. He snapped another photo.

Laurent smiled again. “I don’t doubt that.”

Damen ran a hand through his hair and breathed out a laugh, the kind of laugh that was only a breath of air out of his nostrils, and when his self-control was finally slipping away, Charls called for the models to move once more. Laurent, elegant, got off the floor and walked away.

Nik shot Damen a look. “That was unbearable.”

“Yeah.”

Nik got a lovely group of five models to photograph next and, to Nik’s surprise, one of the models, one with a confidence at a level near Ancel’s, suggested they lift the smallest of the five, a beautiful sandy haired one, up over their heads. Nik thought that sounded wonderful as long as they felt safe doing so and he had them stand center between two of the columns and lift. Erasmus, the sandy haired one, giggled. Their shadows were complementary to the shadows of the columns.

To not disrupt anything, there was a rule while the shoot was going on and that was no one in or out of the entry doors. There was everything anyone could need in this main part of the gallery and the entry doors almost always allowed a gust of wind to enter that could ruin the models’ hair. Everyone knew the rule and there was usually someone outside to ensure no one broke that rule. So, when the door opened, everyone noticed.

It was the child from Etoile’s office.

The child was wearing an outfit that cost at least as much as anything any of the models were wearing and the curls of his hair looked to be done professionally. He strutted through the gallery like he owned it, all arrogant in a way that betrayed his age. There were some looks thrown his way, but most seemed familiar or even expectant.

Damen watched, curiously, as the child walked with that never-faltering arrogance all the way up to Laurent. With a petulance befitting his age, he crossed his arms over his tiny chest, and tapped his heeled shoe on the ground. Laurent, for his part, must not have seen him or didn’t want to see him because he kept doing what he had been doing as the child had walked in: posing with his head tilted up toward the crystal chandelier. It didn’t seem to bother him that the child was ruining his shot, not until the child tugged on the sleeve of Laurent’s expensive suit jacket.

Finally, Laurent gave the child his attention. They both wore similar frowns on their faces, near mirrors of one another. The child said something, and his face said that whatever he said wasn’t kind. Laurent said something in return and his face looked the same. The child said something again and Laurent motioned at the door. With a huff, the child turned to go, but not before Laurent ruffled his perfectly curled hair. It was obvious it wasn’t a normal sign of affection and was only done to incite anger. It worked. The child swatted hard at Laurent’s arm.

“Hey,” Nik said, getting Damen’s attention. Damen waited until the child was walking out the entry doors before he turned back. “Can we go out and get drinks tonight?”

“Name the time. I’ll find us a good place,” Damen said. He was already reaching for his phone. The suggestion sounded more like a plea.

Charls announced for the models to move one last time.

There was a bar called Danico just two blocks away from the gallery. Neither Damen nor Nik wanted to bother stopping by their room, they just wanted to go. And when they got there, it was moody and alive, and they grabbed two perfectly empty stools at the bar. Nik, with his camera still in hand, didn’t even look at the menu. Damen ordered them both something strong, carbonated, and refreshing.

“Tomorrow is the last day of shooting,” Damen said, knowing Nik knew.

“Yeah,” Nik said. “I’ve never been under pressure like this for photography. The last time I felt like this was when we were kids and playing sports.”

“They’re going to choose you,” Damen said.

“I don’t think Laurent likes us very much.” They both smiled politely as their drinks were put in front of them. Nik drank a mouthful and then another.

“Well, I don’t think he likes anyone very much,” Damen laughed. “I think the playing ground is still even there.”

They sat in silence for a good ten minutes, decompressing and taking in the atmosphere of the bar. There were some beautiful people wandering around, all in nightlife wear, and Damen had that look in his eyes that earned him a not-so-easy punch in the arm from Nik.

“I’m trying not to be overconfident, but I guess I should start researching other fashion weeks,” Nik said.

“That’s not overconfidence speaking. That’s reality.”

“Whatever you want to call it, I still have no idea what I’m actually doing.”

“We’ve done really well at faking it this long,” Damen said with a grin.

“What are we even going to do for the two full weeks before fashion week?” Nik asked, ignoring him.

“There’s plenty to do in Paris,” Damen said. “And we haven’t even explored once. We’ll find more than enough to keep us busy for two weeks.”

It was easy to fall into other conversation after that. Damen brought out his phone and they looked at stats and messages and scheduled posts from their last trip in Italy. Then they talked about the phone calls they had both ignored from their families.

“Do they even know we’re here in Paris?” Nik asked, laughing. They had also ordered two more drinks.

“I have no idea,” Damen said, laughing too.

“Let’s tell them,” Nik said. He motioned for Damen to stand.

“Oh, come on,” Damen said. Nik motioned again. “Aren’t you tired of taking pictures?”

#captive prince #captive prince fic #damen of akielos #laurent of vere #capri #capri fic #the mannequin gallery #mannequin gallery 'verse #the mannequin gallery chapter 4

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maiji · 5 years ago

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Tale of Genji stories in one post - see full gallery on Instagram.

1) (2nd photo) Nonomiya Jinja is a Shinto shrine located inside the Arashiyama Bamboo Grove, a pit stop for Imperial princesses on their way to serve as priestess of the Ise Grand Shrine/Jingu - like Akikonomu in the Tale of Genji. They had an informal quiz which @atorier translated for me. I failed 0 for 5. 2 questions were about character ages at various points of the story (I was within 5-8 years!!). 2 I misunderstood to be about Murasaki the character when they were actually about Murasaki Shikibu and was thoroughly confused at when these things were indicated in the story lmao. The last asked who was the model for Hikaru Genji. Scholars disagree on this and I’m personally in the court of Genji not being based on one particular figure, but I gamely answered Ariwara no Narihira. They used Minamoto no Toru. So much for my street cred.

2) At the Tale of Genji Museum in Uji I was excited to play the Genjiko incense guessing game! Basically it involves smelling a sequence of 5 incenses, identifying which are identical, and marking your guess with the matching Genjiko mon/seal. I thought their setup with stamps for each mon was very well-done. I got it right and the staff gave me a sticker that says I did it!!! I think they purposefully made it easy with really obviously different scents though…

3) Fukuju Saryo cafe (mentioned in my previous Uji post) had a pair of drinks based on the two main rivals of the Uji Chapters!! At first I was like “why is Niou matcha latte and Kaoru houjicha latte 🤨” then “oh houjicha is mild and matcha is bitter, okay I accept that.” @atorier was like “so judgey 🙄” I’m just excited I got to say “Kaorunokimi kudasai” which made the waitress chuckle 😂😂😂 and that I got to go to the closest thing to a Tale of Genji character cafe.

4) The museum had a lot of mannequins recreating the kaimami (peeping through screens and fences) scenes, and a section where you could see what it looks like to peek through Heian blinds, so I made a photo comic. Thanks Zanazac for modelling a sexy Heian lady.

Bless my friends for listening to me go on and on about the Tale of Genji. https://www.instagram.com/p/B3svRS3Bd33/?igshid=11cqbvul8m181

#tale of genji #genji monogatari #tale of genji museum #Uji #Kyoto #japan #travel #Nonomiya Jinja #Fukuju Saryo #kaimami #Genjiko

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foxwitchaine · 6 years ago

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Please Remember Me: Chapter 3

You don’t remember me, do you?

“I’m not sure, but you seem familiar.”

We’ve met before, a long time ago.

“Why can’t I recognize you?”

You were young. Not too young to remember, though.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I know. It’s just-- Oh…

“Just what?”

We went through so much together, you and I.

“I don’t understand.”

I know. It’s not you

“Then what is it?”

Something must’ve happened when you escaped.

“Escaped from where?”

… I’ll leave it at that for now.

“Why?”

Because I want to tell you in person.

“What do you mean you can’t accept anyone right now?!?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but because we’re closing for the day, we’re not allowing anyone in. It’s our policy.”

“Policy, schmolicy. Can’t you make even one exception?”

“No exceptions, ma’am. Those are the rules.”

“Oh for crying out loud…”

She’d forgotten how long they’d been there, but she was sure only a few minutes had passed. There wasn’t really anything Ib could do but stand there and watch Karen argue with the receptionist. Apparently, they’d arrived too late to secure a tour. Not that Ib minded, of course. She could use another two or more hours of sleeping given her condition.

But this was not an opportunity to throw away easily.

If she could find out why she dreamed of animated headless statues chasing her, ladies in various colors bursting out of their frames and crawling like maniacs, and white mannequin heads dripping a red fluid, then perhaps she could finally have a good night’s sleep. Glancing off to the side, Ib saw her opportunity. Since the gallery was closing (and short-staffed, Ib noticed), there was one staircase that hadn’t been blocked off yet.

The staircase leading upwards.

She started sneaking off while Karen continued her crusader’s quest, but stopped and hesitated. A small nagging feeling tugged at her. If she were to go off on her own into a museum calling it a day, wouldn’t it be considered trespassing?

They might think of it like that.

There it was. Where had it--? Oh, right. It trailed off outside the museum because it wanted to talk to her in person.

You know, you can always try tomorrow.

True, very true. But then… what would happen during the time until tomorrow. Plus, there’d be people. Who would watch her talking to a painting, of all things, and wonder if she’s touched in the head. Ib didn’t want that.

“Better now or never,” Ib whispered to herself. With a renewed resolve, she walked off, leaving a fervent Karen still in a verbal match with the receptionist.

Walking up a staircase isn’t often associated with nostalgia, but for Ib, it opened up a treasure chest of memories.

Except that one that always eluded her.

Once she had reached the top, she stood still for what seemed like an hour, even though it had only been a scant minute.

Can you see me?

Aside from the window, eight paintings lined the wall, accompanied by two sculptures to the southwest. The three headless statues unnerved her for some reason. Ignoring the sudden feeling of alarm, Ib casually sauntered up to the painting by the window.

The slate read “Lady Taking the Newspaper”. True to the title, the painting was of a blonde woman in a simple plum dress taking what seemed to be the morning newspaper. Ib smiled at the warm memory of her mother reminding her to bring her handkerchief with her.

Did you remember everything, Ib?

Oh! Do you have your handkerchief?

You know, the one you got for your birthday.

Keep it safe in your pocket, okay?

Don’t lose it!

Speaking of the handkerchief, Ib instinctively reached into her back pocket. She fished out the white, silky cloth decorated with lace from underneath a pile of other mundane things. She unfolded the snowy material to reveal her name written in black ink on one of the corners.

Ib.

She held the handkerchief close to her face, a slight blush following.

Strange. Why did her face suddenly feel warm? The air conditioning was still on, despite it being closing hours. Shrugging it off to the side, Ib clip-clapped onto the next painting.

Hanged Man.

Somehow, this particular painting felt out of place here. Ib couldn’t stop thinking another painting should be here.

They moved things around a little bit.

She didn’t have much choice but to take its word for it and move on.

The next painting was hard to see, even without the glare from the ceiling lights. Heck, she had to squint her eyes hard just to read the slate underneath it.

“Couplet Towers,” it read. Guertena must’ve been gifted in naming as well, since the painting was a symmetrical portrayal of two identical towers. Ib recalled in English class that “couplet” meant two lines in a poem with the same number of syllables joined by rhyme to form a unit. Taking this concept and applying it to art, along with taking the painting’s title and content into account, it fit so well.

The next painting Ib focused her attention on was definitely disturbing.

Worry.

The bug-eyed, deathly white man against a vivid, almost bloody vermilion backdrop was enough to cause nightmares for a week. As if Ib needed anymore sleep problems. Shuddering, she clicked her heels and sped the opposite direction. She stopped between “Lady Taking the Newspaper”, “Hanged Man”… and those statues.

Ib couldn’t put her finger on it, but those statues filled her with indescribable dread, even though she was only looking at them. She felt as if they would come to life and try to kill her.

Trust me, they won’t.

Ib let out a sigh of relief.

In this world anyway.

This world…?

…

What did he mean this world? Was there another world Ib didn’t know about? It didn’t hurt to ask, but it did take some careful thought.

“What world do you think you’re in?” Awkward, but at least it got an answer.

Actually, it might not be a real world, but a painting.

What?!? A painting?!?

“What do you mean a painting?”

The Fabricated World…

Fabricated World… Okay, why was there a chill up the spine all of a sudden? Ib was literally feeling her blood run cold at the mention of this “Fabricated World”.

…

Ah, yes. The mural… There was a large mural stretching across one wall just around the corner where the statues stood. Ib was curious to see it, but her feet were glued to the floor. How irritating. No matter what she did to will her feet to move, they remained still. They began to feel numb…

I’m just down the hallway, in case you’re curious.

