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For as long as he can remember, Astarion has always loved fashion. As a young elfling he spent hours carefully sketching and crafting clothes for his Barbie dolls, and even more playing dinky little dress up Flash games with his limited computer time. He begged his mother for a sewing machine for his Midwinter gift and made his own fabulous outfit—red corset and silk trousers, handbeaded with rose appliqués—for the graduation ball.
And if Astarion was asked his honest opinion, why, he'd say he was the best dressed at the whole damn ball. You have to be a little arrogant to work in fashion. He's talented, and he damn well knows it. But he's young, frustratingly so! And though doors should have been flung open to him throughout the industry, the red carpet rolled out...they have not. They have remained stubbornly closed, because even though he went to the best damn fashion school in Neverwinter—okay, the only degree granting fashion school in Neverwinter—even so, Astarion has to start at the bottom of the heap. The unpaid internships that go nowhere. The contracts that will totally we pinky promise get extended, and then vaporize into corporate farewell fake smiles of nothingness.
It's enough to make a man scream. And he needed the money, and he needed stability, and he just needed his godsdamned foot in the door, in any way that would work. It didn't have to be high fashion, just anywhere where he could still be creative and touch fabrics all day.
And that led Astarion to a small dinky office in the outskirts of Baldur's Gate. It's not even in the Gate proper, for crying out loud, it's in some industrial suburbanized wasteland where you need a car to get around. Very not chic.
And if Astarion Ancunín is one thing...it's a passenger princess. Look, he's pretty enough to deserve the title!
Also, he's not even paid enough to afford a car. So on a blustery Monday morning, earbuds jammed into pointy ears, licking the remnants of a raspberry muffin from his fingers, Astarion hops off the Baldur's Gate bus and prepares himself mentally for another week in the glamorous, thrilling world of the low-budget garment industry.
The office building itself is quite an affront to the eyes. Last summer Cazador had complained about the overgrowth of the trees to building management, and building management's response to the ceaseless whining had been to just bulldoze the whole strip. So now there are just naked stumps and fragile sticks littering the lawn, and no shade beside the solitary ramshackle picnic bench reserved for employees.
The building itself is squat, two stories. Szarr Garments, Inc. only takes up a fraction, as they are such a tiny office—only a handful of rooms on the second floor. Astarion flings open the door to the lobby and lets it thud loudly against the wooden stopper. He climbs the faux marble stairs gracefully, shoulders rolled back and head held high, and struts towards the production room. For a fashion office, it truly is dull. Beige walls, beige carpet, and strange, vaguely unsettling art on the walls. Art of big headed stylized men golfing, and big nosed chefs holding frying pans in the kitchen, where Astarion grabs his mug and makes himself his morning tea. He passes the piece of art that most makes him shiver—an enormous vase that looks like it was dug up from some ancient Calimshanian archaeological dig site, and that Astarion is always paranoid he'll accidentally topple whilst moving around racks of garment samples—and slides into his well-worn seat at his desk.
Lae'zel is already at her desk beside him, typing furiously. The githyanki is the production coordinator, which in Astarion's opinion is the true engine that keeps this ship running, responsible for everything from gathering initial costings of garments to making sure the final samples have passed quality control.
"Good morning, darling," Astarion says, turning on his monitor. "Have a good weekend?"
She just grunts, staring squinty eyed at her computer.
"You need coffee then, I take it."
"Chk. I'll make," she says. "You always make it too weak."
Astarion raises one manicured brow, a smile twitching at his lips. Githyankis.
As he's catching up on all his weekend emails, all of which are from factory merchandisers begging and whining for his attention, and none from the clients of which he actually needs some answers—Shadowheart stomps in, and takes her place at the desk across Astarion's. As always, she looks like she's barely slept, eyeliner dragging heavily across her lower lashline.
"Someone's peppy this morning," Astarion teases. "Stay up too late at the club, dear?"
"You only wish I'd invited you along, don't you?"
He snorts back in acknowledgment, and eyes her as she searches through her bag for her lip gloss. Shadowheart is the fit technician, her mind a whizz for measurements and numbers, and her eye meticulously trained for the way a garment should hug the body. She's also Astarion's favourite person at the office, hands down. The only one who truly gets how sometimes it's necessary to have a bitch session. Or two. Or three.
And she sometimes lets him bum rides, usually because she needs a bitch session.
"I could use a night out, in fact," he sighs. "Do let me in on all your secret places..."
"In your dreams," she smirks. "You think I want to spend more time around you?"
"Point taken, darling."
At that, happy humming fills the hallway. Which can only be one person, one tiefling that is far, far too sweet for this office. Alfira practically skips to her seat (beside Shadowheart, across from Lae'zel, diagonal to Astarion) and wishes everyone a good morning.
"And I hope all had a good weekend," she says earnestly, as Shadowheart's face twists into a friendly smile. Astarion snorts to himself; she's trying. "I drove over to Elturel to see the tulip show! Oh, it was so lovely, the colours were just to die for!"
Alfira's job is to do the labels on all the clothes. A whole salaried job just for labels; sometimes it still astonishes Astarion just how niche positions in the fashion industry can get. They're just labels! Nobody's ever bought a pair of jeans because the label on the inside waistband was pretty!
