Chapter Text
"Thank you for coming with me, Sif."
Your partner hugs close to your side, arm linked with yours, a fond smirk and a glinting eye shining up at you through the fluffy, darkless waves of their coiffed hair. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Isa." Your hand engulfs theirs, giving an appreciative squeeze that makes Sif's eye crinkle with warmth.
He stands a little taller than usual wearing the glass heels that matched perfectly with your final creation, the dress that completed your apprenticeship, the one that won you the invite to this gala to celebrate your achievements along with every other accomplished apprentice. One of you will win the extra prestigious award for your designs and implementation of a complex and elegant dress, and looking at how Siffrin wears it, you're confident in your chances tonight.
More than anything though, the award ceremony and graduation come second to seeing Siffrin wear the dress you dreamed up for him.
The bodice covers his chest, starting under the arms where draping gossamer sleeves encircle his biceps, accentuating his bare shoulders but not restricting his movements. The back of the dress is open in a diamond shape, a thin layer of gossamer setting a flicker of stars along Sif's exposed back. The bodice slims down to his waist where folds of soft tulle and sheer fabric cascade into a shimmering flow of shades and layers, easy to move in but drawing the eye with each movement. It flowed in such a way that Bonnie said it reminded them of a beautiful jellyfish, something Siffrin laughed at in front of their friends and looked more pensive about while twirling in front of the mirror, thinking they were alone in the room.
You love the little peek at their leg that slips through the skirts, the surefootedness of their steps, even in the elaborate heels they're wearing. The outer layer of the dress shimmers in the light, and you've always wanted to use this material ever since you noticed how it mirrored the etherealness of…
That night under the stars where Siffrin's hair and eye and skin seemed to glow under moonlight, reflecting off their flow of darkless hair like a halo of brightness--
You swallow, trying to bury all the emotions you feel from the memory. You're in public, Isabeau! Keep your mind on tonight.
You hope the fabric doesn't leave Siffrin looking washed out directly under the gala's lights. You're more concerned about how people will see him than you care about the dress itself. Sure, the dress was a dream of yours, but Siffrin is like a dream come true, and if something goes wrong tonight... Would he disappear in a puff like a dream?
Tonight is the first time you'll be so publicly together out in the open, around so many eyes, ever since the King's defeat.
Tonight, all of your peers will be present. Your competition for apprenticeships, rivals from the challenges and seminars, the other industry savants and gurus and famous designers, the teachers who critiqued every tiny detail in your stitching, in your sketches, in your implementation, every fine detail that was more exerting their control over your dream in fashion design than it was a legitimate correction.
You could see it in the way they shuffle, how uncomfortable it made all of them, that this large, supposedly bubbling goof of a man, who must have gotten lucky with his savior status, made them feel so threatened in their field of Stitch Craft. No one wanted to give credit to a man who so thoroughly represented "Rock-type" to a T. All you wanted was to design and make clothes, not deal with this rigmarole of drama and posturing, power and control.
It wasn't a place just for laidback Vaugardians either. Maybe that's why it felt so vicious sometimes. Vaugarde had trouble spearheading any global fashions ever since the country had fallen behind in trends due to being frozen in time... for quite a while, it seemed. Plus, the fashion industry always seemed to be full of drama and spite. Loyalties could turn on a dime, depending on how many connections fell through for some. Models were often poached from shows at the last minute or found better offers when their employers and designers couldn't or refused to fulfill promises.
Thankfully, you didn't have that problem. Your model was willing and didn't have as much of a vested interest in rising in the industry. They were unknown in the community, and that meant all of your peers in fashion design were insanely curious about them. That was the real reason for your nervousness tonight. Sure, being up for this award was a big milestone for you, but being in a big crowd of strangers was a big one for Sif. That's why you were so surprised when he said yes to the invitation.
"Do you not want me to?" He'd asked, seeing the surprise on your face.
"No! I'm really happy, actually. But... I didn't want to pressure you into saying yes or feel like you're obligated because you're my partner."
Siffrin's smile could outshine the sun.
You think your own smile might come close, with how much your cheeks hurt, watching Sif's face as you approach the threshold to the ballroom. The queue is moving at a halting pace to allow each entrant an introduction and a chance to circle the ballroom for all eyes to see.