His soothing voice brought the warmth back to her now board-stiff body. With that, she was able to command her feet again. Slowly, she regained the feeling throughout the rest of her body. Wonderful thing, fear was. Powerful, too. Soon enough, she was able to straighten out her posture. She was ready to meet the face behind the voice.

“Which way do I go?”

Just follow the paintings here.

“Simple enough,” she quietly chuckled.

Including the ones she looked at earlier, there were eight paintings total. On this particular wall anyway.

Misshapen Diamond. The Lady in Red. Bitter Fruit. Spectacle of Centuries End. For some reason, they all had an odd sense of nostalgia about them. Perhaps it was all the fond memories Ib made with her parents here? Possibly, though, like with the statues, there was something eerie about the Lady in Red painting…

Can you see me now?

Ib broke out of her train of thought long enough to reply.

“No.”

Didn’t it say it was at the end of the hallway here?

I am, but…

Awkward pause.

I must be in the other hallway. Oops…

Ib had to slap herself right there. Not because of her, but because of it. How in the world did it expect her to find it if it didn’t know where it was.

Hold on. I think I see you.

What? It did?

Turn around.

Ib turned to the left.

Further.

She turned right

Other way.

Her back was now facing “Spectacle of Centuries End”.

Stop.

She obeyed. In the distance, behind a tasty-looking tree and an amorphous blue figure, she could barely make out a dull brown frame. She’d have to get closer to see the content of the painting no thanks to the lights being out. At least there was a generous amount of whatever was left of the sunlight. Thank goodness for that.

Did you see a brown frame anywhere?

Thank you Captain Interruption. Yes, she had seen the frame, but she hadn’t seen him, assuming the voice was a him.

The painting…

The painting…?

…

What about the painting?

That’s me.

“Wha--?!?”

The voice… it was coming from a… painting…?

…

This whole time… she had been talking to a painting?

Kinda shocking, eh?

It let out a nervous chuckle, even though Ib was still too shocked to respond. To think, this whole time, she had been talking to a collection of paint brushed on a surface inside a rectangular frame… Well, at least she finally knew where the voice came from… somewhat. The painting itself was still too far away to determine what its content was. Besides, Ib didn’t actually have enough concrete evidence to prove the voice came from a painting despite getting the say-so from it. Of all things… a painting… was talking to her. Still, it can’t hurt to at least take a look. With that, Ib began walking towards the other end of the hallway.

She passed the tree that looked like candy.

“Taste-Cleansing Tree” it was called. How fitting.

She passed the blue blob resembling a disfigured person from the waist up.

“Fusion” the slate read. Fusion? Of what? Feelings? Bodies? Okay, scratch that last one out. Whatever it was, it looked pretty dang creepy, for lack of a better word. Magnificent technique, though. She had to give Guertena credit for his imagination and skill.

Now, however, it was time to get serious. It was time to get the answers to her problems. Taking a deep breath, Ib shifted her attention to the painting in the dull brown frame.

She was ready to face the voice from the painting, whatever and whoever it might be.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3 - you are here

Part 4

Part 5

Epilogue

#ib #ib game #ib horror rpg #garry #karen strikes again #ib fanfiction #ib fanfic #im finding other places to post fanfiction besides ff.net #this is pretty neat

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odditystew · 6 years ago

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The Junji Ito Index (for Currently Available English Translations)

A preexisting index I’ve found on Tumblr lists all Ito stories and links to where you could purchase his work on Amazon or read on scanlation sites. The following list has no links. The purpose of this is a list where you can keep track of which stories have already been collected and published in America by VIZ or other imprints. Previous publishings from Dark Horse are no longer in print and are ignored. I was pretty bored.

COLLECTED VOLUMES

Volumes and series that have been translated to English in their entirety

[✎] Uzumaki Collection [ ★ VIZ ★ ] Collects Uzumaki Vol. 1, 2, & 3 20 Chapters

[✎] Gyo Collection [ ★ VIZ ★ ] Collects GYO vol. 1 and GYO vol.2 19 Chapters Bonus chapters: -The Sad Tale of the Principal Post - Enigma of Amigara Fault

[✎] Tomie Collection [ ★ VIZ ★ ] Collects every Tomie story: The Horror World of Junji Ito Vol 1 & 2 and Tomie Again (Vol. 3) 20 Chapters

[✎] Junji Ito’s Cat Diary [ ★ Kodansha ★ ] Collects the Japanese release of Junji Ito’s Cat Diary 10 chapters [✎] Dissolving Classroom [ ★ Vertical ★ ] Collects the Japanese release of Dissolving Classroom

5 Chapters Bonus chapters: - Children of the Earth - Meet Again

[✎] Fragments of Horror [ ★ VIZ ★ ] Collects the Japanese release of Shards of Evil, a new short story collection.

01. Futon 02. Wooden Spirit 03. Tomio: Red Turtleneck 04. Gentle Goodbye 05. Dissection 06. Blackbird 07. Magami Nanakuse 08. Whispering Woman

[✎] Shiver [Junji Ito Selected Stories] [ ★ VIZ ★ ] Collects the Japanese Release of Junji Ito’s Selected Masterpieces, which contains various stories from THWOJI and others (As noted below)

01. Used Record (orig. in THWOJI Vol 10) 02. Shiver (orig. in THWOJI Vol 7) 03. Fashion Model (orig. in THWOJI Vol 6) 04. Hanging Blimp (orig. in THWOJI Vol 4) 05. Marionette Mansion (orig. in THWOJI Vol 10) 06. Painter (orig. in THWOJI Vol 2 [Also collected in Tomie Collection]) 07. The Long Dream (orig. in THWOJI Vol 14) 08. Honored Ancestors (orig. in THWOJI Vol 4) 09. Greased (orig. in Voices in the Dark) Bonus chapter: - Fashion Model: Cursed Frame (previously unreleased)

[✎] Frankenstein [Junji Ito Collection] [ ★ VIZ ★ ] Collects THWOJI Vol. 16 and THWOJI Vol. 9

01. Frankenstein 02. Hallucinations 03. Bog of the Living Dead 04. Penpal 05. Intruder 06. Further Tales of Oshikiri 07. Further Tales of Oshikiri: Walls 08. A Doll’s Hellish Burial 09. Fixed Face Bonus chapter: - Ito Junji's Dog Diary

[✎] Smashed [Junji Ito Collection] [ ★ VIZ ★ ]

Collects the remaining unpublished stories from Voices in the Dark and all stories from New Voices in the Dark (omits Greased, which appeared in Shiver Story Collection)

01. Bloodsucking Darkness 02. The Ghosts of Primetime 03. Roar 04. The Earthbound 05. Death Row Doorbell 06. The Secret of the Haunted Mansion 07. The Secret of the Haunted Mansion: Souichi’s Version 08. Souichi's Beloved Pet 09. In Mirror Valley 10. I Don’t Want to Be a Ghost 11. Library Vision 12. Splendid Shadow Song 13. Smashed

[✎] No Longer Human [ ★ VIZ ★ ]

Adaptation of Osamu Dazai’s semi-autobiographical novel.

24 Chapters [✎] Venus in the Blind Spot [ ★ VIZ ★ ] Collects the Japanese release of “The Best of Junji Ito: Short Story Collection” which consists of a cover gallery, various short stories previously left uncollected, AND select bonus stories from Gyo, Remina, and Black Paradox.

01. Color Gallery - 02. Billions Alone (orig. from Hellstar Remina) 03. The Human Chair - Original Story by Edogawa Ranpo 04. An Unearthly Love - Original Story by Edogawa Ranpo 05. Venus in the Blind Spot 06. The Licking Woman (orig. from Black Paradox) 07. Master Umezz and Me 08. How Love Came to Professor Kirida - Original Story by Robert Hichens 09. The Enigma of Amigara Fault (orig. from Gyo) 10. The Sad Tale of the Principal Post (orig. from Gyo) 11. Keepsake

FUTURE RELEASES

Announced titles (Accuracy adequate until release)

[✎] REMINA [ ★ VIZ ★ ]

Collects the entirety of Hellstar Remina, with possible short bonus stories

6 chapters Bonus chapter: - Army of One (appears in Venus In the Blind Spot as “Billions Alone”)

[✎] Lovesickness [Junji Ito Collection] [ ★ VIZ ★ ] Collects THWOJI vol.15

01. The Beautiful Youth of the Intersections 02. The Anxious Woman 03. Shadows 04. Screams in the Night Sequel: The White-Clothed Pretty Boy Bonus chapters: - Ribs Woman - Phantom Mansion

[✎] SENSOR [ ★ VIZ ★ ] Collects the Japanese release of Sensor

UNRELEASED WORKS

What it sounds like. These titles are not currently available, besides THWOJI’s old Dark Horse publications. Any stories that have already been collected or are anticipated to be in the VIZ omnibuses will be noted.

[✎] STAND ALONE CHAPTERS These stories are one-shots published in various magazines

[✎] Demon's Voice [✎] Fixed Face [✎] Mountain of Gods: Precipice of the Unknown [✎] She is a Slow Walker [✎] Snow White [✎] The Summer Graduation Trip [✎] Layers of Fear

[✎] BLACK PARADOX

01. Group Suicide 02. Strange Tale of the Pylorus 03. Paradoxical Night 04. Dr. Suka's Village 05. The Spirit World Project 06. To the Dazzling Future Bonus chapters: - The Licking Woman (appears in Venus in the Blind Spot) - Mystery Pavilion

[✎] KAIKI KANZUME [Bizarre Canned Food] [ This volume contains select chapters from THWOJI; no new stories.] 01. Clubhouse 02. Slug Girl 03. The Window Next Door 04. The Thing that Drifted Ashore 05. My Dear Ancestors 06. Near Miss! 07. TBHS: The Second Daughter's Lover 08. TBHS: Seance

[✎] The Horror World of Junji Ito Note: The Horror World of Junji Ito collection (aka THWOJI or Kyoufu Collection) is a 16 volume series. Volumes 1 and 2 are Tomie stories. Volumes 5 and 6 are Souichi stories. The rest are stand-alone short stories collected from various magazine publications. I will be striking thru any story in the collection currently already available translated in some form. Stars on any volume without any stories in current english publication. [✎] THWOJI: vol.1: TOMIE (Collected in the Tomie Collection) 01. Tomie 02. Photograph 03. Kiss 04. Mansion 05. Revenge 06. The Basin of the Waterfall [✎] THWOJI: vol.2: TOMIE (Collected in the Tomie Collection) 07. Tomie Part 2 08. Basement 09. Painter 10. Murder 11. Hair 12. Orphan Girl [✎] ★ THWOJI vol.3: FLESH COLORED HORROR ★ 01. Long Hair in the Attic 02. Permission/Approval 03. Beehive 04. Dying Young 05. Headless Statues 06. Flesh Colored Horror [✎] THWOJI vol.4: THE FACE BURGLAR 01. The Face Burglar 02. Scarecrows 03. Falling 04. The Red String 05. My Dear Ancestors 06. Hanging Balloons [✎] ★ THWOJI vol.5: SOUICHI'S DIARY OF DELIGHTS ★ 01. Fun Summer Vacation 02. Fun Winter Vacation 03. Souichi's Diary of Delights 04. Souichi's Home Tutor 05. Mannequin Teacher 06. Souichi's Birthday [✎] THWOJI vol.6: SOUICHI'S DIARY OF CURSES 01. Souichi's Selfish Curse 02. The Silent Room (Room With Four Walls) 03. Coffin 04. Rumors 05. Fashion Model [✎] THWOJI vol.7: SLUG GIRL 01. Slug Girl 02. The Thing that Drifted Ashore 03. Mold 04. Coldness/The Chill 05. Ryokan 06. The Groaning Drain 07. Biohouse [✎] ★ THWOJI vol.8: BLOOD-BUBBLE BUSHES ★ 01. Blood-Bubble Bushes 02. Unbearable Labyrinth 03. Sword of the Re-Animator 04. The Will 05. The Bridge 06. Demonology (The Devil's Logic) 07. The Conversation Room [✎] THWOJI vol.9: HALLUCINATIONS (Collected in Frankenstein Collection) 01. Hallucinations 02. Bog of the Living Dead 03. Penpal 04. Intruder 05. Further Tales of Oshikiri 06. Further Tales of Oshikiri: Walls Bonus chapters: Junji Ito's Dog Diary [✎] THWOJI vol.10: HOUSE OF THE MARIONETTES 01. Ice Cream Bus 02. Clubhouse 03. The Smoking Club 04. Second-hand Record 05. The Sleeping Room (Den of the Sleep Demon) 06. The Gift Bearer 07. House of the Marionettes [✎] ★ THWOJI vol.11: THE TOWN WITHOUT STREETS ★ 01. The Town Without Streets 02. Near Miss! 03. Maptown 04. Village of the Siren 05. The Supernatural Transfer Student [✎] ★ THWOJI vol.12: THE BULLY ★ 01. The Bully 02. House of the Deserter 03. Heart of a Father 04. Memory 05. The Back Alley 06. Love as Scripted 07. In the Soil [✎] ★ THWOJI vol.13: THE CIRCUS IS HERE ★ 01. The Circus is Here 02. Gravetown 03. The Window Next Door 04. TBHS: The Second Daughter's Lover 05. TBHS: Seance (Assembly of the Fallen Ghost) [✎] THWOJI vol.14: THE STORY OF THE MYSTERIOUS TUNNEL 01. Long Dream 02. The Story of the Mysterious Tunnel 03. The Bronze Statue 04. Drifting Spores 05. Blood Sickness of the White Sands Village