But still, somebody has to do it. And Alfira shows up year after year without complaint, just doing her labels. She used to be shut up all alone in the smallest office room, but apparently she got lonely and needed to spread her sunniness to the production room. A pity none of it ever warmed Cazador's cold bones.
Lae'zel comes back in with her coffee, nodding to Shadowheart. Those two are...civil. When Cazador is in the office, he tends to suck up all the energy in the room like a vampire, and in doing so unknowingly drain the tension from whatever Lae'zel and Shadowheart have going on. But when Cazador is away, sometimes for weeks at a time at his second house in sunny Luskan (because of course he has a SECOND house in Luskan. And two cars of his own. And Donella drives a Porsche) Lae'zel and Shadowheart can quickly devolve into two cats screeching with their hair all fritzed up. Those are the days that one of Astarion's earbuds remains jammed into a pointy ear.
The four of them settle into their morning routine in silence together. Well, silence aside from the pop radio that plays all day in the hallway speaker. Astarion is thoroughly sick of all twelve songs on heavy rotation.
Astarion's job, as it were, is as the sole actual creative designer in house. He gets to sketch out all the garments they produce for the factories to follow, and design and propose all the graphics and prints they use in a season. There's not much actual designing of the clothes, per se, because the clients only ever want the same t-shirts, simple dresses, simple shorts, simple pants, because the clients are bloody grocery stores. And as they work seasonally, he only really needs to be in design mode for about half the year, the other half spent helping Lae'zel ensure that production runs smoothly and all the garment samples look just like Astarion designed. Currently he's at the tail end of a design period. Feeling a bit burnt out creatively after weeks and weeks of arguing back and forth with the client on what they want, having to use divine magic to read their bloody minds.
Right now, the stickler is a program of graphic t-shirts, small chest print and big back print, a program for the whole family to buy together—including babies, kids, teens, mothers, and fathers. Their biggest client, Wyrmart, sent over some half-baked mood boards (insultingly full of AI slop) which Astarion followed to a tee. And then, as always, they turned their noses up at his designs, as if they were Prada and not motherfucking Wyrmart. After several weeks of back and forth, the Wyrmart buyers had proposed their own graphics. Which included not one, not two, not even three—but SIX separate t-shirts with an enormous 67 graphic emblazoned on the front and back.
And one is for Ladies, at that. Ladies! Astarion pities the woman who has such low self-esteem as to wear a 67 shirt out in public.
Fifteen minutes after the clock hits nine, stomping feet thud up the back stairwell. There’s no mistaking them, of course. Cazador Szarr has made his appearance in the building, and trailing behind him will be Petras Szarr. Because Szarr Garments, Inc, as is laid out cheerfully on the fugliest website known to man that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 90s, is proud to be a family business. Petras is nominally the CEO, having graduated from Baldur’s Gate’s film school, failed to enter the film industry, and didn’t know what else to do with his sorry life. Donella, Petras’ mother and Cazador’s wife, founded the business decades ago and now enjoys the fruits of her labours in Luskan, retired in all but name. And Cazador, of course, is a workaholic old hag who clings onto petty power and refuses to retire, even though he constantly moans about how old he’s getting.
"Good morning," Lae’zel calls out, always the people pleaser. Petras responds in kind before wandering off to his enormous private office, double the size of the production room with couches. Astarion never had much respect for Petras, but recently Cazador let it slip that Petras voted for Lord Gortash in the last election and whatever shred Astarion had remaining evaporated into thin air.
Cazador takes his seat at the head of the office, by the only windows. Immediately he clicks on his computer and his eyes narrow as he reads through his emails. There can’t be that many; Astarion knows that Cazador is always checking his emails at two in the morning. Sometimes Astarion really, really does suspect that Cazador is an actual vampire.
Alfira brings Cazador his coffee; he takes it with a grunt of thanks. Astarion sips his tea.
And then it starts.
"I was up all night fighting with Rugan," Cazador complains. "Those Zhentarim are all the same, I tell you. They’re all liars! Gods, if only our accounts weren’t so cheap. I’d switch all our production over to Kozakura in a heartbeat. A heartbeat, I tell you!"
"Wyrmart doesn’t pay enough for Kozakuran-made," Lae’zel says. "We have to stick to Zhentarim suppliers."
"I know that. You think I don’t know that? You think I want to work with these two-faced, lying criminals? He promised to send the pre-production samples for the gauze baby dresses ‘tomorrow.’ It’s always tomorrow with these idiots! Oh sir, we’ll send it tomorrow! Tomorrow, sir! And then the package misses the godsdamned flight, so he didn’t bloody send it then. Ridiculous."
Lae’zel makes noises of sympathy. Shadowheart’s nails tap against her plastic ruler. Alfira asks Cazador if the coffee is good this morning. Astarion flips through Wyrmart’s 67 graphics and slowly adds them to his collection sketches for the factories.
They’re a small office; it’s just the five of them in the production room, Petras alone in his cavernous CEO office, and two others in the smallest office room—Gale, the part-time accountant who talks incessantly about his beautiful cat Tara, and Karlach, the peppy logistics coordinator, responsible for getting all their goods across oceans. Karlach is kind of a badass. She teaches a wide variety of martial arts to kids on the side, loves going for walks with her big dog Scratch, and takes the least shit from Cazador of all the employees in the office.