For Sif's sake as much as your own, you both rehearsed how this production would go. In the privacy of your living room, of course. You narrated the steps as you practiced, with the commentary about the introductions and subsequent dances were meant to put a name to the face of each designer, to showcase their work, and to demonstrate how each design held up in a practical sense, spinning and twirling on a dance floor or mingling in a public setting. You took pride in how the dress fit Siffrin the first time, examining each curve and pleat and hem with a critical eye, almost oblivious to the bashful blush Sif kept trying to hide from you.
Almost.
Sif seemed more at ease with each rehearsal, commenting how it was like a play and each had their role to play. The more you told them, the more eager they seemed for the event, like they'd been blessed with the important task of safeguarding and showing off your design like the sole caretaker of a priceless work of art.
It was rather cute, seeing how excited they were to be part of this major event in your life.
It was more endearing when you saw how serious they were after getting out of the carriage, seeing all the others in attendance standing in line. His appraising eye seemed to take in everyone, suspicious of them all, like they were threats to stepping on his skirt or shoes. Like they were enemy Sadnesses in the way…
You squeeze his hand again, and Siffrin looks up at you through his lashes, blinking curiously, face still serious. His new eyepatch, something you made for the occasion, sports a crystalline pattern, something akin to the stars Sif always talks about, but with a faint outline of the Change symbol like Mira had for her broaches. The dress is your design after all, and no one would bat an eye at the three circles on the eye patch, but you also wanted it to represent Sif as well, hence the star-like embroidery you added to resemble a pupil, to give Sif the semblance of having two eyes. Although the results did feel like one eye wouldn't move, you felt better after adding smaller stars along the Change circles, to soften the effect. Sif had smiled at that, calling them "little satellites along an orbit," and you tried to hide not knowing what that meant.
"If you feel uncomfortable at any time, you let me know immediately. Okay?"
Siffrin pats your bicep with their free hand, the one not buried under your hand. "I'm fine, Isa. I can't remember the last time I've worn a dress in public."
"It looks..." You're running out of new compliments for them. You've used every one in your vocabulary, but the apprehension in your veins is choking out any intelligence left in your brain. The blush creeping down your neck and past your hairline as you take in Sif's silhouette and the little flash of his teeth isn't helping, but their giggle pulls at your lungs to breathe again.
"I know. I look gorgeous," Sif says with a confident air, not loud and extravagant like he would hamming it up for your family. This is a different kind of gathering. "It's mostly your work, anyway. I had to get help for the rest. Mira did my hair, after all."
"And it is beautiful! And you always look beautiful, Sif."
"Yes, but not this effort of beautiful everyday," he says, shaking his head so the curls dance around his face. The tiny bell on his choker jingles, not unlike the peal of his giggle earlier.
"I beg to differ," you whisper, and whatever face you're making brings a blush to Sif's cheeks. You bask in that, eyes locked, before you realize the front of the line is 2 couples away now. "Ok, so, we take a lap around the floor, just like we practiced, and at the end we can break off for a drink. It'll take some time for everyone to get inside anyway. It's about an hour of mingling, then. We can hide somewhere for a bit, if it gets overwhelming." Sif squeezes your arm quickly, a quick admonishment not to worry about him so much. "Worst case, we can just nod along to whoever is talking about whatever and find an excuse to leave after a while."
Sif's lips purse a little, like they're holding back an amusing thought. "What about that technique you mentioned?"
"Which one?"
"The one where...?" He tilts his head with an expectant expression.
You blink, racing to remember what he's talking about, but now the well-dressed person at the door is asking for both of your names, and you're stumbling over your own name and looking at Sif for confirmation. Smirking, Sif shakes his head after a pause.
That's ok, you think. It is a big step just being in public together. Giving his name should be on more personal terms.
You and Sif share one more glance, one more smile, before both of your faces fall into the professional masks you practiced together. No one needs to know more about you two than necessary, tonight.
“Mr. Isabeau Moineau and guest.”