[✎] ★ THWOJI vol.15: LOVESICK DEAD (UNDYING LOVE) ★ 01. The Beautiful Youth of the Intersections 02. The Anxious Woman 03. Shadows 04. Screams in the Night Sequel: The White-Clothed Pretty Boy Bonus chapters: - Ribs Woman - Phantom Mansion

[✎] THWOJI vol.16: FRANKENSTEIN 01. Frankenstein 02. A Doll's Hellish Burial 03. Fixed Face [✎] MIMI NO KAIDAN (MIMI'S GHOST STORIES) 01. The Woman Next Door 02. Sound of Grass 03. Graveman 04. The Seashore 05. Just the Two of Us/Alone With You 06. The Scarlet Circle [✎] SIREN

#junji ito

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gunboatbaylodge · 8 years ago

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Things to Do in Vancouver this Weekend: April 6, 2017

This weekend Vancouver is bringing it with a bunch of diverse activity options. We’ve got monster trucks, cherry blossom activities, a Harry Potter symphony, art, floral fashion, African dance, world music, and a festival of BC’s best distilled spirits.

Friday | Saturday | Sunday | Ongoing

Friday April 7

Vancouver Monster Jam

Vancouver Monster Jam Where: Pacific Coliseum What: Approximately 12 feet tall and about 12 feet wide, Monster Jam trucks are custom-designed machines that sit atop 66-inch-tall tires and weigh a minimum of 10,000 pounds. Built for short, high-powered bursts of speed, Monster Jam trucks generate 1,500 to 2,000 horsepower and are capable of speeds of up to 100 miles per hour. Monster Jam trucks can fly up to125 to 130 feet in distance and up to 35 feet in the air. Runs until: Sunday April 9, 2017

Western World

Western World Where: Vancouver Improv Centre (Granville Island) What: Vancouver TheatreSports’™ improvisers will demonstrate their lightning fast wit as they play the “hosts” to the audience “guests” in Western World – an improvised parody inspired by the popular TV series Westworld. Runs until: Saturday May 13, 2017

The VSO Performs Music from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Where: The Orpheum What: This concert will feature the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra performing every note from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.™ Cars fly, trees fight back and a mysterious house-elf comes to warn Harry Potter at the start of his second year at Hogwarts. Runs until: Sunday April 9, 2017

Xi Xanya Dzam – Those Who Are Amazing At Making Things Where: The Bill Reid Gallery What: Xi Xanya Dzam (pronounced hee hun ya zam) is the Kwak’wala word describing incredibly talented and gifted people who create works of art. The exhibition is both a showcase and a critical exploration of ‘achievement’ and ‘excellence’ in traditional and contemporary First Nations art. Runs until: Sunday September 4, 2017

David Lynch: The Art of Life

David Lynch: The Art of Life Where: VanCity Theatre What: Revered for films like Blue Velvet and Mulholland Dr, David Lynch began his creative explorations through art, originally training as a painter in Philadelphia. David Lynch: The Art Life grants viewers unparalleled, intimate access to the enigmatic auteur while he works in his painting studio. Early memories and reflections on his formative years through the triumph of Eraserhead reveal eerie connections to his body of work, making this portrait an indispensable look at an artist and his process. Runs until: Thursday April 13, 2017

Mom’s the Word 3: Nest ½ Empty Where: Arts Club Theatre What: From the world-renowned creative team behind the Mom’s the Word series comes a new chapter in their stories of family and fracas. Their kids are grown, their marriages have “evolved,” and their bodies are backfiring. Life doesn’t get any prettier, but it never strays far from ludicrous or poignant as the moms continue to mine their personal history for every embarrassing detail. Runs until: Saturday May 6, 2017

Vancouver World Music Festival Where: Various locations What: A festival dedicated to presenting local and international artists playing traditional music from around the globe. Runs until: Saturday April 8, 2017

Genetic Drift

Genetic Drift Where: The Fishbowl on Granville Island What: A performance that imagines a future where temperatures have risen to a level where human life can no longer sustain itself. Society’s solution for impending extinction? Splice human DNA with life forms that can sustain extremely hot temperatures. Runs until: Saturday April 8, 2017

Caroline Mesquita The Ballad

Caroline Mesquita The Ballad Where: Centre 221A What: A sculptural practice that intertwines the materiality of altered, oxidized, and painted copper and brass sheets with theatrical playfulness. Runs until: Saturday June 3, 2017

Carlos Núñez plays Galician Bagpipes

Carlos Núñez plays Galician Bagpipes Where: The Vogue Theatre What: The magnetic performer was raised in Spain’s northwest, where he started playing music on the recorder as a child.

Fleurs de Villes Where: Metropolis at Metrotown What: Over a dozen top local Greater Vancouver florists, including The Flower Factory, Floralista Flower Studio and Quince Fine Florals, will be paired with leading brands to design stunning displays and bring them to life with flowers. Each floral-dressed mannequin is clothed in a one-of-a-kind design made up of hundreds of fresh blooms. Runs until: Sunday April 9, 2017

East Side Flea Where: 1024 Main St. What: Over 50 local vendors, food trucks, a live deejay, artisan showrooms, seasonal drink specials, pinball and more. Runs until: Sunday April 9, 2017

Mitski

Mitski Where: The Biltmore What: New York-based indie rock singer-songwriter, Mitski is on tour to support her latest release “Puberty 2”.

World Ski and Snowboard Festival Where: Whistler, BC What: A 10 day and night showcase of some of the best of mountain culture, music, arts and snow sports. Runs until: Sunday April 16, 2017

The Watershed

The Watershed Where: Gateway Theatre What: Celebrated documentary theatre artist Annabel Soutar leads her family on a cross-Canada journey, probing the future of our dwindling natural resources. By innovatively dramatizing insightful sets of interviews with scientists, government officials, activists and business leaders, The Watershed uncovers the complexities underlying the environmental, economic and political stakes of oil production and fresh water preservation in Canada. Runs until: Saturday April 15, 2017

Saturday April 8

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Sakura Days Japan Fair

Sakura Days Japan Fair Where: VanDusen Garden What: A family-friendly weekend celebration showcasing the cultural arts of Japan. Runs until: Sunday April 9, 2017

BC Distilled Festival Where: Croatian Cultural Centre What: The year’s best chance to sample the best spirits BC has to offer in an atmosphere that encourages you to discuss their distinctive qualities with their makers. Most of the distilleries are represented at the show by their distillers and owners, so it’s a great chance to meet the makers and learn about how spirits are made.

Global Dance Connections 6: Zab Maboungou | Compagnie Danse Nyata Nyata

Global Dance Connections 6: Zab Maboungou | Compagnie Danse Nyata Nyata Where: Scotiabank Dance Centre What: Montreal-based choreographer Zab Maboungou has earned an international reputation for pioneering a unique style which is deeply rooted in traditional African dances, but is imbued with a fiercely contemporary approach. Tickets Available at Tickets Tonight.

Eraserhead

Eraserhead Where: VanCity Theatre What: Filmed in high contrast black and white, with a cacophonous industrial soundtrack and stark, decrepit design, Lynch’s first feature reeks of alienation, sexual revulsion and domestic horror. He filmed it over five years on a shoestring budget as a he struggled to adjust to fatherhood and life in the big city. It became a famous midnight movie, a cult that propelled him to Hollywood. (Also, my favorite movie as a teenager.)

Warrior: George Littlechild

Warrior: George Littlechild Where: Kimoto Gallery What: In George Littlechild’s new series ‘Warrior’, he has painted 10 portraits (5 female & 5 male) of 10 individual First Nations people who are fighting the good fight for the planet, the environment and mankind. These individuals are dedicated and devoted to making positive change in their community and in the world, so that future generations will have a better place to inhabit. Runs until: Saturday April 29, 2017

Sunday April 9

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Nifty for Fifty Where: Heritage Hall What: 30 local designers are offering deep discounts where all items are priced at $ 50 or less. It’s a great opportunity to meet local, independent clothing designers, makers and jewellers, where everything from hand bags to handmade jewellery, clothing, accessories and housewares.

Max Raabe Where: The Chan Centre What: The always-dapper Max Raabe brings audiences through time to the bygone-era of Berlin in the 1920s. Backed by the styling’s of Palast Orchester, Raabe’s embrace of the past can be heard in renditions from Kurt Weill’s Alabama Song, to the Walter Jurmann classic Mein Gorilla hat ‘ne Villa im Zoo.

La Collectionneuse

La Collectionneuse Where: The Cinematheque What: Set in Saint-Tropez on the French Riviera, during a tranquil summer, antique dealer Adrien and painter friend Daniel ponder the enigma of Haydée, a young, bikini-clad woman they dub “la collectionneuse” (“the collector”) because of her succession of one-night conquests.

Ongoing

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Valley Song (ends this weekend) Where: Pacific Theatre What: Torn between the hope of the new South Africa and the familiarity of all he has known, Abraam “Buks” Jonkers tills land he will never own while his granddaughter dreams of the Johannesburg stage. A heartfelt story of tradition, change, and the resilience of the human spirit. Runs until: Saturday April 8, 2017

Reel 2 Reel Film Festival | Image still from Louise by the Shore

Reel 2 Reel Film Festival (ends this weekend) Where: Various locations What: An international festival for youth films. Runs until: Saturday April 8, 2017

Genetic Drift

Genetic Drift (ends this weekend) Where: The Fishbowl on Granville Island What: A performance that imagines a future where temperatures have risen to a level where human life can no longer sustain itself. Society’s solution for impending extinction? Splice human DNA with life forms that can sustain extremely hot temperatures. Runs until: Saturday April 8, 2017

Vancouver World Music Festival (ends this weekend) Where: Various locations What: A festival dedicated to presenting local and international artists playing traditional music from around the globe. Runs until: Saturday April 8, 2017

Abracadabra

Abracadabra (ends this weekend) Where: The York Theatre What: A magic show for the entire family. For the first time in his life, Camilo takes on the roll of the classic magician; bringing unique and fascinating illusions back to life. Runs until: Saturday April 8, 2017

The VSO Performs Music from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (ends this weekend) Where: The Orpheum What: This concert will feature the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra performing every note from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.™ Cars fly, trees fight back and a mysterious house-elf comes to warn Harry Potter at the start of his second year at Hogwarts. Runs until: Sunday April 9, 2017

East Side Flea (this weekend only) Where: 1024 Main St. What: Over 50 local vendors, food trucks, a live deejay, artisan showrooms, seasonal drink specials, pinball and more. Runs until: Sunday April 9, 2017

Layers of Influence

Layers of Influence (ends this weekend) Where: UBC Museum of Anthropology What: This stunning exhibition will explore clothing’s inherent evidence of human ingenuity, creativity and skill, drawing from MOA’s textile collection — the largest collection in Western Canada — to display a global range of materials, production techniques and adornments across different cultures and time frames. Runs until: Sunday April 9, 2017

The Daisy Theatre

The Daisy Theatre (ends this weekend) Where: The Cultch Historic Theatre What: Each performance will be different, daring, ridiculous, and on the edge of the hands of renowned puppeteer provocateur Ronnie Burkett and his resident company of over 40 marionettes. No two performances will be the same, making this a performance to see more than once. Runs until: Sunday April 9, 2017

Fleurs de Villes (ends this weekend) Where: Metropolis at Metrotown What: Over a dozen top local Greater Vancouver florists, including The Flower Factory, Floralista Flower Studio and Quince Fine Florals, will be paired with leading brands to design stunning displays and bring them to life with flowers. Each floral-dressed mannequin is clothed in a one-of-a-kind design made up of hundreds of fresh blooms. Runs until: Sunday April 9, 2017