And speak of the devil, the tall tiefling walks in. But Karlach’s face isn’t her usual happy good morning face. Instead she strolls into the production room, lets out a big sigh, and says "Lads, I’ve got bad news. We’ve got pirate problems...again."
The whole production room explodes into chaos, but Cazador’s shrieks are by far the loudest.
~*~
Laypeople often think that these days, fast fashion is all fast. It is in the name, after all. News articles and documentaries constantly pointing out how the biggest retailers turn over new stock in two weeks, huge teams of designers plagiarizing from others and putting the garments into sketchy factories that forge their safety certificates. And none of that is false, of course—it's very much a reality. But there are many low-budget vendors out there that still follow seasonal slower cycles, and Szarr Garments is one.
One month for costing and negotiating, securing the orders. Two months to do the design process. Minimum 60 days factory sampling time, 20 days to cut and sew the thousands of individual garments, five weeks on the boat to port. It's a half a year's process, all told, and that's presuming the clients actually make it easy on you and give you their comments in a timely fashion, which Wyrmart never does. Every season they push it later and later, and Szarr Garments has to scramble to make the delivery deadline.
Oh, and it's not like Astarion doesn't plagiarize the art. He absolutely does, with no shame, because he is ONE designer responsible for hundreds of prints and graphics per season, and it would be physically impossible to draw them all from scratch in that couple months. Just to have Wyrmart reject half of them anyway, and require him to give them more options. He at least makes sure not to steal from independent designers, only from the sketchy overseas Kozakuran sites that have...probably stolen from independent designers. Alas, but that's enough to let Astarion trance at night with a clean-ish conscience.
This seasonal cycle, however, is posing a problem that Astarion can already see looming on the horizon. By the time lunch rolls around, he's finished all his vector sketches for the final graphic tee collection. And he just knows that six of the thirty-six t-shirts will not be selling, and will tank their performance as a vendor in Wyrmart's catalogue of vendors.
He tilts his monitor towards Lae'zel, where the navy Ladies' shirt with the enormous 67 graphic is displayed. Born to be 67, it reads. What the fuck does that even MEAN.
"Look at this," he says. "Just look at it, would you? So ugly."
Lae'zel wrinkles her tiny nose. "I do not understand this 67. Why did they put it on so many?"
"Because that's what all the Kozakuran fast fashion sites are selling, because they can hop on a trend fast enough. And clearly Wyrmart just went on all of those sites, saw it repeated over and over again, and decided they wanted it in their stores too."
"But what does it mean?" Lae'zel asks. "Is it something for little yanks? Then why put it on Ladies?
"Lae'zel, darling," Astarion sighs. "The entire point is that it means nothing. It's like some sort of neo-Dadist abstract art, in concept. It's popular because it means nothing, and assigning it meaning takes away the point."
Lae'zel's big lizard's eyes blink, confused.
"It's a meme," Astarion says. "That's all, dear. Just a stupid meme among little yanks, as you say. But this is going to hit stores five months from now. That is going to be one dead dead dead meme. Finished, beyond resurrection. They won't bloody sell. No one will be touching 67 shirts by autumn."
Cazador's pointy ears perk up. His beady eyes swivel from his monitor and focus on Astarion, whipping off his reading glasses. "What? What's the problem?"
Sigh. "No problem," Astarion chirps. "No problem beyond the client wanting the ugliest stuff, as always."
"Hmph. And they think they're all that. I've been in their stores, you know! You know what they have in their stores? Crap. Cheap, ugly crap. And you know, last time we travelled to their head office they took us to the nice Wyrmart, the one that's just for show. And that was crap too! And they want caviar from us, I swear! You know what, I want to tell you something. They want caviar but they won't pay for caviar prices, oh no, they'll only pay for—"
Astarion presses his single earbud deeper into his ear. He leaves the other free as Cazador's yammering washes over him. He has heard this exact paragraph, and this exact story, at least thirty times before.
But what the client wants, the client gets. And Astarion is not about to try and explain the concept of 67 to Cazador, and argue why it's a bad idea. He still has some dignity remaining.
He bundles all of the final sketch boards together and emails them back to the client for their final approvals.
~*~
Later that afternoon, a smooth voice comes blasting over the hallway speaker.
"Astarion to reception, Astarion to reception."
Astarion pushes his chair back and stands, stretching a bit. Shadowheart's green eyes track him over the top of her monitor. Cazador is on the phone arguing with another one of their Zhentarim suppliers, no matter that it must be one in the morning for the poor Zhent on the line. Cazador's absolute favourite way to start his day is by yelling at a supplier; to have had to wait until after lunch for the chance must have been torture for him.
"Those are probably your long sleeve fit samples," Astarion says. "I'll grab them for you."
"Well yeah. You were the one paged," Shadowheart snarks, and Astarion makes a catty gesture back. He walks down the hall and through the double glass doors, looking down at reception to see the size of the box—and stops short.
There's a new FaeEx delivery driver bringing in his package.
And oh gods, this one is gorgeous.
Thank goodness the walls near the staircase of the reception are mirrored. The new driver is still busy talking to the receptionist—oh his smile is to melt for, oh dear—and Astarion quickly looks to make sure his hair is impeccably swooped and tousled as usual. He takes a deep breath and descends the stairs.