With your chins held high, both of you enter the ballroom. Already, you spot a problem: a large spiral staircase leading down to the ballroom proper. Past the banister, you see so many eyes gazing up at you, and you feel Siffrin’s hand clench your arm, You squeeze back, giving him your best smile, as you both reach for the railings on either side, easing down the spiral staircase with more ease than you’re expecting.
It makes sense they would choose this venue. They would force this route down a spiral staircase so everyone could see the outfits from every angle, see them above and tear them apart while each designer and model walks down on full display. You hate it, like they’re intentionally putting you on pedestals to pick apart everything wrong with your designs. Or you, as a designer. Or your model.
You pin Sif’s hand against your side, and he squeezes back, his grip now relaxing, his confident smile returning. Successfully, you both reach the bottom of the stairs, still professional, still walking at a smooth pace. You take Sif’s hand, extending out your arm. He mirrors you, leaving space to let the dress be seen, and you walk together in a circle around the floor, catching harsh eyes and fake smiles and sincere sneers before ending your circuit back at the bottom of the stairs.
Obligation done, you tuck Sif’s arm back into yours, and without missing a beat, you walk with him into a quieter part of the room where you can flag down a server for drinks and take stock of the room. Sif is already taking in the room’s features, mouth slightly open in awe.
The high ceilings with gold details on the edges and trimmings, the glittering crystal chandeliers spaced every ten to twenty feet, the tall pillars and arches that section the room and space out the main ballroom from the seating areas, the buffet, and bar. You’re already eying a few alcoves by the balcony doors that you and Sif can scoot away to when you’re both tired of mingling.
You can already sense several of your peers converging on you, slipping through the crowd, dipping in and out of conversations.
You want a little more time alone with Sif, to let them take in the sights, to enjoy the space and acclimate to it, so you keep yourselves moving, watching Sif’s reactions to the room, taking in its beauty, the crowds of beautiful suits and dresses and combinations in between, the music flitting through the rooms from the live orchestra sitting by the front stage.
“It’s a game of cat and mouse tonight,” you whisper to Sif, leaning in conspiratorially. “Think you can keep up with me and my long legs?” You smile when you see the glimmer in Sif’s eye, accompanied by his own smirk.
“Even in this skirt, I’m faster than you, Isa.” He leans in, voice right in your ear. “You can’t outrun me.”
He stays close to your ear for a long minute, thankfully, because it takes that long to suppress your blush. The idea of being chased and tackled by Siffrin–
NO! FOCUS! You designed these pants to be comfortable, but not baggy enough to hide… well…
Thank goodness Sif’s dress has ample layers. You hope everyone is staring at your handiwork rather than seeing you struggle to stay composed.
You still stand taller than most of the crowd here, so it’s hard to hide entirely, but it’s hard to tell where most of the stares are directed between you two. You don’t like some of those lecherous stares. You didn’t mind when they were directed at you, but with Sif here…
You keep a hand on his lower back, gently guiding the way from prying eyes.
And you walk right into a gathering of your peers, all arm-in-arm with their partners and models.
Uh oh. Here we go.
“Why, Isabeau, wonderful to see you,” says Melissa, who has her bonded partner Raquel on her arm tonight, both of them wearing coordinating, dark wine hourglass ensembles. Raquel's is a refined, masculine suit with tails that flow into a flow cape that drags on the floor with trim that glitters to hide any dirt or dust. You admire how it compliments Melissa's body con dress, though you prepare for the expected barbs. “I didn't expect you'd show up in something so fetching.”
You chuckle good naturedly. “It's good to see you, too, Melissa. And wow! What a beautiful concept you've done. Very nice. Is that satin and chiffon together? It adds incredible texture! And it really compliments your silhouette.”
You watch her pull back, a little surprised. “My, I'm glad someone noticed.” She hip-checks her date, who smiles sheepishly.
“You know I don't know fashion, Mel.”
“Relax, dear. I have my wheelhouse, and you have yours.” They share a warm smile. You feel Siffrin
relax at your side, so you step closer to him.
“Melissa, I'd like to introduce you to my model.”