David Lynch: The Art of Life

The Watershed

World Ski and Snowboard Festival Where: Whistler, BC What: A 10 day and night showcase of some of the best of mountain culture, music, arts and snow sports. Runs until: Sunday April 16, 2017

Vancouver Special Where: Vancouver Art Gallery What: The first iteration of this series and it features works by 40 artists produced within the last five years—Vancouver’s post-Olympic period. The exhibition includes many emerging artists as well as those who are more established but whose ideas were prescient. Some are recent arrivals to Vancouver, while others are long-term residents who have already made significant contributions. Others are nomadic, less settled in one place and are working energetically between several locations. Runs until: Monday April 17, 2016

Nat Bailey Stadium Winter Farmers Market

Nat Bailey Stadium Winter Farmers Market Where: Nat Bailey Stadium What: Don’t fret the summers Farmers markets packing up – winter is here, and you can still shop local for fresh produce, preserves, baked goods, and crafts. Runs until: Saturday April 22, 2017

Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival

Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Where: Various locations What: It’s that time of year when the city turns all shades of pink – the cherry blossoms are about to bllom! Celebrate with community picnics, fairs, blossomy bike rides, and group walks. The Blossom Barge will be at Granville Island featuring free performances. Runs until: Sunday April 23, 2017

Angels in America Where: Arts Club Theatre What: A tale of companionship and abandonment that takes place when the personal became political. Set in New York City at the height of the Reagan era, Tony Kushner’s modern masterpiece contrasts the lives of five individuals struggling with identity issues alongside the crippling effects of stereotypes and an incurable diagnosis. Runs until: Sunday April 23, 2017

Capture Photography Festival | In Between Dreaming and Living

Capture Photography Festival Where: Various locations What: High-profile exhibitions as well as emerging talent and community participation are in the lens. There will be events in Vancouver’s leading public and commercial galleries, as well as public installations and a series of community-based photo workshops, tours, artist talks, films, and panel discussions. Runs until: Friday April 28, 2017

Warrior: George Littlechild

Hastings Park Farmers Market

Hastings Park Farmers Market Where: Hastings Park (near the PNE) What: The Hastings Park Farmers Market features a great selection of local produce; nursery items, fish, meat & dairy; artisan prepared foods, baking and treats; local crafts, and of course, food trucks. Runs until: Sunday April 30, 2017

Western World

Susan Point: Spindle Whorl

Susan Point: Spindle Whorl Where: Vancouver Art Gallery What: Since the early 1980s, Susan Point has received wide acclaim for her remarkably accomplished oeuvre that forcefully asserts the vitality of Coast Salish culture, both past and present. She has produced an extensive body of prints and an expansive corpus of sculptural work in a wide variety of materials that includes glass, resin, concrete, steel, wood and paper. Runs until: Sunday May 28, 2017

Pacific Crossings: Hong Kong Artists in Vancouver | Sunset, Carrie Koo

Pacific Crossings: Hong Kong Artists in Vancouver Where: Vancouver Art Gallery What: June 2017 marks the 20-year anniversary of the transfer of Hong Kong sovereignty from the United Kingdom to mainland China. In the lead up to the handover, tens of thousands of Hong Kong residents immigrated to Canada, many choosing to settle in Vancouver, and among them were a significant number of artists. Pacific Crossings presents works from well-known Hong Kong artists created after their relocation to Vancouver throughout the 1960-90s. Runs until: May 28, 2017

Retainers of Anarchy

Retainers of Anarchy Where: Vancouver Art Gallery What: A solo exhibition featuring new work from Howie Tsui that considers wuxia, a traditional form of martial arts literature, as a narrative tool for dissidence and resistance. Runs until: May 28, 2017

Caroline Mesquita The Ballad

Song of the Open Road

Song of the Open Road Where: Contemporary Art Gallery What: Bringing together artists from Canada, Eritrea, Ireland, Sweden, and the US, the exhibition includes works that combine thematically to interrogate ideas rooted in photographic histories, engaging ideas such as veracity, recollection, remembrance, belonging, staging, and how the image documents and records these or is evidence of differing realities. Runs until: Sunday June 18, 2017

Up Close

Up Close Where: VanDusen Botanical Garden What: All the artists represented in this group exhibition find their inspiration while painting on location at VanDusen Garden. The Vancouver en plein air group, initiated in April 2011, zooms-in to the lush vegetation that provides a new dimension of foreground details. The subjects are varied, and so is the medium. Runs until: Tuesday June 27, 2017

The Lost Fleet Exhibit Where: Vancouver Maritime Museum What: On December 7, 1941 the world was shocked when Japan bombed Pearl Harbour, launching the United States into the war. This action also resulted in the confiscation of nearly 1,200 Japanese-Canadian owned fishing boats by Canadian officials on the British Columbia coast, which were eventually sold off to canneries and other non-Japanese fishermen. The Lost Fleet looks at the world of the Japanese-Canadian fishermen in BC and how deep-seated racism played a major role in the seizure, and sale, of Japanese-Canadian property and the internment of an entire people. Runs until: Winter 2017

Amazonia: The Rights of Nature

Amazonia: The Rights of Nature Where: UBC Museum of Anthropology What: MOA will showcase its Amazonian collections in a significant exploration of socially and environmentally-conscious notions intrinsic to indigenous South American cultures, which have recently become innovations in International Law. These are foundational to the notions of Rights of Nature, and they have been consolidating in the nine countries that share responsibilities over the Amazonian basin. Runs until: January 28, 2018

What are you up to this weekend? Tell me and the rest of Vancouver in the comments below or tweet me directly at @lextacular

Inside Vancouver Blog

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thickenmyblood · 4 years ago

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heeeeeey random question but i was wondering if you have any advice in terms of writing consistently? it’s very hard for me to get the motivation to write everyday/on a schedule and you’ve taken on the monster (in the best way possible youre a goddess i love this story) wtsioa with such grace so i thought it was worth asking! ❤��

My advice on this is very uncool, which I hope means it’s useful. Uncool things tend to be useful, in my opinion.

Writing is very hard, as you probably already know. It’s also very draining—you have to be focused, it takes mental effort and time, it’s extremely frustrating—and so it makes sense that you won’t always feel up for it. But sometimes you just have to force yourself to do it anyway.

The whole “I only write when I’m feeling motivated” thing never helped me, because I’m never motivated. Sometimes I think I am, but I’m not. It all evaporates when I sit down and try to write. I also don’t have a lot of free time during my normal life (as in, when I’m not quarantined for nine months or on summer break) so I can’t really rely too much on motivation. If I did, then I... probably would never get anything written.

I write a lot faster and a lot better when I outline in advance. For example, if I know a chapter has five scenes and I know what happens in each of them, I can simply skip the scene I don’t feel like writing or the dialogue I’m struggling with. But I don’t take a break, I just move on to another scene, dialogue, description, etc.

I don’t know the specifics of your situation, but if you think you can manage it I’d definitely advise you to set up a weekly word or page count goal. What works for me is a daily word count goal of around 500 words, but that’s only because I’m on summer break, quarantined, and I do most of my writing at 4 AM. So, like, I’m not the best role model. I’ve also said this before but most of what I write doesn’t even make the final cut, so there’s no point in over-writing or pushing yourself too hard when you’re just going to edit it out later on. This is a lesson I’m still trying to learn.

At first, you’ll want to die. You’ll want to watch TV, talk to your family (absolute insanity), or read a good Lamen fic like The Mannequin Gallery instead of sitting down and writing that chapter you’ve been daydreaming about. Push through it, ignore temptation. Writing is very hard, but the more you force yourself to do it the easier it gets. And by that I mean it gets easier to force yourself to do it, not that writing gets easier. Writing, sadly, never gets easier.

Maybe it’s just me. A lot of people describe writing as soothing and comforting and relaxing. I’m not one of those people. I think writing is relaxing only because I’m a very controlling person and writing allows me to be in full control of characters (what they say, how they’re dressed, what their thoughts are) and plot and… everything, really.

Unpopular, but I have an “only two serious WIPs at a time” rule that I try hard not to break. It’s easier to lose motivation when you’re grappling with several projects. You need to focus on one thing at a time, or at least I know I do. When I’m writing a fic I literally can’t think of anything else for a good four months. Sometimes even longer. For example, I’m still thinking of Second to the right and it’s been three years. So.

Another thing that helps me “get motivated” is reading. To me, reading is like making myself hungry, if that makes sense. I look for things I want to write about in other people’s works. I ask myself, ‘if I could change anything about this story, what would it be?’ or ‘what topic do I wish the author had gone into more depth about?’ Reading poetry is especially helpful because poems evoke emotion and don’t focus too hard on The Plot Issue. They make you feel things, which in turn makes you want to write about those feelings.

My last bit of advice is terrible, but it’s what works for me. And you asked me, so I guess you don’t think I’m insane. Or maybe you do and that’s exactly why you asked. Anyway, my last tip is: write for yourself. Write what you would like to read. Even when you know it’s bad, or when you feel like it could be better. The truth is that it could always be better, but what’s important is that you fucking do it. It’s better to have a shitty first draft than no first draft at all.

Mariana explained it quite beautifully in this reply. To summarize, she started writing Étude because she couldn’t find anything similar on AO3. So I guess I’m not the only one who does this. Maybe I’m not insane.

Don’t write things because you think others will like them or because you want to be groundbreakingly good at writing. That’s the closest to motivation I can give you: if you finish this self-serving, masturbatory fic, you’ll get to read it. And weren’t you writing it because it was something you wanted to read but couldn’t find anywhere else?

I hope this helped you in some small way. If nothing I said works for you, just watch this video until your motivation kicks in.

#anon

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thelioncourts · 4 years ago

Text

title: the mannequin gallery fandom: captive prince pairing: damen/laurent rating: mature words: 11722 for chapter nine (9/?); 62773 all together

Rustling from across the room woke Damen up from sleep. When he pried open his eyes, he was met with utter darkness, all except for his extremely familiar clock blinking in red numbers at him, ‘4:11.’ Damen groaned, threw the pillow over his head, and gruffed out, “Are we ever going to wake up at normal hours again or is this life from here on out?”

Nik, who was the source of the rustling, didn’t look up from the duffle bag he was rummaging through when he said, “I mean, maybe. If you take that job, it definitely might be your life from here on out. Though, to be honest, I’m not sure what all a social media manager is supposed to do.”

Damen groaned again.

Last night, after the whirlwind of yesterday’s events, Damen finally managed to tell Nik all that he could. He began where the craziness had, telling of the demon spawn from Etoile’s office leading him to an impromptu meeting where he was offered a job without Nik. Then Damen went on to explain how the same demon spawn was harassing him at the rehearsal party and that, somehow for some reason, led to an interrogation by Laurent who snapped back to normal so fast it gave Damen whiplash. By this point in his storytelling, Nik was already drinking again and Damen still had more to tell. He finished by telling of Laurent not eating, and none of the other models eating either, before telling of the apparent fight between Laurent and his uncle and Laurent’s followed drunken escape and insinuation Damen might try something unseemly.

“Basically,” Damen had ended last night, “I can’t wait to get out of here. And we’re never doing anything with models again. Not ever.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Nik had said before downing the remainder of a bottle.

Later, and much more quietly, Nik had asked a still-not-sober-enough Damen, “Were you thinking of taking the job?”

The tone of the question had had Damen looking away from the details on the ceiling to look at his friend. Outwardly, Nik had looked as he always did. Outwardly, Nik might as well have been asking what Damen wanted for breakfast when they woke up to start the day tomorrow. But there was something intoning, something that had Damen wishing he desperately had another drink suddenly.

“Hell no. I like to think I’m a pretty good guy, but working with people like the ones we’ve met? I might go homicidal.”

That had seemed to drive away whatever had possessed the tone of Nik’s voice, but the memory of it — and everything else — flooded Damen’s mind at Nik’s lighthearted jab of the job offering. No part of him wanted to face the Etoile entourage today, but every part of him wanted to get today over with so things could go back to a semblance of normalcy. That, and his refusal to allow Nik to go about this alone, were the only things that made him get up.

Damen stood and stretched, arms high above his head, and his shoulder popped loudly, the joint both grateful and full of protest at the movement. Cool air swept over his sleep-warmed torso and he walked behind Nik to go and begin brushing his teeth in the bathroom. “Do I need to wear the suit right now?” he asked around a mouthful of toothpaste. “The show’s not until 10:30.”