"Why hello there," he says, putting just the right amount of flirt into his tone. "You're not Barcus!"
"Afraid not," the man chuckles, turning his gaze from the receptionist onto Astarion. And oh, Astarion has always been good at reading people. This man is interested in what he sees.
See, this is why Astarion always makes an effort to dress up a bit for work. You never know who you'll see, even if ninety-nine percent of the time it's just Cazador and the girls.
"I'm Wyll," Mysterious Hot FaeEx driver says. "Corporate reshuffled all the routes, and now I'm running this one in the afternoons."
"Oh! Pity, I'll miss Barcus," Astarion pouts. An utter lie. "But I suppose we'll be seeing a lot of each other, then. We get a lot of packages here, you see. Several times a week."
"...That's nice," Wyll says, blushing a bit. "Could you sign for this one, then?"
Astarion takes the proffered pen and form and scrawls his signature across, making it as loopy and fancy as possible. "That's Astarion Ancunín, darling. In case you couldn't make it out." And he hands the form back to Wyll with a charming smile.
"I'll be seeing you then, Astarion," Wyll says. "Enjoy your package!"
"I'll try, dear. I'm afraid the ugliest garment samples known to man could be lurking inside."
And Wyll laughs, and leaves. Astarion watches with interest as the tight beige FaeEx slacks cling to Wyll's ass.
"Real subtle, aren't you," the receptionist says, shaking her head.
"Oh, piss off," Astarion mutters, gathering his box and stomping back up the steps. That was a gorgeous face. Anyone ought to be forgiven for flirting with that face. Besides, Cazador has told him that half the people in the downstairs offices are fucking each other. She's probably not one to talk!
He brings the box up to the production room. "It's from Rugan," he announces. "Must be the long sleeve fit samples, he hasn't sent anything else."
Shadowheart grabs the box from him and slices into it with the cutter, pulling out a dozen shirts all wrapped in plastic. "Ugh," she says, wrinkling her nose. "Why do they always smell so bad?"
Cazador swoops onto the samples, pulling them out of Shadowheart's hands. Astarion sits at his computer and lets the two of them duke it out while he goes back to making some factory-ready artwork.
"Oh good gods," Cazador screeches, holding up a men's shirt. "Oh my gods, what did he do here! Look at the armhole on this thing, I've never seen an armhole like that in all my life! It looks retarded!"
Astarion puts both his earbuds in.
~*~
Later that week, Petras calls Astarion into his office. Astarion gathers his notebook and pen and trots over, trying not to feel nervous. It's really, really stupid to be nervous of Petras, but he is still the CEO. It still feels a little like being called into the principal's office. But you have to really fuck up to be fired from Szarr Garments; they're so small that they can't afford to lose anybody. It's one of the best aspects about the place, frankly. So Astarion has absolutely nothing to be nervous about, Petras probably just wants his advice on something.
"Hey, c'mon in," Petras waves. "How's it going, Astarion?"
"Oh, quite well. Wyrmart just accepted all of the graphic tee proposals."
"Good stuff, good stuff," Petras says. "So, I wanted to let you know about this project we're starting. It's gonna be our own line."
"Our own line?" Astarion blinks. "Oh! That's...a wonderful idea!"
"Yeah, I've been kicking it around for a while. We've got good suppliers, right? But I don't wanna be depending on clients like Wyrmart forever. The real money is in making your own thing, you know?"
"Of course," Astarion nods along. "Wow! So, you must have your brand identity all sorted out then? Who are you thinking of targeting?"
"Well, that's kind of what I wanted your help with," Petras says. "I want something...relaxed, yet edgy. For the cool girls, and the everyday girls, and all the girls in between. I want something inclusive, you know? Inclusivity...inclusivity's great."
"That sounds like a great approach," Astarion says, lying through his teeth. That sounds like not an approach at all. That sounds like an I don't know what I'm doing here, I'm just throwing everything at the wall and seeing what will land. "Did you have like, an aesthetic in mind or something? Any brands you see occupying the same niche?"
"You know, the nicer quality loungewear stuff. We'd start with leggings and tank tops, t-shirts and sweats, maybe a couple light casual jackets. Oh! I need your help coming up with a colour story. But you know I'm a neutral guy, I like to keep things classic. Nothing too loud."
"Understood," Astarion says, jotting down his notes. "Why don't I do some brainstorming and get back to you?"
"Awesome," Petras grins, attention back on his monitor. Gods only know what he actually does all day. "Thanks, Astarion! Oh, and tell my dad to come in here, I wanna talk to him."
"Will do!" As soon as Astarion leaves Petras' office he lets his smile drop. There was a rack of samples he'd never seen before beside Petras' desk, and he instantly recognized them as loungewear from the local mall's most popular stores. They're just going to be copying those, in all likelihood. Astarion knows how this industry works.
But nonetheless, around his work on Wyrmart he fits in some competitor research (based off the extremely limited information Petras has supplied), mocks up a few neutral colour stories, and looks at what new start-up brands these days are doing to market themselves. By Friday he walks into Petras' office to present his findings and discuss.
And Astarion walks out half an hour later, shaking his head. Petras said a chocolate brown was too much colour. To stick only to greys, blacks, whites, taupes, and with only sometimes a navy or powder blue!
