Gods, it was an overtly opulent space, bathed in the soft glow of exquisite chandeliers, with hushed whispers and the faint scent of fine leather and imported wood. It had been a long ti since either of us had indulged in anything like this, let alone after a high-speed pursuit involving parkour experts.
We settled onto a high, long couch, upholstered in the burgundy leather that swallowed us whole. Attentive assistants presented us with a cascading array of fabric swatches, each one a tactile dream of cashre, silk, and vicuña wool, beside them lay rendered design sketches.
“They are using… fur?” I asked, a knot forming in my stomach. The mory of the stoat fur cape Cassiel had once gifted , and how I’d bawled my eyes out after learning its origin, flashed through my mind.
“Dear, as I inford you, high fashion ateliers, or reputable artisans and tailors, do not employ vegan leather or imitation fur.”
“I don’t want to wear sothing made out of animal fur or wool.”
“Surely,” Levi replied, pulling a swatch of soft cotton. “There are an array of other options. You are, of course, entirely within your rights to choose your own preference.”
“Okay, good. As long as it's not made from sothing that'll make cry.”
“You consu at as if you're not an omnivore but a veritable carnivore, dear. What is this sudden ethical dilemma? Mind you, I am vegetarian.”
Oh, you bastard. I do eat at. A lot of at. My ethical stance usually only kicks in when it’s about sothing pretty and furry.
“It is not the sa. I can choose not to use fur and eat at,” I insisted.
“Why?” he pressed, leaning back slightly, his amusent growing. “The cows, the little chicks, goats with pure white fur, the sheep with their cloud-like wool—are they not also quite pretty and cute?”
“One is for sustenance, the other is for vanity; they are not comparable,” I asserted, feeling a flicker of triumph at having found a distinction.
“Hm…” He took a sip of his champagne. “You see, I find this particular phenonon rather interesting. Humans, in their inherent empathy, especially towards the vulnerable and weak, have literally developed an entire system of words. Linguistically speaking, terms like ‘minced,’ ‘steak,’ ‘drumstick,’ or any other word used, are simply masking. Humans, even if they consu it daily, cannot bring themselves to utter what they are truly eating aloud, which is, quite literally, a corpse. So, in order to perpetuate this denial, they created these euphemistic words.”
“Thanks for the casual lesson, professor. Also, you can try to guilt-trip all you want; I am never turning my back on at. It is delicious, tasty, it has unparalleled flavor, and we are buying from reputable farms. So, I am grateful for every cow, pig, goat, sheep, and chicken for their service to my bones, cells, muscles, and obviously my palate,” I said, crossing my arms with a defiant grin.
He shrugged in return. “I assu this is your way of being in denial.”
“Oh, I am not in denial at all,” I countered, leaning forward. “I love sucking bone marrow out the bones. It is so tasty, rich, and literally lts like butter.”
“I have witnessed that scene before,” Levi replied, his eyes sparkling with amusent. “Do you know hyenas do the sa thing, dear? That is why they possess such formidable jaws. Since they are scavengers, and they cannot readily consu red at as you do, they must fracture the bones to access that highly proteinaceous bone marrow.”
“Did you seriously compare to a hyena?” I asked, a mix of disbelief and indignation coloring my tone.
“Not necessarily, no. Hyenas cannot consu as much red at as you do, which, I confess, makes rather curious, dear. What would transpire within an ecosystem if we were to introduce a formidable carnivore such as yourself? I rather suspect you would drive an entire species to extinction purely for the gratification of your palate,” he said, his eyes drifted down to bubbles rising in his flute, absorbed in the hypothetical.
“Thank you for your complint, Levi, and yes, I would possibly hunt zebras, with a leaf on my naked butt, and a spear I made out of carnivore bones.”
“It was a complint; one must acknowledge formidable apex predators,” he chuckled, a genuinely amused sound. “Now, now, let us proceed with our shopping before you decide to infiltrate the poultry farms.” With a crisp snap of his fingers, he summoned a half-dozen staff mbers who instantly converged on our couch.
Damn. Because we had been so engrossed in our philosophical debate about human denial and hyena dietary habits, I hadn't truly taken a proper look at the myriad of fabric swatches and design options spread before us.