“Just bring it along,” Nik said, his voice muffled as his head was half inside his duffle bag now. Then, with something akin to a flourish, he found a lens that must have gotten misplaced at some point and began to clean it. On the bed were already three other lenses, each one shiny and perfect. “They said we can change in the dressing room with the models.”

“Living every guy’s dream,” Damen said. He turned and spit into the sink.

As he only had to bother with bringing the suit in its garment bag, Damen was ready to leave in a matter of minutes. Nik hefted his own bag over his shoulder and shook his hair out of his face. Then he grimaced in Damen’s direction.

“Seriously?”

Damen looked around himself, looked down, looked up, and looked back at Nik and mocked his face. “What?”

“I know I said bring the suit along, but you literally threw on a sweatshirt and...and that’s it.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten all bougie hanging around the models,” Damen said, adjusting his own bag where it was knocking at the backs of his knees.

“When did you start saying bougie?” Nik asked in response, laughing now.

“I don’t know. I think the kids are saying it.”

“Seriously, though, can you at least try?”

“I promise, cross my heart and everything, to actually put effort in when we start getting ready. Maybe I’ll even steal some fancy hair gel or something. Deal?” Damen said.

Nik sighed. “Fine. But I want you to put on that gaudy suit and own it. I want you to behave as if Etoile has been the air you’ve breathed for the last twenty-seven years of your life. If I have to be seen out in public with you like this,” he motioned at the frumpled hem of Damen’s sweatshirt, “it’s the least I, and the rest of the patrons of Paris, deserve.”

“Let’s go then,” Damen said, and he shoved at Nik’s back to get him moving. “I need coffee first.”

“No time. We’re going right to the Grand Palais.”

“No time?”

[Continue on AO3]

Nik had been serious about the ‘no time.’ They were lucky that the streets were mostly empty and they could get to the Grand Palais without a fuss, because when they got there it was, in apparently constant Etoile fashion, bustling. They didn’t appear to be the last ones, or even remotely close to being the last ones, because neither of them saw a single model. Instead it was Charls and his crew running around like the world was possibly ending, though if Damen were to be given three guesses as to why, he would bet he’d be ruled correct when he said the others were feeding off of Charls’ energy.

“How long does it take to set up the same shit they set up yesterday?” Damen asked Nik from the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know, but I know that yesterday they were like this for two hours straight. And, as you can tell, the models aren’t even here yet and I don’t know when they will be.”

“Well, they’re clearly preoccupied and you’re probably about to be as well. I’m going to use this time to get myself some kind of caffeine. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

“Damen,” Nik sighed.

“Forty minutes,” Damen tried again. “It’ll keep me out of the way and will let you settle in. Do you want anything?”

“No. I don’t need anything adding to my jitters.”

“You’re going to be great, and I’m going to be caffeinated. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Damen turned and exited the very doors he and Nik had just entered through. The sun was low in the sky and the city was dark and its air damp from the river. A quick look at his phone said it was a few minutes nearing five and he was certain there had to be some Parisian café open to the earliest of customers. Logically, he knew he could have searched it on his phone and found an answer, but the city was quiet. Damen opted to simply walk instead, eyes peeled for a storefront alive with lights.

A bell, somewhere in the distance, chimed out with a song, its ringing carrying across the city, the melody travelling with the breeze, and Damen sighed into the chilled air. The bell’s song ended, then came the singular sounds, bass so low he felt it in the pit of his stomach, indicating the time. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He crossed a bridge, stopping for only a moment to peer down into the dark waters of the Seine. The tops of the ripples and waves were golden with streetlight and the last bits of moonlight, but when the ripples settled and the waves fell, it was all pitch black. There was a beauty in its darkness, in the remembrance of the history of a place like this, and it all seemed that much more beautiful when, in the dying of the bell chiming came from just a block away the faint sound of music.

Pushing off of the stone railing of the bridge, Damen followed the music. It got closer, or rather he got closer, as he turned down the first street the rest of the way across the bridge. There, along with the music, were the storefronts alive with lights. There were only a few stores with lights on, but there were enough that Damen could make out the few people out and about as he was in the before-dawn streets of Paris; or, in the case of one gentleman he saw, still out from the evening. One front was a bar, though it appeared to be in the quick process of closing for the day, the sign turned on the door and all the lights off except for the one overhead a bartender at a register counting the drawer. Another was a bakery, its inside in a similar state as the bar in regard to a singular man, only this man was dusted with flour and rolling some kind of dough on the flat surface of the counter. But there, almost the storefront at the corner of the end of the street, was a café.

Coffee shop would probably be a more appropriate term for this place. As Damen came right upon it, he immediately wanted to go inside. It was a hole-in-the-wall looking place, no big signs outside announcing its name, no fancy gold seats like the café closer to the hotel, and the only thing Damen could think was cozy. Perhaps that came too from the small, intimate space inside, only one couch at the window and two other seats possible to sit in, or perhaps it came from the warm color of the walls or the bookshelf, however small, perched above the seat nearest the door. Or perhaps, as expected, it was the delicious smell of coffee wafting from underneath the door, the two baristas inside hard at work.

There wasn’t an open sign on the door, but there was a person inside, sitting comfortably on the couch and hidden in a book. The worst thing that could happen was the baristas told Damen they weren’t open quite yet and he turned and went on his way. But, not wanting to overlook such a place, he pushed open the door, its own little bell ringing out, clear and high.

“Are you open?” he asked in French, pitching his voice lower as to not disturb the reader on the couch. Both baristas nodded yes, one smiling wide, and Damen bid them both a good morning. “I’m glad. It’s just cold enough out there I need the caffeine to both get through the day and to warm my hands.”

He ordered his usual, a simple espresso shot, and it came to him quickly in a small white cup, the liquid hot and welcome.

“What are the chances?” a voice sounded out from behind him quite suddenly and Damen, who had been attempting to figure out which of the two available seats he should take, nearly tripped over a chair leg in his attempt to acknowledge the person whose face had been in the book the entire time.

There, on the couch, was Laurent.

He looked the least like the Laurent that Damen had seen yet. He looked, for lack of a better word, cozy, like the shop. His lithe form was drowning in a baby blue sweatshirt that was plain in everything except for the lettering going vertically up his left side that said ‘Givenchy.” His legs, which were curled up close to his chest, were swathed in simple black, the sweats high quality but unnamable, and on his feet were simple white tennis shoes. The blond of his hair was loose and spilling over one shoulder and the blue of his sweatshirt made his eyes pop, the color of the it reflecting in them the same way the lights of the city had reflected on the dark water of the Seine.

The sight struck Damen somewhere deep in his chest and he became all too aware of two things. The first was that this was the first time Damen had seen Laurent in something not meant to be on a runway, for even his clothing when Damen and Nik had ran into him outside of his apartment all those days ago would have looked perfectly in place on a stage; his face was cleared of makeups, his hair free of products, and he was dressed as twenty-somethings did when dressing casually (minus the price tag of the sweatshirt which had to be over two thousand). The second thing was that he looked more beautiful than ever, as though the comforts of a sweatshirt and tennis shoes softened him into something Damen was terrified to reach out and touch because he might break him.

“I mean, honestly,” Laurent continued, as if totally unaware of Damen’s crisis at hand, “what are the chances?”

“Laurent,” Damen said. Laurent’s name left his mouth like the first gasp of air after being underwater too long and Damen cleared his throat, bringing his espresso closer to his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Unexpectedly, Laurent shifted on the sofa, leaving plenty of room for Damen to join him. He looked smaller like that, curled on the sofa with a worn cushion nestled behind him. On the stage, he looked like a god, like Apollo, swimming in gold and larger than life. It was the angle, the length of his legs, Damen reminded himself, but it didn’t change the fact that it was how it felt. But here he looked — Damen didn’t finish the thought. Instead, after a moment’s hesitancy, he sat down.

“I’m hiding,” Laurent provided, just as Damen was settling. “I don’t have to be at the Grand Palais until six-thirty, but, as per usual, I was told I would not be given any food or anything to drink this morning. I can forgo food, but caffeine is a necessity. Not getting it will only lead to a massive headache that will put me in a murderous mood. This café is far enough away I doubted anyone from the show would wander over. Yet, here you are.”

Damen didn’t respond to that right away. Instead he said, “Your normal mood isn’t murderous? Gods, I’d hate to see you get to that point then.”

It was said jokingly, but as soon as the words left Damen’s mouth, they brought with them an onslaught of memories from only last night, each one so concrete in detail because of the closeness in time. Laurent’s scathing interview after Nicaise had insulted Damen to the nth degree, his clenched fists as he talked quietly with his uncle, the ease in which he told Damen, a smile on his face and everything, that if he wanted to get assaulted he would have just gone to a party, the way he didn’t want help, didn’t trust help, to even get across the street.

As if reading his mind, Laurent spoke in a voice Damen had yet to hear from him. It wasn’t a quiet voice necessarily, something that may have been expected in this context, but it was absolute in its apology. It made Damen dizzy.

“I’m sorry about last night. I don’t remember all of it, but I remember enough to know you helped me to not get ran over by a car, despite whatever insulting things I had no doubt said to your face.”

“You seemed stressed yesterday. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about it. But I am sorry. I’m normally much more controlled than that,” Laurent said. He fell back further into the cushions, his blue sweatshirt pooling around his arms. It looked like it was almost too big for him with the way it fell down to cover his hands.

“What made last night different?” Damen asked.

“This and that,” Laurent said vaguely. He took a sip out of the cup in his hand and Damen watched with amusement as Laurent’s mouth puckered and he squeezed his eyes shut as if to block out the taste that way. Sensing Damen’s eyes on him, hearing the small chuckle he had let out, Laurent brought the cup away from his lips to say, “I didn’t get my usual additives of milk and sugar. It’s not exactly pleasant.”

“That’s just espresso?” Laurent nodded and took another painful sip. “Why not get something you like? This looks like torture for you.”

“It is. Very much so. But, as I told you, I came here because I knew they wouldn’t allow me anything once I arrived at the show. I couldn’t make it obvious I had anything though, thus, a disgusting, bitter, black espresso shot is what I get.”

“But what —”

“As I do remember telling you this last night, it’s all in relation to not eating leading up to a show. Even a simple cup of coffee or latte could lead to bloating. We don’t even drink water for the same reason. Water weight, and all that,” Laurent said.

“That seems excessive.”

“You look like a guy that likes to workout,” Laurent said, and before he continued the sentence he downed the rest of his espresso in a quick gulp, like a child trying to take medicine before the taste registered. “What’s the best way to show muscle definition?”

“Dehydration,” Damen answered quickly, then it was his turn to make a face. “But it’s not healthy to do, especially often.”

“You can tell my uncle that.”

Damen allowed the silence to speak for him then. Outside, the city was coming more to life with every passing minute. Damen could see shop owners arriving and slipping inside their businesses, ready to begin the day. He could see men in suits, harried and on the phone already, walking down the street with purpose unbecoming of such early hours still. He could feel those blue eyes watching him watch the city.

Then Laurent said, the tone to his voice much more familiar, “Tell me you’re not wearing that. Or, if you are, tell me you’re going to not associate with anyone that is part of Etoile. Not a one of us has the time to explain why we’re dealing with obvious amateurs.”

“We’re wearing the exact same thing,” Damen said, looking down at the sweatshirt and sweatpants protecting his body from the chilled air.

“No. I’m wearing Givenchy, steamed free of wrinkles. You’re wearing —” Laurent trailed, “Champion? Or is that outfit from a convenience store?”

“First of all, this is all Nike. Second of all, it was all a gift from Nike leading up to the release of their new winter stuff last year.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Laurent said, sounding anything but. “I wasn’t aware I was in the presence of fame. Can I get your autograph?”

“You’re really telling me this mood isn’t murderous?” Damen asked and, gods help him, he was laughing.

“This is me being quite pleasant, I assure you.”

“Well, if it qualms any of your worries about your dear status here in Paris, I’ll have you know that your uncle had Charls create a suit just for me to wear at the show today and it, direct quote from the note inside of the bag, ‘will bring out the warmth of my skin.’ Your embarrassment can be staved yet another day,” Damen said.

Chin perched on his own hand, Laurent scanned Damen up and down. Then his lips quirked up, just at the corners, and it was suddenly far too hot in this sweatshirt. “I bet Charls is having a grand time fitting you. He’s not accustomed to people quite so —” and then Laurent stopped himself.

Instinctually, Damen leaned in closer. “So what?”

“So culturally simple,” Laurent finished.

Damen leaned back, and rubbed at his neck. He hadn’t meant to —

Just then, Laurent’s phone vibrated on the table in front of them and Damen watched as Laurent grabbed it and silenced the sound.