Good lord. Oh, this is going to flop. This is going to flop so hard. Why would anyone buy from some no-name brand when they could just get the samples hanging on the rack in Petras' office? Everyone and their mother has been doing basic loungewear for a decade now. When prodded, Petras had said it'll be because of price. They'll price it lower, but use the same quality fabrics as brands that would price higher. Astarion thinks that that won't be nearly enough to dissuade a client from a more well-known competitor. There has to be something unique to the design itself.
Back in the production room, Shadowheart has some of those mall samples spread over her desk. She looks up at Astarion and gives him a tiny shake of her head, and accompanying eyeroll.
"Petras?" Astarion mouths, and she nods.
"Boring as shit," she mouths back.
Suddenly, Cazador snorts at whatever he's looking at. "Would you believe the size of this girl's waist?! Look at this! How are these girls getting such a tiny waist? And look at her face, she's ruined it with those lips!"
"Cazador," Alfira pipes up, looking over his shoulder. "...Those models aren't real. They're AI."
"What?! How can you tell?"
"It's just like how I showed you with Photoshopped models, remember? If they look too smooth to be true, it's not real."
"Whatever. The shirt she's got on is too sleazy for Wyrmart anyways," Cazador mutters.
~*~
A couple weeks go by, the weather gets warmer. Astarion takes his lunch breaks outside now, on a shady patch of grassy lawn that belongs to the city. There's no shade at the picnic bench because of the bulldozing, and he refuses to sun himself like Cazador used to in his youth. Cazador's all wrinkly now, and constantly laments how when he was young everyone wanted a tan, so no one used sunscreen. They'd even use baby oil to ensure they tanned faster, and what a mistake that was.
Astarion comes back from his break to find a very loud production room. Cazador is yelling on the phone, his face going beet red as he berates some Zhentarim merchandiser on the phone.
"What's happening?" Astarion whispers-asks Lae'zel.
"Olly came back asking for more money to make the toddler knit cardigans," she says grimly. "You know the sweater factories are all booked up now. We can't move it from him at this point and still keep our delivery date."
"...Isn't he our only sweater manufacturer that we're still in good graces with?"
Lae'zel raises her brows, her lips flattening into a thin line. "You know the answer to that."
"Yikes."
Cazador stands up, pacing as he shouts. He's not even letting Olly get a word in edgewise. "No, now you listen to me! You listen to me now! We agreed on two ninety-five a piece. That was settled! If you couldn't read the P.O, if you didn't realize it was hanger pack and not flat pack, then that's on you! It's not my fault if you can't read!"
Alfira hunches closer to her computer as Cazador stomps past her. "NO! There will be no taking it up with the buyer! The buyer will NOT accept a higher price, and I am certainly not going to swallow what was your mistake! You know you still owe me fifteen thousand from the last season, when I had to air in all your stupid sweaters! That the buyer didn't even end up liking!"
"Why do we still work with him again?" Astarion whispers to Lae'zel.
"Because we have no other choice. Tsk'va."
Cazador ends the call, cutting off Olly mid-sentence. Astarion imagines that back before smartphones, Cazador must have been fantastic at furiously slamming a flip phone shut.
"They're all the same!" Cazador rages. "The only reason he is going to get more orders from me next season is because he still owes me fifteen thousand dollars, and I'll take it off those! Just you wait, I am going to rape him with the prices!"
Astarion's whole body freezes. He shakes his head a little, as if to clear it. Cazador did not just say what Astarion thinks he said.
He meets Shadowheart's eyes over her monitor. She doesn't even look fazed. But she's been here far longer than Astarion has, and Astarion's heard that Cazador used to be even worse when he was younger.
Did he really just say that?
Cazador has his favourite slurs, of course. Retard being the most used, so frequently that Astarion's pretty sure Cazador is unaware it is actually considered a slur these days. But threats of rape is a new one.
Cazador storms back to his desk and begins typing furiously, likely drafting the written version of his threats to Olly. As furiously as he can, given that he hunt and pecks for all the keys. Tap...tap tap tap. Tap...tap...tap tap tap. At least the yelling has stopped.
"Lae'zel," Shadowheart says, an edge to her voice. Astarion groans internally, flipping through the tabs of online sample shopping he'd been doing. Not her too, not now. "Why is there so much of your stuff on my side of the folder?"
"Those emails are related to fit, are they not?"
"But they are your emails. Your crap! I don't want your crap on my side of the folders!" Shadowheart waves the blue file folder in Lae'zel's face. "Production goes on the right! Fit is on the left! We need to keep it that way!"
"Tsk'va. If you would read my crap you'd see it has all to do with fit."
"I'm taking it out," Shadowheart declares.
"Chk! Just leave it alone! We need to track everything fit related on that side, even if it is not necessarily your correspondence!"
Oh my god will someone just kill him now. Astarion clicks through his tabs without seeing anything. Then, a saving grace:
"Astarion to reception. Astarion to reception."
He practically leaps out of his seat in his haste to get out of the room. He doesn't even remember which parcels he was tracking were meant to come in today. Anything to get him out of that room is a miracle.
Astarion flies down the stairs; oh, isn't Wyll a sight for sore eyes! Standing there all tall and handsome, gentle smile as always, with one...no, two...three...four enormous boxes of samples?!