I leaned close to Levi’s ear, whispering, “I didn’t choose anything.”
“It is quite alright; permit these individuals to execute their responsibilities,” he replied. He raised his voice slightly, addressing the attentive staff. “My husband requires consultation. Kindly unfurl the fabrics.”
Unfurl what?
Two staff mbers pulled forward a long tal pipe, adorned with colors, textures, and finished suits. It stretched for an impossible distance. It looked exactly like what I’d always seen in movie sets, like a costu trailer. But this was a good-slling one, at least.
I rose from the couch, and the staff quickly converged on .
They draped silks that felt like liquid against my skin, tailored wools so fine they barely seed to exist, and linens that whispered of sumrs. Every suggestion was accompanied by an explanation of why a particular color would best complent my autumn palette or how a certain lapel would enhance my natural shoulder line. Levi, occasionally offered a terse, approving nod or a dismissive shake of his head.
A woman held up a deep sapphire wool, letting the light play across its surface, then turned to compare it to my irises. "A marvelous match for his eyes, don't you agree, sir?"
“Ice blue on sapphire? Please, my dear,” Levi interjected smoothly. He remained seated, his long legs crossed, one shoe glinting under the lights, mocking the woman's suggestion. "Such a pairing would be a disservice to his complexion, rendering both elents diminished. We seek harmony, not dissonance."
Gods, he's such a snob.
I glared at Levi, conveying an urgent ssage of "stop being so rude." He replied by taking a languid sip of his champagne. I an, were we even allowed to talk back to these people? We looked like we'd just crawled out of a ditch, wearing mud-green, loose sweaters and God knows what else. Why was he being such a smug, entitled ass?
The staff began to bring out a parade of suits in various colors and cuts, showcasing each one to Levi and . For my part, I was fine with all of them. Levi, though, was either dismissing or accepting them with a re flick of his pointer finger, like he was swiping through a dating app. The arrogance, the audacity knew no bounds, especially considering he still looked like a scarecrow.
After the suits were chosen, with Levi’s swift and silent judgnt, they started to bring out shoes. Gods, what was Levi going to spew out now?
He took a single, dismissive glance at the five pairs of leather shoes, all in different shades of brown, shined and presented on velvet stands. Then, his finger began its familiar, autocratic dance. “Too bright,” he stated, his voice a quiet pronouncent, as he pointed at the first pair. “Too pointy,” he added for the next. His gaze then slid to the last pair with an audible sigh of disdain. “What even is that color?”
“I… I’m fine with these, but no leather shoes for . Maybe cufflinks.”
The staff, swiftly cleared the unchosen pairs of shoes. In their place, new attendants arrived, presenting trays of cufflinks in a much more ordinary fashion.
“I am not choosing cuff links, you go on, dear,” he said, waving a hand over the trays. Oh, why? I think they look really good. And they sparkle like a disco ball. Wait. Am I a crow? Am I… a scavenger? Was Levi right by comparing to a hyena?
Everyone likes shiny rocks, right?
I’m not… a crow.
I refocused on the sparkling, gleaming cufflinks, each one catching the light with a srizing allure. Fuck, I am a crow. They all looked so good, I even wanted to wear them as rings, one on each finger.
My inner crow took over. I leaned closer to the velvet tray, my fingers hovering over them. Forget practicality; forget minimalist power-plays. I wanted sparkle. I wanted shine.
"This one." I pointed to a set that captured every stray beam of light in the room, a cluster of tiny facets that promised a miniature supernova on my wrist. It was gloriously, unapologetically bright. The staff simply nodded, already moving to extract my chosen trinket from it's velvet nest.
“Why don’t you want cufflinks? They would look great with your eyes,” I said to Levi, trying to tempt him.
“I find them unnecessary,” he replied, a ripple of discomfort crossing his features. “Unless it’s a highly esteed gala, perhaps a critical eting, or dinner at a truly reputable establishnt, they aren’t needed—for . And I simply don't enjoy their cool sensation constantly touching my wrists.”
“Oh, really? I apparently like shiny things, Levi. Even I didn’t know that,” I quipped.