“And with that, I must be off. Charls will have a coronary if I’m even a minute late.”

Copying Laurent’s earlier move, Damen quickly downed the rest of his espresso. “I’ll walk with you. Since we’re going to the same place.”

They brought their cups to the bin near the front where workers could later gather them and then they were off, the bell to the shop ringing behind them, its fading followed by a flash of light from inside.

Outside, Damen had to sidestep several people to keep up with Laurent’s confident stride. Every moment, a new onslaught of cars or pedestrians or even busses seemed to be arriving in this area of the city, each one adding to the growing chaos. With a kind of fascination, Damen watched as people getting out of cars lugged heavy camera equipment, watched as people getting off of one of the busses — the oldest of them not possibly older than twenty-five — descended its steps in insane shoes, watched as garment bags were carried this way and that by undescriptable people.

“Is this all for fashion week?” Damen asked.

“Where have you been? It’s been like this since three days ago,” Laurent answered. The sun was finally over the horizon.

“I’ve been at rehearsals and parties and whatnot all for Etoile. I didn’t realize Paris itself got like this.”

“We’re the fashion capital of the world. Every year gets more intense, more insane, than the last.” They were crossing the bridge over the Seine now. “Just be thankful you haven’t been assaulted by the influencers. Oh, wait. You are one.”

“I am not,” Damen said, annoyance heavy in an instant. “And what do you mean assaulted by them?”

“Don’t you follow the tabloids? Every year, we get more and more famous Instagram stars or YouTube stars or whatever the newest craze is that think they belong in our front rows. Or, in some awful cases, that think they belong in our shows. And they show up, acting like the next best thing whilst the rest of us, who have worked for what we have, bristle at their lack of critical thinking. It’s quite fun. The most fun I have is bitching with the rest of the Etoile group over the one thing we all have in common: the hatred of entitlement.”

Once again, Damen chose one particular thing to latch onto. “You can have fun then? You’re not entirely incapable?”

Laurent’s lips quirked again. “I’m not above setting security on you.”

They finished the rest of their excursion to the Grand Palais in silence, Laurent’s eyes ahead and Damen’s unable to decide if they wanted to look at the city or at Laurent more. The closer they got to the building, the more evident it became that there was a line forming outside the entrance, and an official one at that. It was roped off by velvet ropes, ones that kept the direct walkway out of public reach. When directly in front of the building, let in by Laurent’s face only, Damen watched the frenzied crowd that only continued growing.

Damen felt like an athlete awaiting his time to take to the field.

“Does this not bother you?’ he asked as they ducked in the door.

“I’ve done many of these. Even if it did, I’d be long used to it by now.”

They were walking right through, not being given any attention from the bustling that rushed over them with a wave of anxiousness. It only added to the feeling low in Damen’s chest.

“That wasn’t a yes,” Damen said. He narrowly avoided running into a man pushing a cart with boxes stacked double of his entire height.

“It wasn’t a no either,” Laurent said.

Somehow they had made it all the way to the elaborate stage from yesterday. It looked just as magical, just as identical to the Hall of Mirrors, as it had the day before and Damen was still floored at the dedication to its artistry. Charls was on the stage, shaky fingers pointing people this way and that way and, like time slowed, Charls turned and, catching sight of Laurent, made a noise near inhuman.

“There you are!” the designer said, bustling quickly down the stairs.

“Yes, Charls. And I’m earlier than you asked me to be. As I always am.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Charls fretted, “I’m just always so relieved to see you walk through the door. It calms me tremendously.”

“I’m glad,” Laurent said. He sounded like he genuinely meant it.

“Good luck today,” Damen said as Charls began to lead Laurent away, back toward where the dressing rooms were far behind the stage.

“Thank you,” Laurent said curtly, his tone much crisper with just those two words alone than it had been the entire morning. Charls didn’t seem to be paying them any mind, his own thoughts far too focused on getting Laurent in the dressing room quickly and seamlessly, but Laurent seemed hyper-aware of Charls’ presence in that instant. Then he was gone.

For the next hour, Damen roamed. He felt more comfortable doing so than he had yesterday, and it was fascinating to watch everything behind the scenes come into place if he were being honest. If he had thought the sessions that had been arranged in those earliest weeks had been busy, or if he had thought the dress rehearsal yesterday had been busy, those were nothing in comparison to what was happening today. Models were arriving entirely un-modeled up, some of them, but not many, unrecognizable with their undone faces and hair and normal clothes, and a few were stopped at the door by Vannes who snatched beverages from a handful of them, mumbling something in French that Damen couldn’t discern from where he was standing, but that sounded unkind. At one point there was yelling from somewhere in the back, and the set designers were spending equal amounts of time running between the expensive seats set up for the crowd and the atual set itself, doing the most mundane things like painting a bolt on the back wall, near the bottom, gold.

At seven-thirty, the doors opened to let in the second round of crew members, this group consisting of the lighting and technology company, a catering crew that Damen noted wouldn’t be providing food to the models, and, unexpectedly Damen’s possible new boss.

Etoile’s creator was dressed the part for a man that owned a modeling and clothing design company. His suit dripped with money, from the quality of the material to the gold fitted to his cufflinks, his belt, his lapel, and even the buckles of his shoes. But other than the gold, it was a tame suit, predominantly a deep red with flashes of white to compliment the gold. At the entrance, he stopped and talked to Vannes, the two of them speaking lowly. Then the man gave a nod and kept walking, walking right into a yell of cheers at his arrival, led by Charls and several of the honey-eyed boys that would be walking first.

A tap on the shoulder stole Damen’s attention.

“How was your coffee?” Nik asked, and even though he had just tapped Damen’s shoulder, he was already fiddling with the camera in his hands.

“Good,” Damen said. He reached out and made Nik stop moving, pushing the camera to Nik’s chest. “Laurent was there.”

“Why would you say that to me? Can you not see that I’m already at the point I’m near crawling out of my own skin? There’s no reason to add to my stress.”

“It was fine,” Damen said, laughing. “I didn’t tell you that to stress you out, I just told you because it was unexpected.”

“He didn’t kill you so I suppose it wasn’t too bad,” Nik said. “And whispers are that he’s in a tolerable mood today. The whispers also say that can change faster than a strike of lightning, but we’re all hoping for the best.”

“His uncle did just arrive so I wouldn’t put that thought too far back in your mind.”

“Great.”

Outside, though it was incredibly muffled, the bells Damen had heard on his earlier excursion began to chime again. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

“Oh heavens,” Damen and Nik heard from the stage and there was Charls again, looking ready to faint at the next thing that made him startle. “Attention, everyone, attention!” he called out, his voice ringing from the glass ceiling and the multitudes of mirrors in the room. “It is eight in the morning which means the doors will be opening in one hour for the show. That means it is time. It is time to get the models makeuped and dressed, it is time to test the sound and the lights, it is time to run through every scenario in which something could go drastically wrong and ensure we have a solution in place. This is it. The press will be let in first and that will tell the world what we are doing here today. Places, everyone!”

“They told me we could go get ready now alongside the models,” Nik said, hanging his camera around his neck.

“Most of the models have been here since before seven. What have they been doing the last hour?”

“Warming up. They had them doing stretches and exercises to loosen their joints and get their legs ready for walking and complete stability or whatever Herode was rambling about.”

Damen pursed his mouth in thought. “That makes sense.”

“Does it?” Nik asked.

“I’d like to see you get up there and walk across that stage in heels and not fall on your face,” Damen said.

“I bet you would like to see that,” Nik joked, and then dodged a thwack from Damen. And for a brief moment, surrounded by gold and glass instead of the vastness of the ocean, they were twelve again, roughhousing their way to the back room before quick composure had them standing upright and tall.

The door to the dressing room was shut, but the noise from inside was loud and brought with it a spike of something akin to anxiety.

“Let’s see what you’ve gotten us into,” Damen said.

The dressing room was, of course, not like a standard dressing room, because Etoile did nothing simply standard, not even its behind-the-scenes stuff. Everything was white, stark white to be precise; the walls were unblemished, not a color in sight, and everything else was white as well, as if it was saying ‘Look at these models. Their beauty is all the decoration needed.’ Lining the left wall was a seemingly endless line of vanities, each adorned with a mirror dotted with bright lights for the makeup artists, and several models were in the chairs, getting their makeup and hair done. To the right were two separate stations, one being full-body mirrors and a stand for models to wait on as the design team fiddled with their clothing and spent excessive amounts of time making sure there wasn’t a wrinkle in sight, a tear the width of a strand of hair, and so on, and the other station was a finalizing station near the door with an empty chair was waiting for Laurent’s uncle to make sure everything was approved before he sent them out. Near the back of the room were clothing racks stuffed with clothing, some of the garment bags almost exploding with how much fabric they contained, and that’s where Damen could spot Charls, Vannes, and Herode.

In the makeup chair closest to the door, Ancel was getting his red hair teased to a high, the fiery strands cascading over one shoulder like a crimson waterfall. When he saw Damen and Nik in his peripheral vision, he turned just a little more and winked before saying, “Can I just say thank you to whoever brought the eye candy for us? For so long we’ve been the only eye candy in the room, and I’m not sure many of us are each other’s tastes, but these two make a majority of us very happy.”

Nik held back a groan of something, Damen could practically feel the metaphoric grip he had on it, but Damen, much better with this kind of attention, walked on in and said in response, “We aim to please,” and Ancel let out a noise that could have practically been a purr.

Over on one of the stools the models were getting dressed at, some already draped in fabrics, others getting refitted due to something gone wrong, was Aimeric who was getting sandals laced all the way up to his knees by a frazzled looking woman who undid the knots at least four times, clearly unhappy with how they looked.

Several other models were in the expected places. Damen spotted a sandy-haired boy with a beautiful curl to the ends of his hair — Erasmus, Damen thought his name was — getting a pair of pants hemmed by a design intern, and near him was a dark-haired boy with a hand on Erasmus’ bare shoulder, the hold almost protective in the curl of the boy’s fingers. A boy with skin the shade of chestnut was getting glittery body oil with gold flecks applied to his chest, the brush being used large and round and moving in perfect clockwise circles. Near the back, one model was stripped down to almost nothing, standing patiently whilst Vannes, now moved from her conversation with Charls and Herode, was scanning the clothing racks for the right bag.

“I didn’t know they let animals back here,” came the unmistakable voice of the devil Nicaise who, with strength unbefitting his size, shoved past Damen and Nik, going as far as to walk between them, breaking the trance of watching the organized chaos of model-magic coming to life. He was dressed like a model, unsurprisingly, his small form bathed in a deep red dress with sheer sleeves covered in sparkling gold. The red brought out the rosiness of his cheeks, a sign of the youth still there, and strewn throughout his hair were similar gold specks, each one flawlessly places as though he was naturally as shimmering as he appeared.

“Gods above, I’m going to go take some pictures of everyone getting ready,” Nik mumbled, a furrow between his eyebrows made only deeper with every second Nicaise stood there, a hand on his tiny hip.

“Yeah, they let us out into society sometimes to see how civilized people work,” Damen said, not missing a beat. Nik was already halfway across the room, raising a hand to Jeurre who was talking with his nose upturned to a cowering boy helping set up drinks and food.

“Where’s your collar with your owner’s number on it? I’d like to call and report you missing. Maybe they’ll send out animal control,” Nicaise said.

“Nicaise,” came yet another unmistakable voice and there, in one of the chairs, was Laurent again. He must have been blocked by his makeup artist when Damen walked in, that was the only way Damen would have missed him. He was wearing a white robe, one tied loosely at the waist, coming down only below his knees, and at the legs it was falling open some, revealing one thigh the same color as the robe. His eyes were shut, the makeup artist applying delicate strokes of gold on the space of his eyelid. To allow the makeup artist access, Laurent’s head was tilted back so his eyes were higher, but it only showed Damen the elegant column of his neck leading to the sharp lines of his collarbone. “No one needs you back here antagonizing. Wait until after the show.”

“Gold washes you out. Has anyone ever told you that?” Nicaise asked, his attention switching from Damen to Laurent quickly.

Eyes still closed, Laurent smiled. “I’ll make sure to avoid gold in the future then.”

“I think gold looks good on you,” Damen said. Nicaise’s attention quickly switched back.

“Well we’re all aware of your lack of taste so that’s not surprising in the least.”

“What are you doing back here, Nicaise?” The line of gold on Laurent’s eyelid had been exaggerated in the minute they’d been talking, the thin line of the wing extended far out beyond his actual eye.

“Watching your final show come to close,” Niciase said. “I figure this is the closest I’ll ever get to watching something like an execution.”