"You have got to be kidding me," Astarion groans. "I told them not to overpack the boxes! What is this, the whole season's ship samples at once?!"
"Are you alright?" Wyll asks, because he is a kind, sensitive soul, truly the perfect model citizen. Truly boyfriend material. "You look a little...tired."
"...It's been an afternoon."
"Oh. And it's only half past two, that's unfortunate."
"Tell me about it," Astarion says, staring blankly at the boxes. He is proud of his figure, svelte because of how much time he spends in Pilates, but he doesn't ever hit the weight rack. "Alright, I'll sign for them and then I'll get out of your hair."
"No, you know what? Let me help you bring them up," Wyll offers. "This is far too much for one person to handle. You just tell me where you want them, okay?"
Oh, Astarion could just swoon. "You are truly a treasure, my dear. I don't know what I'd do without you!"
"Struggle, most likely," Wyll laughs as he easily picks up one of the boxes. "Well, up we go!"
Together they make short work of the boxes. Astarion has Wyll bring them just up to the edge of the production room; he's not letting Cazador set eyes on this man. More importantly he's not letting Shadowheart set eyes on this man—Astarion will never hear the end of her teasing.
"Thank you so much, darling," Astarion says as Wyll helps him with the last box. "However can I thank you properly?"
"It was nothing," Wyll chuckles. "But if you really want to..." And he takes out his delivery notice pad and scribbles something down. Presses the paper into Astarion's hand with a smile. "Until next time, Astarion."
"Or sooner," Astarion murmurs as Wyll disappears down the stairs. Wyll's number, of course, is now in his hand. Perhaps this afternoon isn't so bad after all.
"Astarion! Are those Rugan's samples? Bring them in already, that idiot doesn't know how to make a raglan sleeve and I've got a bad feeling about it!"
Then again...perhaps it is.
~*~
~*~
A week after Astarion's fabulous date with Wyll—the man is a proper romantic, he shelled out for a candlelight dinner AND flowers AND drove Astarion out to a stargazing spot—a week after that loveliness, the forecast dampens the mood. All the weathermen call grim-faced for the summer storm of the century, poised to knock out power to at least half the city. Building management, upon hearing this news, absolutely panics.
"They're forcing us to close," Cazador declares, slamming down his office phone. "Gods, they're paranoid! Ugh!"
"Better safe than sorry," Alfira says. "We don't want to worry about getting home, right?"
"It's going to turn out to be nothing. Just you wait and see."
Shadowheart is smirking to herself. Astarion, of course, is thrilled at this news. A cozy Wednesday at home? Sign him right the fuck up.
"I'm going to have to call Elminster," Cazador grumbles. "Everyone will need to be set up to work from home."
...Oh come on. Just let them have one day off! Let nature take her course and just live with it, it'll all still be there on Thursday!
Astarion screams all of this in his head, of course. Cazador is already dialing up Elminster's number and the tech wizard will get them all set up before the day's out. In the near year Astarion has worked here, not once has he been allowed to work from home. Good to know it's at least possible, he supposes.
They leave for the day, Elminster having promised to set up both Astarion and Shadowheart before the evening's done. Astarion has himself a nice relaxing evening at home, running himself a fancy bath and then wrapping himself up in fresh sheets with his latest embroidery project in hand. The hours tick on, and no messages from Elminster appear. But his phone does buzz—it's Shadowheart.
In the morning Astarion doggedly logs on, unhappy to be using his own personal devices for work. As a general rule he avoids anything work-related on his own tech; not even his email is connected to his phone. His free time is HIS, precious and savoured, and will not be intruded upon.
But it's still pretty sweet to work in his pyjamas. Unfortunately fashion is not an industry that can easily be worked from home; too many physical samples that need handling. But he can click around in Illustrator no problem, albeit at a reduced speed. Not even because he's being lazy! But because the remote access is laggy as fuck. Every once in a while he casts his eyes out of his apartment windows, but there's not even a drop of rain by noon. He smirks to himself, feeling giddy, like he's gotten away with a petty crime.
At three o'clock, he calls Wyll, just for the hell of it. So much more pleasant to chat with as he works.
"Darling! Are you still on your route?"
Wyll's lovely laugh comes over the line. "Of course, sweetheart. It's not even sprinkling out."
"Well, I've spent the entire day in my pyjamas," Astarion brags. "It's been wonderful."
"So glad to hear it. So happy for you."
"But I'm calling," Astarion purrs. "To ask if you'd like to come over and get me out of my pyjamas."
"Now?" Wyll chokes. "Astarion, maybe your boss wouldn't know, but mine would!"
"Tch. After five, darling. Just come straight here, would you?"
"Alright," Wyll says. "Your wish, as always, is my command."
Astarion blows him a kiss and then hangs up, leaning back in his cozy chair. Ah, bliss.
~*~
On a random Thursday, Astarion reaches his one year at Szarr Garments. The girls all remark about it and congratulate him, and Karlach gives him a friendly slap on the back, but it goes unacknowledged by either Szarr. Not that Astarion expected either of them to remember. They're always wrapped up in their own little self-centered worlds.