“Oh, yes, do tell us about this mysterious stranger.” Out of your blind spot comes Eli and Dylan, the latter giving everyone a courteous nod while his date does the talking. “All I heard was ‘Mr Isabeau Moineau and guest.’ Not even a pet name or an alias? People are talking, my friend.” Eli nudges your shoulder, his the only sincerity you believe among your peers. “They have all sorts of rumors and gossip on their tongues. I know you're a private person, Isabeau, but we are all dying to know about this person you love to brag about but never give a name.”
You feel Sif stiffen, turning his head away from the group. You can tell he wants to hide, so you place your body between Siffrin and the group subtly. Eli notices.
“Oh, flustered, are they?”
“Eli,” Dylan says, tugging in his date's jacket. “Leave them alone. I bet it's overwhelming being here.”
“But it's a gala, Dyl! They are the talk of the evening, along with our Isabeau here. They knew there'd be a lot of people.”
“Well, so did I. Doesn't mean I'm not overwhelmed, too.”
Eli blinks, pausing to really look at his date. You'd already noticed all the signs when they'd both walked up, but now that Eli takes stock, he loses some of his bravado. “Oh. Dyl, I'm so sorry. I didn't notice.” He squeezes Dylan's hand. “Do you want to sit? Take a break?”
“I just want you to ease up. That's all.”
Eli nods and turns to you all, bowing his head. “I'm sorry, Isabeau. I didn't mean to tease you or your date so much.”
You laugh. “It's okay, Eli. I do like to talk about my partner a lot.” Focusing on Siffrin, you see his blush deepen. “There's so much to talk about.” Sif smiles bashfully, shoulders rising to his ears and eye fluttering as he looks away again, And then you don't say anything for a long while, until the others start to shuffle.
“Should we give you two some privacy?” Melissa breaks the silence, a little impatience in her voice. You startle.
“Oh! Sorry, I guess I kind of… lost my train of thought there.”
“Bet you did,” Eli said with a cocked eyebrow, his expression mirrored in the others around him. Now it’s your turn to blush.
Thankfully, Siffrin lets out a chuckle of their own, and you can't help but look back. He seems more composed, though you can sense how much of a front he's putting on.
“It's okay. I don't mind a nomme de plume.” He bumps arms with you, hands folded in front of him like an elegant heir before addressing your peers. “You can call me ‘Étoile.’ I go by he/they.”
“Ooooooh, is that a name you two use in private?” Melissa jests, and Raquel elbows her.
Sif smiles. “It’s one you can call me for now. But you are right. I do like my privacy. I hope you understand my wishes and why Isa has been so reluctant to tell you more.”
“I understand entirely,” Dylan says with a soft, reassuring smile. “And we will respect it. Won’t we, Eli?”
“Of course!” Eli beams, nudging Dylan, who then nudges back, and they push back and forth between them good naturedly.
Sif slips an arm through yours, squeezing, his grin shining in the chandelier lighting. “You have good friends, Isa.”
You put a hand over his. “I sure do.”
The evening continues, with you and your peers catching up, your models asking questions and getting to know each other. Dylan and Siffrin seem to hit it off well, while Raquel seems even more reserved than Sif. Dylan seems to try pulling them both out of their shells, and in turn Sif asks Dylan and Raquel about their work. You never knew about Dylan’s career in marine biology, how they put it on hold to teach at the House where he and Eli lived, but his passion about the subject keeps them engaged, and Sif even adds bits of knowledge from sailing that he can recall.
To your dismay, your little group does gradually absorb more and more people from the program, groups you had yet to meet or network with. This time, you exchange names and pronouns with a genial group of models, some even from Mwudu and Ka Bue, not just Vaugarde and Poteria like the majority are. Sif seems even more relaxed while talking to them. You suspect it’s because he traveled so much and met so many people around the world. He deciphers accents with ease, and even during conversation, when someone from Ka Bue struggles to find the right words, Sif helps them translate, and the model is so grateful to converse in their native tongue for a bit. The Mwudu designer jumps in, and Sif carries on with them easily, switching languages like they were breathing air.
All those lessons he’d signed up for actually came in handy tonight.
You don’t feel the need to hover by Sif so much. He can handle everything on his own.
It’s not until you all start to break off and mingle that the night starts to get a little rocky.
The various people you didn’t want to meet start to show up and accost you and Sif relentlessly.
