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Au: Regular (Timeskip)
Tags/Warnings: GN!reader, multiple tenses cause time, mentions of alcohol
Word Count: 1.3k
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Azumane knew the feeling of another's skin beneath his hands. Over the years, he has been intimate with the nature of others' bodies. He has learnt the patterns of waists, legs, shoulders, and arms into a near science: soft, sharp, boxed, round, big, or small. Each body is different from the next, unique and the same, and ever-changing. Azumane has held hundreds and is always keen to experience the build of another. Such is the world of fashion.
"Can you lift your arms for me?" he asks one hand on his subject's bare shoulder, holding the end of his tiring measuring tape.
"Like this?" You raise your arms to a T rolling your shoulders back to maintain posture.
"Perfect, thank you." His hand slides down your arm, pulling the measuring tape until meeting the bend of your wrist.
You were new. Fresh from dropping out of university, which also happened to be where he found you, crying on the front steps of the fashion studies building where he was about to meet an old professor of his.
It was almost dark out. The sun was peeking through alleyways, and you were curled over your knees, gripping your skirt that was torn to shreds, falling to pieces at your feet. Even through tears and choked words, you somehow managed to speak firmly and eloquently to Azumane when he approached.
"It's all over, I hate this world, this art, these people, yet I can't think of a single other thing to do with my life, and it's heartbreaking. I never wanted to hate the one thing I love. It makes me feel ugly, disgusting."
After sending you on your way home, he spoke to his old professor and inquired. It all ended with an email inviting you to his workshop.
"Have you ever modelled before (L/N)? You seem to have practice," he asks, writing his final measurement down, and offering you a hand to step off the podium.
"Not for anything other than class projects. And well, you know how that went."
He did. It had taken you repetitive hours of ranting into a glass of wine from his kitchen for you to calm down and speak on something other than the repetitive harsh words of a high fashion professor.
"Other than school, I would try making my clothes and have my family help get measurements. But that's about it. No runways for me."
"Runways are a bit overrated, but I'm happy to have a new addition to my team." He gestures to the empty room. Tables covered with unfinished cuts and stitches, and walls filled with rolls of fabric. The warehouse is empty otherwise. "If they were here, I'm sure they'd agree."