Meanwhile, Wyll has been an absolute gem of a sounding board for talking about the raise. He's helped reassure Astarion that no, he's not asking for too much, he really ought to be given a decent raise. They'd hired him at dirt cheap because Astarion had been rather desperate, and now he's got a year's worth of good experience beneath his belt, having been through a couple whole seasons. Astarion has been trying to feel good about it too. He knows he's worth the number he will be asking. And he's got a plan—he'll wait until Cazador is taking a week away from the office at his second home in Luskan, and ask Petras on his own.
Petras is the CEO, the big boss, the big cheese. It's his company, right? Isn't that how he likes to think about it?
So Astarion has his plan. He's going to be completely, one hundred percent transparent. He'll talk about how much he's learned and how much Szarr Garments has helped him develop as a designer, and then bring up what other duties he'd love to take on in the future. Then he'll pivot the conversation to money, and show Petras his actual shoestring budget, no numbers fudged. Cazador doesn't have a heart—whatever's in his chest is a dead husk that couldn't be moved for anything. But Petras, though he's the lamest sort of nepo baby, is young like Astarion and has a better sense of what a dollar can actually get you these days (Cazador is of the worst "it's a banana, what could it cost, ten dollars?" sort.)
Wyll says it's a sound strategy. Astarion brings his printed out budget to work and tries not to feel nauseous all morning.
After lunch, he makes his move.
"Sure, I've got time to chat," Petras says absently, fidgeting with a basic baseball cap. Last week he couldn't even decide between whether his basic as fuck, boring sans serif bold font logo should be two inches or three inches wide on the cap. He'd had to ask daddy for his opinion. "Come in, Astarion!"
"So, I'm coming up on my one year with you now," Astarion says with a painted smile.
"Are you really? Oh wow, that's awesome."
"Mhm. Time flies, doesn't it?"
"It sure does," Petras chuckles. "So, uh, what did you want to talk about?"
Astarion launches into his pre-planned talking points. He discusses how much he's learned, how amazing it is to be in the production room and learn from everyone else's roles, and makes sure to emphasize how much he's learned from Cazador. Petras nods and hums along, making positive noises. When Astarion's done all the buttering up he thinks he can get away with, he pivots into the hard part.
"So, of course I can't let you get off easy," he teases. "I'd like to talk about compensation. I've got my own household budget here; and I know you love making numbers work."
To his credit, Petras doesn't seem fazed. He keeps his neutral placidity well in place on his face. "Ha, okay. Hit me, Astarion."
Astarion takes Petras line by line through the budget. It is a little humiliating, exposing himself like this. But a strategy like this would never work in a corporate design firm. It's only because Szarr Garments is so small, so proud of being family-owned, that Astarion wants to give it a try and just see how it plays out.
"So, there you have it. If I live like an absolute monk—that's no going out to eat, giving up my gym membership, never even going home to see my family—I can save a maximum of fourteen thousand and four hundred dollars a year. Tell me, what can fourteen thousand and four hundred dollars a year get you?"
Petras, who'd been silent the whole way through, smiles awkwardly. "Not much."
"That's right. Look at those average car prices for this year; not even half the average of a used car these days. I could max out my Tax-Free Faerûn Savings Account, or my First-Time Baldurian Homebuyers Account, but not both. And again, that's if I do nothing but spend money on housing myself, feeding myself, and showing up to work."
Petras' neutral expression stays perfectly in place. He should really take up playing Azoun's Hold 'em with that poker face.
"Thanks for showing me all this, Astarion. I just really wish my dad had been here for this conversation, you know?"
Why the fuck do you think I planned it this way, you absolute blithering basic-ass fuckface idiot, Astarion screams in his mind. He smiles.
"I'm gonna talk it over with my dad. I'll let you know by next week, yeah?"
"Sounds good," Astarion beams. "You can keep that to look over!" And he skedaddles out of that office—gracefully, mind you—to get back to work.
Astarion spends the next week cautiously optimistic. Cazador is meant to return from his Luskan home on Monday. Monday rolls around, Cazador stomps in to complain about how much time Donella spent golfing without him, and continues yapping the whole day. He's always full of extra yap energy when he returns from Luskan, needing to unleash it on Astarion and the poor girls.
By five o'clock, no dice. Astarion takes the bus home and cooks a lovely restaurant quality pasta with Wyll at his side. He wakes up to find he has a bit of a sore throat—unrelated to the activities he and Wyll got up to during the night, he swears!—and heads to work.
Right before lunch, Astarion is walking towards the printer room when Petras calls his name.
"What's up," Astarion says with a smile. Now, Petras is a known germaphobe. It's actually kind of funny the lengths he'll go to to keep anybody sick out of his personal office—personally, Astarion thinks that if he's so paranoid he should instate a more flexible work from home policy, but what does he know. Still, he'll play nice. "Just letting you know that I woke up with a sore throat today, nothing major but—"
Petras wrinkles his nose and swishes his hand out, indicating that Astarion shouldn't come any deeper into the cavernous office. Astarion stands awkwardly at the threshold.
"Yeah so, I talked to my dad about what you proposed. Here's what I'm going to give you—I'll give you a three percent cost of living raise. That sound good?"
Astarion does the mental math in his head. No, no it doesn't sound good actually. His rent is going up more than what that raise is.
"Well," he says with a plastered on smile. "You know what that means, right?" It means you don't think I'm worthy of even half a used car. You fucking assholes.
Petras nods. "Yeah, sorry. That's all I can do."