"Now that you’ve admitted you enjoy shiny things, let us take a look at more shiny things.” He beckoned a staff mber with a subtle flick of his finger, then whispered sothing in their ear. What is he cooking up now?
New attendants arrived with trays displaying ear pieces. They were curved at the spine, lacking any tal post that would pierce an ear hole. Ah! They were designed to sit perfectly along the outer rim of my ear, right at the cartilage.
“They all look really nice,” I said, drooling as I leaned over. I an, not only did they not require an ear hole, which is sothing I don't have, but they were also truly exquisite. Olive branches, so with tiny flower motifs, others more minimalistic in sleek gold or silver. Each one, regardless of its design, was a subtle statent piece in its own right.
“I thought these would appeal. They offer sparkle, yes, but with a refined execution. Consider how they would fra your face,” Levi said, his gaze detachedly sweeping over.
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“I actually quite like them all, but the minimalistic ones are… a little dull for ,” I admitted, my gaze lingering on a particularly intricate floral design. After a mont of internal debate, overwheld by the choices, I sighed. “Ugh, I can’t choose, Levi, they all look really nice. You choose for .”
“Why not buy them all, dear?” he asked, a tilt of his head.
“All of them, Levi? Hold your horses for a second,” I said, my voice a little incredulous.
“Why should I?” he countered, an eyebrow raised. “You are richer than gods themselves, Raphael; why bother with decision-making, wasting your precious ti?”
It's… excessive. Vulgar, even.
“Do you ever just choose sothing, or do you always default to total acquisition?” I asked, my arms crossed, a challenge in my eyes.
“I am not indecisive, Raphael,” he stated, utterly unfazed by my jab. His long finger moved like a conductor's baton. “Good, good, bad, basic, basic, good.”
No, indecisive he is certainly not. But that's not what I asked! He completely bypassed the question of choice versus acquisition.
“It’s not about the outco; it’s also savoring the process of choosing.”
“Great. I chose the first two, and the last one. I’m entirely certain they will fit your face well,” he said.
“Right. No debate needed. I suppose that’s one way to shop,” I said, a faint, wry smile playing on my lips.
He turned his face to , sharply, and I saw the light leaving his eyes. “Was that a jab, or a retort because I do not get sentintally attached to… what? Fabrics and gold?”
Ah, shit.
I hit a nerve.
“It wasn't a retort. I just ant, sotis the experience of choosing is part of the fun, even if the outco is the sa,” I clarified, trying to soften my tone.
“What exactly makes you think there’s a difference between your hour-long decision and mine?” he asked, the light still absent his eyes.
“I shouldn't have implied your thod was less valid. It's just... I enjoy the personal connection to things, and you don't, and that's okay,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Mine is not disenjoynt, Raphael, it’s absence,” he corrected, his voice holding that weary tone. “When will we ever not have this conversation?”
I dragged him back to that frustrating place where he has to articulate his neurodivergence, not as an academic concept, but as a lived reality that makes simple conversations difficult. My attempt to apologize just led him to a deeper explanation of his difference. Gods, I keep doing this.
“I'm sorry, Levi. You're right. I keep trying to put my experience onto yours, and that's not fair.”
“I am glad we reached an agreent,” he said, the flatness in his tone easing. He leaned back into the couch. “Now for the most dreaded part of shopping, dear: clothing change,” he announced, gesturing towards a row of fitting cabins.
"You're not coming in there with , are you?" I asked, eyeing the cabins with suspicion.
"And miss the spectacle, dear Raphael? Never."
“No, stay here. I will change my clothes alone,” I insisted, already feeling a flush creep up my neck at the thought of an audience.
“Alone?” he echoed, a lift of one dark eyebrow. “Staff will be with you, dear. I am rely joining the ride.”
“What, no! I don’t want people looking at my body! Act like a jealous husband or sothing,” I blurted. “Be a little nace, you enjoy it.”
He simply shrugged. “I think that an ill-advised decision, wearing those clothes alone, but sure, why not?”
I entered the fitting room, yanking one of the suits from the now confused staff mber’s hand. Just before the curtain swished shut, I heard Levi’s voice, clear and resonant from the waiting area. “Ah, yes, you see, I do not enjoy sharing my husband, nor his form, so, wait outside.”
