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."
"It's their day off, isn't it? Why don't you stop for the day?"
He sighs through his nose, pushing up on his glasses to get a better glance at you sitting on the nearby stool. Kira, his manager, is out with friends, and his small team of sewers with different specialties are off doing who knows what.
"I wanted to make sure we had these for Monday."
"It could have waited till Monday too."
Pushing a hand through his hair, he gave you an unamused look. "Did I interrupt your plans?"
"In fact, you did."
"Really, and what were these plans?" He rolls up his measuring tape and sets it down with his clipboard on the nearest table, the same one you're sitting at, head in your hands, with a cheeky smile. He raises a brow.
"To eat pizza with wine on your couch, of course."
"Ah, yes, very eventful." He pats your shoulder before walking by. "Come on. Let's head out and order that pizza."
He can practically hear you buzzing happily behind him.
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Azumane didn't actually have any models within his team. All his models were either temporarily contracted or freelance. Though he knows some personally, to the point of repeatedly calling a few friends and having them in his shows, none stayed exclusively to his brand.
Adopting a college drop-out with similar interests and nowhere to go gave him that opportunity.
If only you'd stop eating his half of the dinner.
"I'm only taking a bite!"
"Ya, of my meal. Eat your own."
"You're paying for it anyways."
"Should I order another side dish?"
"Don't spoil me." You tease, smiling across the table while your chopsticks steal another slap of salmon from his plate.
"You already are."
"Only because you are incredibly kind." It's genuine.
He doesn't quite know how you can switch expressions and tones so quickly when he's stuck in a frustrated, calm, or nervous wreck. He doesn't quite yet know your natural state, other than being a sloth on his couch.
"Don't say that." He can feel the nervousness climbing up his chest.
You play with your chopsticks before setting them down with a shrug. "I mean it. I would probably be back home with my family, barely making it by, or even on the streets if you didn't kidnap me."
He chokes, muscles tensing into a multilayered frown that reaches his eyebrows.
"I didn't kidnap you!"
Your laugh is lighthearted, rolling and tumbling like a breeze over hills. As you settle down, his expression softens again. "Seriously. Thank you."
"You shouldn't have given up." He says after a moment's pause. "On fashion, I mean. You could have done so well."
"Maybe, but if I loved it enough, I wouldn't have given up on it in the first place. No matter the circumstance."
It tugs his chest a little.
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Fashion shows are stressful, heartbreaking, discouraging, and hopeful. Still more so negative until it's over.
Between makeup artists touching hundreds of faces, hair-stylists tugging on scalps, seamstresses pinning clothes, and (most) models sneaking in food wherever possible so they don't faint, all while barely having space to stand (let alone sit), there is no sense of peace.
Azumane went out of his way to buy food for everyone (Including the models) when he felt the tension rising, which they ravaged until it looked as though it weren't there in the first place.
It hurts, physically and mentally, on all parties. Yet, once it's over, he can't help but want to do it again.
You fall back onto his couch when you arrive home so quickly that he hasn't even gotten his shoes off.
When he looks over the back of the couch, he sees your bleary eyes surrounded by smudged makeup and a dopey grin that you send his way between yawns.
"Did you have fun on your first runway?" he asks, resting on his elbows.
"It was nerve-wracking; having all those people staring felt like I was in school again waiting for a critique."
The comparison has him biting his cheek.
"Yet. I don't think I've ever felt more confident and empowered. I know they were there to see your designs, but they were staring at me wearing them, and they were in awe. I felt beautiful." You yawn again, wiping a hand over your mouth, where it pulls away with a colourful smear that reflects onto your cheek. Staring at the remnants on your hand, then to Azumane, you smile.
"Asahi. Thank you. Can I do it again?"
Reaching down, Azumane uses his thumb to try and wipe off the smudge on your cheek, only to find it spreading and looking worse than before. You grin, playfully following his thumb with your teeth in an attempt to bite it.
"You can do it as long as you want. For now, though. Sleep. I'll get some makeup wipes and take care of your face."
When Azumane returns, your head is bent back, mouth open, with soft snores escaping you. He tries to be gentle as he wipes away the colours and lines from your skin, but he's confident that you won't wake up even if he were to set off fireworks.
He grins once your face is bare and clean. "You are beautiful."
Closing your jaw with the tap of his finger and covering your shoulders with your blanket, Azumane shuts off the lights and goes to bed.
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Short and Sweet, cause school sucks and makes it hard to write -Bacon
Posted: 09/10/2022