They’re saccharine sweet to Sif, which you’re grateful for. At least they aren’t making the same jabs as they are at you.
For being “behind the times” and “20 years out of date.” It’s a little funny. No one else in the class had to contend with being stuck in a time loop without their knowing. Apparently, when the King’s curse was freezing everyone in time, the curse spread across Vaugarde and stopped at the country’s borders, like an invisible wall of glass holding it at bay. At the center of it all, time rewound the same 24 hours over and over, but the only one aware was Sif. From outside of Vaugarde, everything looked frozen forever. It changed relations and ecosystems, trade agreements and travel routes entirely. Mostly, it meant you thought only a day had passed, and when everything was over, it turned out the world had lived on for several more YEARS without your knowing. Disasters, wars, famines, major weather events all passed by without you knowing. Fashions came and went. It was strange to think you should be decades older and yet you were still in your mid-twenties. It certainly made people look at you differently, being born the same year and yet…
You keep smiling and joking at the comments, though. There’s nothing you can do about the lost time anyway.
It’s the other comments you have a harder time brushing off.
The ones complimenting your dress’s design and ingenuity “despite being a Rock type.”
Or that you didn’t get into the program out of favoritism for being one of Vaugarde’s Saviors.
‘You’re smarter than you look.’
‘You’re more talented and dextrous than I expected for someone with such large hands.’
‘You must’ve worked so hard to be gentle on such a delicate design.’
You’re feeling more and more drained by the end of it, your smile strained to being paper-thin, until Siffrin tugs on your arm and nods towards the refreshments table.
Eyebrows rising, you smile in relief and make the excuse to leave, Siffrin at your side.
Siffrin leans in close. “Are you okay, Isa?”
You nod, burying the discomfort. You don’t want to ruin this night for Sif, and selfishly, you don’t want to spoil the night for you either. He doesn’t need to know how deep this treatment runs. He shouldn’t have to worry about you at all tonight. So you say lightly, “I’m feeling parched and thirsty. Shall we find a spot in one of the dimmer lounge areas?”
Sif gives a tired smile back. “You read my mind, Mr. Moineau.”
~~~~~~
It’s hard not stacking the plate as high as possible, but you don’t have room in the bodice to eat as much as you like, anyway. Plus, you’re self conscious with all these strangers around you. Still, it’s nice trying all the different Poterian foods from the buffet, a little bite of each and a small dessert to follow it up. The gala is based in Poteria, after all, so it’s nice to try foods you didn’t normally see in Vaugarde.
You pass the plate to Isa sheepishly, leaving a few bites of things for him to try as well. He blinks at it, looking back at you with concern. You pat the bodice of your dress and offer the plate again. He takes it with an understanding nod and eats the finger foods with the provided toothpicks. His large hands holding such tiny appetizers on small sticks would seem a little funny, with how dainty he’s being, pinching the toothpick between his thumb and forefinger, but it’s exactly how he hand sews the more fragile pieces together, and it makes you smile all the more.
The night isn’t so bad. It’s cooler in this part of the hall, away from the bright chandeliers, sitting together on an extravagant couch with as much detail and inlaid gold as the walls. Isa fields any more conversation, sitting closer to the walkway where people walk by, and you keep an eye on the crowd, your back to the wall, a window to your side. You can even see out to the balcony where some of the designers have gathered with cocktails and their models have wandered off in groups.
You feel like a lead weight, a ball and chain on the ankle, holding Isa back from engaging with his peers. These could be people who help his business in the long run, connections to make him famous as a designer. They’re his friends in this world, in this glamorous life, one you aren’t even a part of.
You’re just the odd person, the mannequin wearing his magnum opus, the one sticking out like a sore thumb. That’s probably why everyone keeps staring at you, why it feels so hard to approach everyone. It was easy with Isa by your side, but on your own? It’s like climbing up a dirt wall, crumbling under your hands, unsure if it’ll hold your weight.
Isa’s been hanging around you, watching, waiting for the moment you’ll need to leave from all the socializing, or expecting you to explode like you did back in Dormont. It’s awkward, and a part of you wants to ruffle his hair, make a joke to help you both relax, but you promised Mira you'd be on your best behavior tonight. That meant acting every part the refined, mature partner he deserves. Socializing, graceful movements, perfect manners as you eat. Not making a scene or bringing too much attention to yourself. Your skin still feels hot and tight, your stomach still twists in knots, and your heart is beating faster than normal.