The fuck? Is this what 'jealousy' sounds like to him? It’s like a badly written villain explaining his evil plan, with all the nuance of a brick.
As I peeled off my mud-green sweater, a shudder ran through , part cold, part embarrassnt. Then I pulled on the crisp, white shirt. No issues; the fabric felt like a dream against my skin.
Next, the jacket.
There was a pin in the lapel, which stabbed my shoulder with a prick. A small yelp escaped my lips. So… the staff was supposed to take those out, which, by my own sense of decorum, I had stabbed myself with. Fantastic.
I yanked the offending pin out, and dropped it onto the carpet. I didn't want to put it in the clothing bin; it would just prick so unsuspecting staff mber later. With a deep breath and a grimace, I pulled the jacket fully on.
And that's when the full, monuntal, profound, complete idiocy of my actions hit .
Why the fuck did I not wear the pants first? Why? Here I stood, suited from the waist up, and still in my underwear from the waist down.
Do I risk taking the suit off, possibly causing creases? Or do I roll?
Fuck, I roll.
With a grunt, I twisted and contorted, wrestling the jacket and shirt off without disturbing them too much. Just as I tugged the pants, I saw another pin, glinting innocently at my ankles. Gods… I, quite ungracefully, lifted my knee, and pulled it out, feeling like I was taking cactus thorns from my flesh.
As I was pulling my zipper up… I noticed sothing. My muscles were there, but just above my waistband, there was a tiny, soft fold of fat on my abdon. Where the fuck did this co from? Ugh… Since the car crash, both Levi and I had been living a complete couch potato life. Levi himself had joked about his leg muscles lting when he couldn’t walk properly. So… yeah… Another insecurity blood, right in this mont. Fuck!
I erged from the fitting room, seething. I was insecure about that tiny fat fold, yes, but at this mont, I wasn't sad. I was angry. Possibly, in the dead of night, the sadness would creep in, and then Levi would likely just say it looked "good" or, worse, offer a planned workout regin. Fuck that.
“Ah, looking quite wonderful,” he said, his voice as calm and unruffled as ever. The staff, of course, was also present, their eyes gliding over , assessing the fit.
“Right. Wonderful. What’s next?” I asked, my voice clipped. To Levi’s eyes, I probably looked like an angry rabbit, twitching with suppressed rage.
“Ah, I will change my clothes. You can wear your accessories, dear.” He rose gracefully from the couch, and without another glance, slipped into the fitting cabin I had just vacated.
I stomped towards the display of ear pieces and cufflinks. There's no decision-making now. If I was rich, I was rich, and clearly, that ant throwing money at the problem until it went away. “Please choose what complints this color best,” I said, clenching my jaw so hard I felt my teeth grind.
"For this shade, sir," she began, "I would suggest either the silver-toned cuff with the wave design, or, if you prefer sothing with a touch more warmth, the rose-gold piece with the leaf pattern. Both will complent without overwhelming."
"This one," I pointed out, my jaw still tight. It felt like a decision born more of spite than genuine preference. An act of defiance against the universe that had decided I should have a fat fold and an endlessly logical husband.
Levi erged from the fitting room, and I had to admit, he looked… striking. The suit, a deep erald green that brought out the cool tones in his complexion, fit him perfectly.
“I see you've opted for the 'I'm about to conquer a small country' look. Bold choice, Levi,” I said, my gaze sweeping over his figure.
“I do admit, this color is not in my usual wardrobe, so I am rather inclined to have second opinions,” he replied, his eyes fixed on his reflection in the full-length mirror, turning slightly from side to side to assess the fit.
Second opinions? From ? The 'rabbit' who just stabbed himself with a pin because he can't dress himself properly? The man with a fat fold?
“I think you look great,” I replied, voice a little strained.
Levi leaned in closer to the mirror, his reflection scrutinized. He tilted his head, adjusting the angle of his jawline. “I think I look… old?” he asked, the question delivered with a flat tone.
Where in the hell does he see 'old'? He looks like he walked out of a goddamn high-fashion magazine, or a marble sculpture, for that matter. He looks tiless, severe, impossibly handso.