"Well, thank you very much," Astarion says with a sharp giggle. "Just out of curiosity. When do you usually give team members a substantial compensation boost?"
"At the two year mark, usually," Petras says smoothly. What a fucking liar. Over Astarion's dead body do they give raises at the two year mark.
"I see. Well, did you have any feedback for me on my performance? Because in our initial chat, I didn't get much of a feel for what I should improve on."
Petras pauses for a brief moment. "Just taking more initiative," he says. "Yeah. Work on that, yeah?"
"I certainly will," Astarion says, the smile still frozen on his lips. "Thank you, Petras. I really do appreciate it."
The printed emails Astarion's clutching have gotten all creased. He walks back to the production room, clears his throat, and goes to print them again. He looks over at Cazador, who is telling Alfira all about the fine dining restaurant he went to near his Luskan house. Astarion feels a stab of vicious, icy cold anger. Cazador hasn't even properly spoken to him since he got back.
He's such a cold-hearted bitch. Too cowardly to tell Astarion to his face that he's not worth having a car. Fucking hell, Astarion doesn't even want to drive, he'd take that money and sock it right into a retirement savings account and keep taking the bus every day, showing up every day to make Wyrmart's ugly prints with a smile. It's the fucking principle of the thing.
Astarion clicks over to his emails and reads the incoming ones without actually taking in the text. Lae'zel bickers with Shadowheart about which of them needs to send fitting reminders to the buyers. Alfira lets Cazador use her to have someone listen to him brag. And this will go on and on and on and on until Astarion breaks.
He's biting his lip to keep his composure, feeling the anger nestle white-hot in his chest. Thankfully, a distraction arrives—Karlach, but she looks grim-faced.
"I've just had a call from Rugan's assistant," she announces. "He had a heart attack? The assistant even sent me photos! Gods, look at these, the poor guy!"
"He had a what?!" Cazador screeches. "Oh my GODS. He has a delivery to make!"
"I'm really not joking," Karlach says, passing her phone around. Astarion winces at the photo—he wouldn't want to be the one having a heart attack and getting treated in a Zhentarim hospital, that's for sure. It's a good reminder that even his bad day, though it's pretty bad, could be much worse.
"He really doesn't look well," Shadowheart says, worried. "You've been stressing him out too much, Caz."
"Oh, he'll be fine. My uncle had a quadruple bypass last year and he was totally fine," Cazador says. Karlach moves towards him and angles the phone so that Cazador can see the photos of the poor Zhent, tangled in wires and giving a weak thumbs up to the camera. "Ew! Ugh, I don't want to see that! Get that out of my face!"
Karlach looks at him as if he's lost his humanity. And that's when it solidifies in Astarion's mind—Cazador is really, truly evil. Like, there's no describing him otherwise. Lae'zel chks in sympathy as she sees the photo. Alfira murmurs about who will take over Rugan's duties while he's recovering.
Astarion just clicks back to the ugly floral print Wyrmart signed off on, and does his work, like a good little worker bee.
That's what makes tears prick at Astarion's eyes. He's texting Wyll furiously in the empty break room, everyone else save Cazador out of the office.
When Wyll shows up at his door with the food in hand—fancy sushi from Astarion's favourite spot—Astarion bursts into tears.
"I hate that it bothers me so much," he sobs. "I knew it! I bloody well knew it, and I got my hopes up anyways. Why?! Why did I bother thinking it would work!"
Wyll drops the sushi and wraps his arms around Astarion, pulling him in close, kissing his hair and smoothing down his back. "I know. I know, I'm so sorry love. It would have worked on any reasonable person."
"It's twenty more dollars a week. It's not nothing, but Corellon's tits, it's all eaten up by the rent going up! I have nothing to show for it!"
"I know," Wyll says. "They're not worthy of you. You are so talented, Astarion. I've seen what you make, and it's incredible. You'll get to where you want to be someday. This was just a stepping stone, right?"
"Right," Astarion sniffs, his face buried in Wyll's shoulder. "Wyrmart can go suck a dick too. If I have to make one more ugly 67 print I'm going to tear my eyes out."
"Please don't. I love your eyes," Wyll says faux gravely, kissing Astarion on the tip of his nose. Astarion gives a watery laugh. "Come, love. Sushi will make you feel better."
"I really do love you," Astarion says. "...I wouldn't have met you if it wasn't for this job. Look, I'm a bit too angry right now to say it was all worth it..."
Wyll laughs. He feeds Astarion a piece of sushi. "Absolutely no offence taken."
"But ask me again next week, when I'm a little less pissed, and the answer will be different. I'm so lucky to have you, Wyll."
"And I you," Wyll says. "We should both fire up our LinkedInn accounts, I suppose. It's not like I want FaeEx to hold me hostage forever."
"Ugh. I suppose we should," Astarion whines. "But I'll only move for a position that pays at LEAST what I asked of Petras. At least, you hear me?"
"Loud and clear," Wyll smiles. "I wouldn't expect you to accept anything less. You'll get there, my love. Just you wait—in ten years, this will all be but a distant memory."
Gods, Astarion needs that to be true. And hey—he still gets to call himself a fashion designer, and no one can ever take that away from him. And for the little elfling Astarion that still lives within him, clumsily sketching out all his dream dresses, just knowing that is worth its weight in gold.