The makeup artist put away the liquid gold she’d been using and reached now for a brown contouring stick. With practiced precision she made a line underneath the dip of each of Laurent’s cheekbones then grabbed a rounded brush. She blended the brown line in until it was smudged and faded, appearing as a natural shadow that emphasized the fine structure of Laurent’s face, made him look sharper and more untouchable.

“Just think,” Laurent started, “in a few years you’ll be in my exact position. I suppose it is good that you witness this.”

Nicaise flushed immediately at the words, the color all the way at his ears, and it matched the blush the makeup artist was now applying to the tops of Laurent’s cheeks.

“I’m never going to be like you,” Nicaise said, and the venom with which he spit those words out had Damen feeling as though he was hearing something he wasn’t supposed to be hearing.

“No?”

“No, I’m going to be better than you,” Nicaise said. “I’ll be better than you in every way.”

“I hope you are,” Laurent said.

“You’re intolerable,” Nicaise said, ears still red and venom still on his tongue. “I’m leaving.”

“Yes, I’m sure my uncle will want you right next to him one last time. I’ll see you after the show, alright?”

Nicaise, shoving past Damen again and, even though Nik wasn’t there, stepping on his foot, said over his shoulder, “I hope you fall flat on your face,” and then he was gone.

Laurent’s eyelashes, now darkened with mascara, were incredibly long. They rested on the blushed apples of his cheeks, the black of them a drastic contrast to his pale skin, but it was their length that had Damen staring. He hadn’t anticipated Laurent opening his eyes though, hadn’t anticipated what a lining of gold and a darkening of his lashes could do to the blue of his eyes. They made eye contact in the mirror and, for an illicit moment, Damen felt the electric shock of want hit him, felt the desire to see if Laurent’s golden hair felt as silk to the touch as it appeared.

“You still haven’t changed,” Laurent said. “I do hope you weren’t lying about embarrassing us all.”

“I’m getting ready to put my suit on right now, thank you,” Damen said, finding his voice. “I was actually looking for a place to change.”

Laurent hummed, the noise sounding near amused. “We don’t have places to change. We simply change.”

It made sense. Of course, Damen hadn’t been quite honest when he said he was looking for a place to change because he was mostly coming up with an excuse to not sound as winded as he felt, but thinking on it now...yes, he thought, taking a cursory glance around the room to the models in nearly nothing a they got fitted, there wouldn’t be a place to change.

“I promise no one will bite. Actually,” Laurent contemplated, “Ancel might. But everyone else is harmless.”

Nik had hung their bags near the back of the room, both off to the side as to not get mixed in with the models’ things, and Damen could see his hanging there, the note Charls had left on it visible from even this distance.

“I’m not shy,” Damen said. “I was trying to avoid having you fall desperately in love with me. But I guess there’s no help for you now.”

“My delicate sensibilities,” Laurent started, his voice superficially whiny, near mocking. Then he stood from the chair and began to untie his robe. “It’s as though I’ve never seen anyone in minimal clothing.”

The robe fell.

Damen hadn’t lied when he said he wasn’t shy; in Greece, he grew up wearing hardly any clothing, his adventurous self far too busy spending as much time in the ocean as humanly possible. And even when he wasn’t in the ocean, he was usually right by it, lounging outside at his family’s home in nothing but a pair of shorts or walking the shops that lined the water in the same thing. He wasn’t arrogant, or oblivious, enough either to not be aware that part of his and Nik’s following came from the lack of clothing Damen seemed to spend most of his time donning (or not donning). After all, the forever-loading comment section on every photo of fire emojis or the water dripping emoji or the panting-face emoji told him that.

Other people’s nakedness had never bothered him either. One didn’t bed as many people as Damen had in his lifetime and were bothered by nudity. But Damen was used to expecting it, was used to others making a show of it. His bed partners usually tried to be alluring with the way they lifted shirts over their heads, the way they revealed inch by inch of skin -- unless it was a quickie in an airport bathroom or something. Laurent didn’t do that; the robe simply fell, pooling on the floor in a puddle of satin white, and leaving Laurent in nothing but an equally satined, and poor excuse for, underwear that came up high on his hips as to not clash with the high slit in one singular pant-leg of his runway outfit that showed just enough skin to be considered temptation.

But Laurent wasn’t one of his bed partners.

That didn’t mean Damen didn’t want to know if his skin felt just as smooth as the satin of the robe now on the floor. It looked like it would.

Unbothered, Laurent walked over to one of the stands. Though all the models were each in similar states of undress, Laurent drew eyes to him as he walked, drew eyes as he accepted one of the designers hands to stand by the full-length mirrors. Damen could see Laurent’s face in the mirror, could see the shadows of his eyelashes again as he was looking down and talking to the same designer. Damen could see his ass which was near enough to short circuit his brain.

Across the room, Nik called for him.

“Please get dressed,” Nik said, his voice having taken on a near pleading tone.

“I was getting ready to.”

“No, you were getting ready to do or say something stupid to Laurent who, unaware of the fact that you have no ability to not stare at every beautiful blond you, stripped down to nothing in front of you,” Nik said. He shoved the garment bag in Damen’s hands.

“He’s —” Damen started.

“Don’t finish that sentence. I can guess what you’re going to say.”

They were somewhat behind the clothing racks, the most privacy offered in this room, and Damen, without hesitancy, ripped his sweatshirt over his head and shucked off his sweatpants in a matter of seconds, leaving him too in his underwear which was a nice tight pair of black briefs. Nik began to do the same, less quickly than Damen, and that’s when a wolf-whistle reached their ears.

“Now they’re giving us a show,” Ancel said and immediately half of the room was looking at them.

“I’m going to kill myself or them,” Nik muttered only loud enough for Damen to hear and he was unzipping the garment bag with enough force to nearly break the zipper. “I can’t decide.”

“Just ignore them,” Damen muttered back, holding in a breath of laughter, as Ancel began to have a very loud, and very graphic conversation about Damen or Nik or both’s cocks like they weren’t even in the room.

Nik’s suit was as he said it would be, black, black, black. It was nicely made, the material Etoile quality, but it was simplistic, all neat and straight lines, no embroidering, no odd tie, no anything. It was one of Damen’s favorite suits he’d seen because it did what he wanted outfits to do and that was highlight the person, not the clothing itself.

Damen’s suit was a little more complicated. The first step was a white dress shirt which was just a size too tight, forcing Damen to leave more than a few buttons undone at the top. The second step was the pair of red dress pants, ones that ended right above his ankles and had a perfectly straight crease down the central part of each leg. The second step were the shoes, white and shiny and blessedly left without decoration. The fourth step was a gold and red vest, one that accentuated the width of his shoulders. Lastly, it was finished with a red suit jacket with gold cufflinks identical to the ones Laurent’s uncle was wearing. It did bring out the warmth of his skin.

“I want your suit,” Damen said, pulling and adjusting the lapels.

“Too bad.”

“Alright, everyone!” Charls’ wobbling voice called out. If Damen had thought the man had looked stressed earlier, it was nothing compared to how he looked now. He looked sickly, white with a yellowed hue, red bright eyes, and a face that said it may end up over a trash can at any moment to expel anything and everything in his body. “It is nearing nine which means the doors are opening. Final touches will be made to the models’ faces and hair shortly. Photographers, it’s time to begin settling in where the show will take place, ensuring your positions are secured. We’re counting on you to capture the artistry that are our models, are these pieces of clothing, are the Regency. Everyone else…” he trailed dramatically, “we shall see each other on the other side.”

“That’s my cue,” Nik said. “And yours.”

“Let’s go, bigshot,” Damen started, but just as they began to walk, a hand reached out and clasped around Damen’s wrist.

He didn’t know her by name, but he knew she was a hairstylist, the same one that had been teasing Ancel’s hair up to a high and in a quiet voice she asked, “Can I do your hair? I promise it won’t take long. Your curls.”

“They need artfully tousled!” another stylist called over her shoulder.

“Yeah, Damen, get your curls artfully tousled,” Nik said.

“I’ll do it, but just so I stay out of your way since you’ll yell if you start to get all extra stressed.”

Over the girls excited squeals, Nik said, “Sure, that’s why,” and he threw a quick look to where Laurent was still on the stand by the full-length mirrors getting his golden corset pulled tighter and tighter.

The girl who had asked, Tilda, was practically skipping as she followed Damen who sat down in one of the open vanity seats. Without another word, she opened one of the drawers of the vanity they were in front of and pulled out three different bottles, each one gold like the everything else and Damen wondered momentarily if the brand they bought was purposefully gold, if it was coincidence, or, worse, if Etoile took their usual brand and put it into gold cans and jars to fit the aesthetic. He wouldn’t put it past them.

“I’m going to keep it quite simple,” Tilda began, grabbing a spray bottle off of the vanity’s top. “First I’m going to wet your hair, then I’m going to run this mousse through it. After that I’ll apply a heat protectant and blow dry those curls to a voluminous fluff, and finish it with a smoothing oil. Shouldn’t take any longer than ten minutes.”

She kept her hands perfunctory as they carded through his curls, at first turning them into a mess of frizz and uncontrollable poofiness. Then came the spritzes of water, dampening Damen’s hair but not soaking it. Just as she said, she first squirted the mousse into her hand, the smell of it light and the puff of the whiteness growing after exiting the spray can, and she ran it through until it had dissolved and sunken in. Next came the blow dryer that had Damen squinting his eyes, catching only brief glimpses of himself in the mirror. Last was the oil that Tilda ran through the ends of his hair, taming the strands that didn’t want to cooperate with the rest of the hair.

“What do you think?” she asked him and, if he were to tell her the truth, he’d tell her that it didn’t look that much different and that’s why he liked it. All that work seemed to do was tame the curls into a purposefully messed up, bedhead kind of look.

But before he could tell Tilda so, Laurent said, “I think he’s in my seat.”

Damen turned around in the chair. One of his curls fell over his eyes. Laurent was dressed in the outfit he’d walked in yesterday, missing only the crown which couldn’t be put on until they finished his hair. But everything else was perfectly done, from the makeup on his face to the golden shoes on his feet. The corset made him look impossibly small, like Damen could put both his hands on either side of those ribs and his fingers would touch. He looked sharp, untouchable, unobtainable, and like something out of a dream.

“Sorry, Your Majesty,” Damen said, pushing himself up to stand. “But if it means anything, I can’t embarrass you. I told you I’d clean up.”

“You look like one of Etoile,” Laurent said. He sounded displeased still.

“Hair looks good,” Ancel said, strolling by, heels clicking. “So does your chest hair.”

Damen snorted a laugh then tried to cover it with a cough as Laurent’s eyes narrowed. “Right, sorry. Your seat.”

Maybe it was in imitation of the designer that had helped Laurent on the stand, maybe it was the corset that had to be uncomfortable, maybe it was the heels on Laurent’s shoes that had him nervous the other would trip, but Damen held out a hand for Laurent to help him into the seat. Laurent’s eyes narrowed more at the gesture, now directed at Damen’s outstretched hand. Then, of all things he could have done, he took it.

“Don’t you have to find a seat in the back of the show or something?” Laurent asked.

Tilda, holding back an obvious giggle and quite accustomed to Laurent clearly, began to brush out his long blond hair, holding it up so it draped over her arm, a Dali melting clock in person.

Exiting the dressing room, it didn’t take long for Damen to spot Nik. As the lights weren’t dimmed yet, Nik’s black suit stood out greatly where he positioned on the floor near the right side of the stage. In current-expected Nik fashion, he was fiddling with buttons and settings and Damen couldn’t wait for this to be done and over with so Nik would go back to actually enjoying what he did.

“Hey,” Damen said, getting Nik’s hyper-focused attention to switch over for even a minute. “Where am I sitting?”

“Vannes said all of Etoile was sitting together over there.” Nik pointed to the left side of the stage and the group of seats clustered right there, each one with a name tag indescribable from this distance on it.

“I’m not exactly part of Etoile.”

“You’re not exactly not part of it either. I’d check over there first.”

In the second row, right where the Etoile section ended and the rest of the seats began, was Damen’s name in the same fancy script that had adorned the garment bags. Damianos Vallis. There were six more rows behind his seat, each one curling around to meet at the other side of the stage, like an elongated horseshoe, and some of the seats were already full, predominantly with journalists who had gotten in with press passes, a few working the old fashioned way with a notebook and pen and a rest working with electronic devices.