Come on, Siffrin! You ate, you drank water, you rested! Why are you still having trouble with this?
But you know why.
It’s a lot, being around so many people you don’t know, and you want to be here for Isa, to spend time, to be part of his life, but this feels like so much. It was great chatting with Dylan and Raquel. You felt like you had fair footing here, people to keep you grounded. They seemed to like you well enough. You could spend time with them so Isa didn’t have to treat you like you’re fragile. You’d feel less like a burden, then. Less out of place and likely to mess up.
What if you trip and rip the dress? What if you bump into someone and make a mess of it? What if you say the wrong thing to the wrong person and he has to deal with the fallout?
What if you’re the reason everything falls apart tonight?
You wanted to do this, Siffrin. You're supposed to be his support tonight, and you’re flaking right now. He'll be worried about you all night if you don't get it together!
You wring the handkerchief in your hands while Isa is politely talking with someone else from his class. Their model is seated across from you, idly glancing around the room.
You can be brave! You can… strike up conversation. It wasn’t so hard before you met your family, was it?
But as you look up, it feels like such an insurmountable thing, an invisible wall between you and the other model.
You wring the handkerchief again. Why is being around people so hard?
Isa warned you about coming here. It’s nothing like fighting Sadnesses, though.
You can’t be careless or reckless here. You can’t let any harm come to you, or else it would ruin the dress. You can’t just use your combat Craft to get through conversations.
So… what else did Isa say you could do? To strike up conversation?
Ask questions. Let them talk about themselves. That… shouldn’t be too hard, right?
You breathe in and out, swallow a little more of your drink, clear your throat, and force your gaze forward.
“So,” you wait until the model looks at you, eyes staring you up and down, “Have you been doing this long? Modeling, I mean.”
“Longer than you have,” they say with a bit of bite.
“Clearly,” you reply, mostly to fill the empty air, but also to compliment them. “Not just a model, though.” It’s an educated guess. If Odile was here, she’d have deduced more about this model in one glance, but you can try to imitate her, just a little. The model raises an eyebrow at you, tilting their head in curiosity. “It’s the way you move. I would’ve thought you were a dancer by trade.”
The model glares at you. “Is that what they think where you come from?”
Was it something you said? Is being compared to a dancer something rude in Poteria?
“A simple observation.” Your forced smile stretches longer. “I meant it as a compliment.”
The model rolls their eyes. “I see. Well, dancers aren’t models. They are nowhere near the same.”
Not what I was implying. You don’t have the energy to fight or untangle this person’s perceptions.
“I see. Sorry for the confusion. I simply meant you show a lot of grace and balance. I was curious if that was all from modeling.”
“It is,” the model snaps, and you sit back, confusion stirring in your gut, disturbing the food you just ate.
“I see.” You’re trying to stay calm, clenching and relaxing your hands hidden in the skirts on your lap. It took a lot of energy to strike up a conversation, and they’re annoyed? At you? Yet, you can give it one more try, for Isa’s sake. “So you’re an experienced model with a lot of grace and poise. I admire that. You hold yourself beautifully.”
Taken aback, the model looks you up and down again, their expression changing. Hopefully that’s a good thing.
“How long have you been modeling?” they ask.
You’re not sure what protocol there is for this. Would your inexperience reflect poorly on Isa?
You don’t know, so you don’t bother to lie. Isa didn’t mention anything about it, so it should be fine… right?
“This is my first time, actually.”
The model’s smile falters, something like disbelief in their face. “That can’t be true. The way you walk, the way you hold yourself, it’s definitely not your first time.”
You shrug. “Best foot forward, as they say.” You fidget with the skirts, displaying them as gently as you can on the crenoline and on your legs. “I had a lot of help practicing.”
“Of course,” said the model, and you feel like it’s meant as an insult. You just continue to smile tightly.
This is going so well.
