Help! Get Me Out of My Sister's Chapter 268: ’Ask Your Questions’

"Now that I’m done asuring you," Drizelous said with a wide, almost mischievous grin. "It’s ti for a little interview."

Florian narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching in annoyance. "You did more than just asuring. What in the world was that?"

He had been asured before. Tailors typically wrapped a asuring tape around his neck, arms, chest, and called it a day. Quick. Efficient.

But this?

Drizelous had spent the last forty minutes poking, prodding, adjusting his posture, scribbling things down in a tiny notebook, and using a range of odd instrunts Florian was almost certain were never ant to be used for tailoring.

There had been a ruler shaped like a crescent moon. Sothing that buzzed. Sothing that clicked.

At one point, Florian was fairly certain Drizelous had whispered to the fabric of his tunic.

’He’s asuring like I’m a damn artifact from a lost civilization,’ Florian thought bitterly, trying not to roll his shoulders. ’Not a human. A museum piece.’

He hadn’t moved from his spot for nearly an hour. His back ached. His legs were stiff. His dignity? Possibly bruised.

Drizelous, anwhile, looked completely unbothered—pleased, even—as he clapped his hands together like a chef admiring the prep work for a feast.

"Your Highness," he said, smirking like the world was his runway, "I’m called the best for a reason."

Drizelous gestured grandly toward a desk tucked into the corner of his workshop—though calling it a "desk" was generous. It looked more like the consultation nook of a particularly eccentric apothecary. Sketches were stacked in clean, color-coded piles. Thread spools sat in graduated gradients like alchemical ingredients.

A few rune-lights hovered above, casting warm, pulsing glows in shades of amber and violet. There was even a crystal decanter filled with sothing suspiciously pink, which glimred ominously under the rune-light.

"Co, co. Sit, Your Highness." Drizelous said, sweeping around the other side and dropping into a high-backed chair with the effortless poise of soone about to deliver life-changing news—or diagnose a personality flaw. "Your interview awaits."

Florian hesitated, eyeing the setup like it might start talking.

’This feels less like a fitting and more like a therapy session hosted by soone who argues with their scissors.’

Still, he moved stiffly across the room and lowered himself into the chair opposite, back straight, arms crossed. Guarded.

Drizelous didn’t seem the least bit deterred. He pulled out a fresh page in his little notebook and uncapped a pen with an unnecessary amount of flair.

"Alright, first question."

Florian blinked, caught off guard. "There’s multiple questions?"

Drizelous didn’t even look up. "What is your relationship with His Majesty, the King?"

Florian stared. "...Pardon?"

"You heard ." Drizelous leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with curiosity that bordered on intrusive. "Would you describe your connection as amicable? Professional? Perhaps... playful?"

’Is he serious?’

Florian opened his mouth. Then closed it again. Then frowned. "What does that have to do with an outfit?"

Drizelous made a noise halfway between a gasp and a scoff—like Florian had just insulted his entire bloodline. "Everything, darling."

Florian stiffened. "...Darling?"

"You’re deflecting," Drizelous said sweetly, tapping his pen to the page. "Now answer the question."

"I—" Florian exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. "We’re working together. For the Summit. He trusts . I think. And I try not to disappoint him."

"Hmm. So amicable with a hint of admiration. Possibly unspoken yearning."

"What? No!"

Drizelous chuckled under his breath, scribbling sothing down.

’This man’s brain is a fashion cult and I’ve been unwillingly inducted.’

"I rember rumors saying you were in love with the king. Madly in love." Drizelous said it casually, like he was comnting on the weather. Then, almost offhandedly, "Well, not rumors exactly—my mother’s complained about you plenty."

Florian froze. "What—? I..."

"Don’t worry, Your Highness." Drizelous didn’t look up from his notebook, still scribbling in those looping, elegant lines. "I’m not judging. I simply need to understand the texture of your connection."

"The texture?" Florian echoed, wary.

Drizelous finally glanced up. The sharp gleam in his eye was gone, replaced with sothing quieter. Serious. "Yes."

There was a pause.

"I’ve only ever made custom outfits for one person in my entire career—His Majesty." His fingers twitched around his pen, almost like the weight of that na alone demanded precision. "Never thought I’d make another. And certainly not for a mber of his harem, and a prince at that."

Florian’s brow furrowed. "But... you still sell clothing. I saw the labels—’For the boutique.’"

Drizelous waved his hand, vaguely annoyed. "For ladies, yes. But I hate them."

The bluntness made Florian blink.

"I prefer designing for n," Drizelous went on, unapologetic. "Strong lines. Bold silhouettes. Presence. My boutique is... wildly popular with the court won, but only because they want to mimic the king. Heinz set a fashion trend the mont he stepped onto the throne. Even now, they’re desperate to wear his shadow. You’d be surprised how many of them treat fashion like a love letter to power."

He laughed—low, velvet-wrapped, and just a touch cruel. "Princess Alexandria, for example. Oh, she adores my designs. Has her maids line up before dawn whenever I release a new collection."

Florian stiffened. "Alexandria? The Alexandria?"

Drizelous gave a nod, pleased with the reaction. "Structured collars. Sharp shoulders. Always. She says it makes her feel like she could command storms and break kingdoms."

’She’s much more in love than I thought.’

He kept his expression neutral, but the thought lingered, curling like smoke.

"...So why the questions about ?" Florian asked, trying to re-center the conversation. His tone was quieter now. Less defensive. More... uncertain.

Drizelous looked up again, and this ti, he truly saw him. Not just the shape of him or the way he sat or dressed—but sothing deeper. Sothing Florian had gotten used to hiding.

"Because you’re the second," Drizelous said simply.

Florian blinked. "The second...?"

"The second person I’ll ever design a custom piece for," the tailor murmured, voice dipping like a secret. "And if that outfit is going to stand beside the first... it can’t just look good. It has to an sothing. It has to reflect you and him. Both."

Florian opened his mouth to protest, but the words didn’t co.

Drizelous leaned back slightly, pen tapping thoughtfully against his notebook. "Fashion isn’t just fabric and stitches. It’s identity. Intention. It’s the emotion you don’t speak out loud, sewn into seams only the wearer understands."

He tilted his head. "Every outfit I’ve made for Heinz fits because I know him. I know how he carries guilt. How he walks into silence and makes it command a room. I know what kind of weight he wears on his shoulders—and I tailor for it."

His gaze sharpened again, pinning Florian with it.

"Now I have to learn you."

Florian didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Because for a flicker of a mont, it felt like Drizelous was reading a script no one else had ever seen. A quiet, fraying script Florian had folded and buried long ago.

’He’s not entirely wrong.’

That’s what made it worse.

He exhaled slowly, uncrossed his arms, and leaned forward just a bit—enough to be noticed. Enough to say fine without saying it.

"...Alright," he muttered. "Ask your questions."

"Hehe."