Not knowing what else to do, Damen took his seat. He spent the next half hour scrolling through his Instagram, liking comments, liking photos, and even uploading a photo onto his Instagram story of his white shoes and the location tag of ‘Paris, France.’ Then, in an instant, it seemed like everyone invited was arriving at once, voices and excitement filling the air. Every person entering was dressed in something made to be worn during a fashion week. Damen wondered, watching an old woman draped in a green dress and covered with a, what had to be real, fur coat that fell to her ankles, how much money was in this room alone. Around him the seats began to be taken over, conversations occurring in a multitude of languages, many of which Damen knew but couldn’t process when happening all at once.

Two rows behind Damen, a group of guys around his age sat down, one of them, the one with all the attention of the others, was definitely wearing some of Kanye West’s strange shoes, and he looked familiar; it didn’t take Damen too long to recognize where he knew him from. The guy popped up on Damen’s on Instagram ‘explore’ page, a traveller that did inane giveaways like cars and iPhones all for followers. Damen rolled his eyes and focused back to the stage.

He did so with great timing. The rest of Etoile’s members were finding their seats all around him. First he saw Vannes and Herode taking their seats, leaving Charls alone in the back which seemed like a questionable move if he were being honest. Then he saw Nicaise saunter in, his head high, and his eyes never leaving a certain point of the stage as if waiting for someone. There were others Damen recognized, but didn’t know by name, like the set designers and the board of members Laurent’s uncle had mentioned at times, but none of them stood out, except for all the red they were wearing. It must have been coordinated for all of Etoile’s group to wear red.

At long last, the man himself came onto the stage. The lights dimmed, causing a few people in the crowd to squeal as if they had never had lights dim on them before, and the only bright light was a central one on the stage. Laurent’s uncle was a commanding presence, even when alone on a stage. Actually, with the spotlight making the gold of his outfit shimmer, he looked even more commanding. His voice, when it rang out, was strong.

“Welcome, all,” he began, and like with the lights, a few squeals pricked at Damen’s eardrums at the first sound he made. “I thank you all for coming. This is Etoile’s tenth Paris Fashion Week, a milestone in this company’s own life. In those ten years, we have accomplished so much. Our design team is world-renowned for its creativity, for its grace, for, as some of the bolder tabloids have said, its ability to make even the plainest of models look deserving of worship. Speaking of our models, they have also helped mould Etoile into what it has become today. Our models are sought out by all. Did you know that, between all of our models, someone from Etoile has graced Vogue in over seventy countries and have been in a total of three hundred and ten magazines? How extraordinary.” The entire crowd began to clap and cheer and Laurent’s uncle took it all in with grace, the smile on his face real and too humble for a man responsible for all of this. “I don’t want to keep you all as I know you’re here for the outfits and models and not for me talking your day away. Without further adieu, I give you Etoile’s spring line for Paris Fashion Week.”

Before the rest of the lights went out, Damen saw Nik across the way, his camera blocking half of his face. Then —

“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.”

Around Damen, the crowd was already vibrating with anticipation, oohs and ahhs on the tips of their tongues, so when the first model came from stage left and began an elegant walk, everyone was quick to respond.

“Look at the lining!”

“Oh, he decided to be audacious with the shoulders this year.”

The models weren’t walking straight out. They were elegantly gliding horizontally, showing off the sides of their outfits, before finally walking straight out and taking their time at the end of the catwalk, their faces expressionless, the focus on the clothes. Or intended anyway.

The second model came out, then the third, fourth, fifth, sixth. All of them were honey-eyed, tiny things, three of them so similar in structure and face Damen thought they might be brothers. Behind him, that Instagram guy and his friends were making more comments about the models than the clothes.

“Look at that one.”

“Just how I like them. Small enough that I can just grab them and hold them on my dick.”

“Check out that one’s mouth. Already open.”

“You could just slide right in and —”

The next models began walking, one of them particularly eye-catching but simply because of his makeup that was done to match his clothing pattern directly, two bold lines of red dripping down his face like the two red lines running symmetrically with his nipples. He was followed by a model with pitch black hair and skin just as dark, the gold outfit particularly startling and wonderful on him, and he was followed by a model in a dress with a train that had to be going on two yards in length.

“Darling, you have to buy that for me as a wedding dress!”

“But we’re already married.”

“We can renew our vows then! I have to wear it, I simply have to.”

“Anything for you.”

There were a few more models after that one. All of them were in the colors of white and gold, prominently gold, and though Damen had seen it all yesterday, the opulence of it in this room, on this set, with all these people staring and absorbing everything, felt like so much more than what it was when the lights were on and bright. But then, like when the air took on an unnamable quality before the rain, there was a change.

It came with the slightest of pauses in the walking, in the way the stage stayed empty long enough to have heads craning to see what they were missing. It was exactly what Etoile wanted. The anticipation. Then walked in Aimeric.

The red rejuvenated a life in the crowd, a life that hadn’t truly diminished during the show, yet it grew now to astronomical proportions. Aimeric walked with a face that said someone had once told him he couldn’t do this so he was not set to do it better than anyone before him and the people watching were whispering praise for his sandals, for his outfit, for him. The excitement only grew when Ancel came out. Ancel walked differently than Aimeric. Ancel walked like he was aware of just how attractive he was, and it gave him something in his step, something when his heels hit the ground, that had many people in the crowd trying to keep a handle on themselves.

“He looks like he’d be eager,” one of the guys behind Damen said.

In par with his attitude, Ancel flipped his fiery hair at the end of the catwalk, letting it rain down over his shoulder in a show of its own, and a decent part of the crowd swooned at it, their voices full of nothing but adoration. Before he turned off the stage, Ancel kicked his heel back, as if needing to ensure everyone got one more look at his legs.

Then the lights changed. It was a subtle change, the lights brightening just a little more as if to draw yet more attention to the stage, as if everyone wasn’t already watching, completely enraptured. The murmuring in that instant got louder, like the crowd minutes before a concert began, and Damen realized something in that moment that hadn’t even occurred to him. All of these people were expecting Laurent.

He wasn’t sure why the realization of that made him feel as if he had just stumbled, but it did. Unlike him, unlike Nik, the rest of this crowd, assumingly, was into fashion and knew exactly what Etoile was bringing to the table. And Laurent, Damen did know now, was Etoile’s star was its muse practically.

If Damen had felt as if he had stumbled just moments ago, it was nothing to how he felt when Laurent came out on the stage. Logic told him he had just seen Laurent — in this very outfit and everything — just an hour earlier, yet seeing him on the stage, seeing the crown newly placed atop his head, he was golden, god-like, as if his likeness should be in one of Greece’s ancient temples and not here in Paris being ogled by people that just didn’t get it.

As he had at rehearsal, Laurent walked with his back straight, his core, tight, and it made him powerful. Nicaise’s wishes of Laurent falling flat on his face would go ungiven because Laurent was a professional, was seasoned. The crowd adored him, practically melted, and when Laurent finished his horizontal criss-crossing of the stage and began to walk straight down the remaining catwalk, the lights caught onto his crown, making him glow an ethereal pinkened hue.

“How much would you pay to get those legs wrapped around you, Ian?”

“Bitch like that, he’d only need to see my cock and he’d be the one paying me,” said an Ian. “Goddamn, look at him though.”

“You ever see those porn pics of, like, some chick before and after? You know, like how in the ‘before’ one she looks all cute and like she has her shit together and then in the ‘after’ she looks fucked out, makeup smeared, hair destroyed, mouth all swollen from getting reamed out a couple hundred times? Picture that with him. That crown practically sideways on his head, that gold and red makeup on his face smeared to hell from wacking your dick on his face too many times.” All the other guys made noises of agreement. Damen clenched his fists into his pants to keep from turning around. Instead he focused on the rest of the crowd that he could hear.

“Every year he looks like an angel when he comes on out.”

“What on earth is Etoile going to do if he doesn’t resign? No one else brings everything to life like he does.”

“Art. His existence is art.”

Damen was half-inclined to agree.

At the end of the catwalk, Laurent stood for just a second, and Damen could see Nik for the first time since the lights dimmed, his friend having followed Laurent down the stage. In a matter of only seconds after that though, Laurent turned and exited the way he came, all eyes on the red bottoms of his shoes and the way the corset gave him hips meant to have a hand on them.

When Laurent was gone, the stage stayed empty, the music still playing, the house lights still dimmed, all as if to allow the crowd the time to absorb what they had just seen. Then, like an explosion, all the models were coming back out in a sea of gold and centerpieces of red, and a few of the boys were motioning for Laurent’s uncle who climbed to the stage with an easy smile.

Damen watched the man get doted on by his models, listened to the crowd’s cheering turn into a roar, and watched as the man came to Laurent, held out his hand, and watched as Laurent took it. The two of them walked to the front of the stage, hands clasped, and together they looked like a king and a prince, like a king and a king, like a king and queen.

“Thank you,” Laurent’s uncle called out to the crowd which only seemed to get louder in response. Acknowledging he wouldn’t get another word in, the man gestured instead to the models behind him, then at Laurent, and the sound became near unbearable in volume. Laurent moved behind his uncle, their hands still holding, and motioned for Ancel or Aimeric or someone to grab his other hand, and Aimeric did. Then all the models formed a line down the stage and they all began to bow in thanks. It was only when they had left the stage that the lights returned to normal and the music stopped. Damen and Nik made wide-eyed eye contact across the already-dispersing onlookers.

“Everyone’s practically running out of here,” Damen said to Nik as soon as they were in hearing distance.

“I just asked Jeurre about that. He said that the next show is at the Luxembourg Palace and with the amount of people in the city right now, traffic is a mess and nobody wants to be late.”

Nik looked flushed, the kind of flushed that came after a good workout and it made Damen grin. “How’d it go?”

“I think it went alright.” Damen gave him a look. “I think it went really well. We’re supposed to choose thirty photos to send in sometime over the next two days. I don’t know if I can decide on just thirty.”

“I’ll help.”

“Photographers!” came Charls voice. He sounded infinitely better than he had earlier, as if a well-done show had him feeling like himself again. “Please come to the dressing room. I’d desperately love some photos of everyone now too, there is so much elation!”

“One last call for Etoile,” Nik said.

Talik, who had been on the side of the stage Damen was sitting, motioned for Nik. She was standing with Herode, his orange-red hair and beard a standout with this group. The three of them began to walk toward the dressing room together and just as Damen went to follow, he heard his name.

“Damianos.”

Turning, Damen saw Laurent’s uncle near the seat he had been in before he had joined the models on the stage. Nicaise was with him, holding his hand the same way Laurent had been.

“I’ve only got a moment before I need to leave and attend Halvik’s show at the Luxembourg Palace, but I’d like to speak to you before I go.”

“Of course.”

Nicaise’s fingernails were painted gold. It was all Damen could look at as he approached, their hands so drastically different in size. Peeking out were Nicaise’s golden nails, gold like the jewels in his hair.

“Congratulations on the show,” Damen said before he could say something stupid. “I think it’s all anyone is going to talk about for a while.”

Laurent’s uncle smiled. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so. But do you know what would make it talked about even more? Social media attention placed on it.”

Damen nodded in agreement, dread filling the pit of his stomach.

“Have you thought about our conversation yesterday?”

“I have,” Damen said honestly.

“And?”

“And,” Damen started. He didn’t want to say no. No made it real and as much as he meant the no he couldn’t...commit to that not. Not when he hadn’t explored options. Not when — “And can I think about it a little more? It’s a big change from what I’ve been doing. I don’t want to rush into it.”

Nicaise scoffed.

“I can give you until tomorrow. But I’ll need an answer.” The man paused and perused the room with his eyes. “There’s nothing like this world, Damianos. There aren’t opportunities in abundance to enter it either. Think wisely about it. I’d hate to see a talented young man like yourself waste what you’ve been given.”

“I’ll think on it,” Damen promised, and Nicaise, the devil, scoffed again.

“Good. Now,” Laurent’s uncle held up Nicaise’s hand a little higher, a little tighter, “we’re off to Luxembourg then we’ll be celebrating. I trust you and your photographer friend will be at the party tonight?”

“I believe so,” Damen said, but it sounded more like a question.

As they left, Damen noted that Nicaise’s shoes were almost exact replicas of the shoes Laurent had worn in the show.

Grabbing his phone, Damen took a photo of the empty Etoile stage and posted it to his Instagram story, the same location tag of ‘Paris, France’ on it and simple hashtags: #Etoile and #ParisFashionWeek.

Within an hour, he had almost five thousand messages about it.

#captive prince #laurent of vere #damen of akielos #captive prince fanfiction #capri #capri fanfic #my writing #the mannequin gallery #mannequin gallery 'verse #the big show!#finally it's over

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