Then you think about their responses, how yours mirrored in vagueness because you like your privacy. Maybe you just don’t understand social cues here. The Poterians you met earlier did seem more curt in conversation than you expected. Maybe that’s just how they are.
You’re about to sit back and just let the conversation wash over you, pray that the night goes by quickly, when the model asks, “How long have you known your designer?”
You startle at the unexpected question. “Who, Isa?” You look up at him, still in mid conversation with the other designer, but the brief glance settles your nerves, bringing a soft smile to your face. “I’ve known him a few years now. He’s fantastic at his work. Most reliable partner I’ve ever had.” The thought occurs that you should ask the same question, but as you start, she interrupts you.
“And are you two together?” The model says, twisting two fingers together. You blink, trying to understand. If they’re asking your relationship… that’s such a personal question to ask, isn’t it?
“We’re a team, yes,” you say, deliberately avoiding the answer.
“No, I mean, are you two a couple? Are you seeing each other?”
You tilt your head, feigning confusion, and it’s only now you realize you’ve been talking in Vaugardian this whole time. So you say, while really laying into your accent and enunciating your words, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
The model rolls their eyes again, but their mouth curves into a smile. “Don’t worry about it, then. Say, would you like to chat with the other models?” They swirl the last of their drink, holding it up. “You could make some friends, get some other jobs. Would you be interested?”
You freeze, unsure. You look at Isa, who seems engrossed in conversation. That feeling of weighing him down eats at you. Maybe getting away for a bit will make it better. You can hold your own! You can at least listen to people and pretend you’re okay for one evening. It’ll be easier on Isa in the long run, too. You gently elbow him, and Isa immediately looks to you, eyes widening. You disarm him with a more genuine smile. “I’ve been invited to mingle. Will you be okay here without me?”
He looks surprised, his smile uncertain. “Sure, Sif. Come find me if you need me, okay?”
“Will do,” you reply, patting his knee. As you look back at the model, their eyes snap up from where they were watching your hand. That smirk on their face looks more sinister now. You meet it with a feral grin of your own, gesturing toward the greater ballroom with your hand. “After you.”
~~~~~~
You helped Sif load up a plate and come to this corner where you could watch for trouble, could intercept the troublemakers. You already saw a few people skirt uncomfortably close, dark wine glasses in hand, gazes lasting a little too long in your direction.
Perhaps sitting this one out for a while would be the best option. You’ve heard about the types of sabotage out there, the kind that get out of hand when there’s an apprenticeship and money and prestige on the line.
You don’t care about any of that. You’re already famous as a Savior of Vaugarde, and you’re already comfortably set for the foreseeable future, and even if you don’t get chosen as the highest graded apprentice, you consider it an honor to be here, to stand among the rest and be considered a designer.
Now, though, you’re worried. Another couple sat beside you, the designer, someone you recognize from your class but don’t know very well, and their model, who has a very cold demeanor. They turn their nose up at Siffrin when he talks to them, but you don’t intervene. Not yet. You’re trying to pay attention to your colleague, chewing slowly on the snacks that Siffrin passed your way, but you’re listening to their terse exchange at your side, and it’s ringing alarms in your head.
You’re trying hard to figure out what’s off when Sif nudges you, and instead of asking for comfort, they ask your permission to leave with the other model.
You’re… not sure if that’s a good idea, but Sif is able to make their own decisions. You remind him to find you for support if needed, but he just smiles and nods, gracefully rising and following after them.
You watch them go, heart sinking. This is fine, right? You’re just overreacting, aren’t you?
But you can’t take your eyes off them as they’re swallowed by the ever-growing crowd. Will it really be okay?
“I say, Isabeau, I’ve seen you when you’re focused but never like this.”
“What?” You say, distracted, as you eye the crowd and thankfully catch a glimpse of Sif moving among the other models. Internally, you’re thankful for the dress’s design, since the skirts mean people have to respect his personal space. Those looks, though… you’re not sure, but they look malicious. It’s just your imagination… right?
You try repeatedly to get up from your spot, to make a move toward Sif, just to pull them aside, or to check in with them, to feel them close, but you don’t get the chance. Not until they call for the designers and their models to step up for the dance showcase, to see how well all of the dresses handle a waltz together… and you don’t see Sif anywhere.