“No. Absolutely not. The green actually makes your eyes stand out,” I insisted, hoping to sound convincing.
Levi was… unsure? Or uncertain? It was not easy to decipher his emotions, but a tension in his jaw, a furrow between his brows, suggested doubt. “I think green is not my color, but I am not changing clothes again.”
The lead tailor stepped forward.
"Very well, sir. While the green is indeed a departure from your usual palette, we can assure you the fit is impeccable, and it creates a truly striking silhouette that complents your build. We can, of course, select accessories that might adjust its perceived tone, if that would increase your comfort with the color."
Oh, now the big guns are out. They'll help him trick his own brain into thinking it's more his color.
It's a far cry from my internal ltdown. No one's offering to adjust the perceived tone of my abdon, are they? No, I'm just supposed to deal with my own insecurities while they manage Levi's green debacle.
“No need for alterations,” Levi said, turning from the mirror with an air of absolute finality. “I am quite fine with the fit. Do ensure other suits and accessories are sent to our address, and please do kindly take care of our earlier outfits.” He spoke calmly, then turned his gaze to . “Are you also done, dear?”
“Yeah, I am done,” I said, gritting my teeth.
That fucking pin. I was going to find the company that made that damn pin and burn it to the ground. Fuck them.
...
We entered the car. Levi imdiately turned on the GPS, his brow furrowed in concentration as he checked the address for the bakery he’d been talking about earlier. It hit then – we'd spent so much damn ti in that tailor's labyrinth, I was fucking hungry. Of course I was hungry. That’s how I got that fat fold in the first place, wasn't it?
As Levi navigated the streets, his eyes flickered to . "Is there sothing wrong, dear?" he asked, his voice calm, utterly oblivious to the silent red flas I felt burning behind my eyes.
“I got stabbed by pins, then… I have a fucking fat fold! A. Fat. fold!” I shrieked, the words bursting out of .
Levi kept his eyes fixed on the road, navigating a tricky turn. "Alright…" he murmured. I believed he really hadn't been expecting my outburst. There was a subtle shift in his deanor, a heightened alertness. "We can go ho, and talk if you wish, dear."
I couldn't tell if he was genuinely trying to comfort , or if he was simply making sure the throngs of paparazzi, or just the regular people who undoubtedly recognized our faces, didn't witness one half of the Ascarian power couple yelling about his abdominal fat.
“I am hungry, angry, and in a quite volatile state; I might fucking explode like a bomb,” I said, seething with rage, radiating heat.
"Alright," he said in his typically soothing voice, his hands remaining firm and controlled on the steering wheel. "Instead of going to the bakery, let us go to the house. I will order dinner to your liking, and we can talk about it."
“Only if it's sothing truly indulgent. And we are not talking about my abdon until after I've eaten,” I declared.
“Raphael,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the road. “We will do exactly as you wish, but for now, please try to calm yourself, dear. Maybe try one of your grounding exercises?”
He thinks I’m going to sit here and count five things I can see, four things I can touch, three things I can hear, when all I can see is a fucking fat fold and all I can hear is the roar of my own indignation?
“The fuck I am doing grounding exercise? I got stabbed by that fucking pin, all because I didn’t want strangers to look at my body. Then, because of that fucking pin, I saw my fat fold. If I’d let staff in, they would’ve seen my fat fold too!” I ranted, waving my arms around the car. “I am going to burn that company, that factory, everyone who decided to make that fucking, prickling pin!”
“Raphael,” he said calmly. “I understand that you are angry, and you wish to take it out on soone or sothing, but please do take deep breaths. After we reach the house, we can take a relaxing shower, I will put music on for you, or prepare a drink for you, dear.”
“Drink? Yes, fucking drink. Stop at the nearest market, I am buying beer. If I am going to have a belly, at least I should earn it.”
“Alright,” he said, not protesting, solely acknowledging my directive. A few minutes later, he pulled the car into a parking lot. I unbuckled my seatbelt with a yank and stomped inside the market. Ignoring the craft beers and imported selections, I zeroed in on the cheapest, most aggressively branded six-pack of lager I could find. I paid, barely looking at the cashier, then stomped back to the car and threw myself into the passenger seat.
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