A/N: It has been absolutely forever because I have been on a writing break to cleanse my pitiful soul of ill thoughts and tough times but I is le back with the special chapter as promised! 

This is an alternate universe special of Head Fashion Designer Vanille and Underwear Model Leroy doing their thing :> It's relatively long at 5.6k words but you guys deserve it after the wait. Next week, I'll be going right back to the storyline and I can only hope you enjoyed the steamy previous chapter haha I mean there is more to come but there will also be plot picking up because it's been much about Vanilla and Leroy coming to terms with what they are and how they should progress from here on out. 

Thank you so so much for waiting and giving me the time off. I'm so so very sorry if I haven't been responding to messages on my inbox or message board but you can for sure find me on Instagram at hisangelchip. I like to upload stories of previews and snippets of the chapters I'm writing but recently it's been so much more enjoyable with my new setup and mechanical keyboard hehe. Some of you even requested I do videos of just me typing/writing because, well, keyboard typing videos are apparently a thing!

Enjoy.

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The height of the fashion industry could not so simply be achieved by any fellow of youthful passion and dreamy ideals. To climb the ranks and become a recognized figure of acknowledged skill and talent was certainly impossible without the golden rule of experience. And yet, breaking every rule possible and establishing a successful brand of his own, in the capital of fashion, was Vanilla Julian White of unimaginable talent, genius, and grit. While his classmates in high school were spending their days in school and nights in house parties, he was correcting Julia Winter designs (re-inventing, he liked to say) and making bold new statements about the season's trends. By the time he'd graduated high school and entered the most prestigious fashion school in all of Paris, the fresh little snowflake had already launched a highly-regarded fashion line of his own.

Three years later, Vanille—as he is often referred to by the French world of fashion—was running shows and heading cover shoots of international fashion magazines. And yet, the young little talent had somehow maintained, throughout his years of fame, fortune and success, an odd obsession with cold, hard truth. Quite the epitome of ice.

"Oh even a fool could tell that his face was edited from the look of his chin, and those legs," he said quietly to himself after giving the image on the tablet a mere glimpse. Turning to the next assistant in line, he gestured for her to come forth. "Is everyone hungry? Let's wrap things up quickly and get to lunch." Before the photos of these male models kill his appetite entirely.

Another photo was presented. This one made him blink twice. "Chen?" He looked up from the tablet with ripples of confusion. "He's one of Julia's. That would be poaching."

"He was the one who called me up, Mr. White," said the assistant, fairly pleased with herself. "Said he's interested in working on a project with you. A personal interest."

As expected of a frozen lake, it remained unfazed by slight disturbances in the air. "Ah. Well, maybe next time," he returned the tablet to her hands. "Chen is an experienced model, trained by the best in the industry but, um. The fall collection doesn't suit him very much, I'm afraid. Thank you for staying in contact with him. Perhaps the winter show."

The intern nodded with heavy shoulders, moving out of the way for the next assistant to present their golden candidate for Vanille's highly anticipated fall collection.

Violet Birchwood was known for her entrances. As a model, she somehow ensured the fashionable impression, which always seemed to either involve being late or incredibly upset. Just as the meeting room was about to assess the next candidate, Violet walked right down the glass-lined aisle to the door of the conference room for effect. Just so she had Vanille's attention seconds before making her demands. Nothing out of the blue.

"A word."

"Violet," he observed her irritable state at once but did not rise from his seat. "You seem upset. Did someone forget to ask for your autograph?"

The model rolled her eyes. "You're kinda stupid for someone so clever. I wouldn't be this happy if someone forgot to ask for my autograph but we have to talk. It's urgent."

She did something with her eyes that, between the two of them, meant a situation of significant weight. Something dire.

Vanille rose, excusing himself from the conference room and at the time dismissing them for a well-deserved lunch. The pair then proceeded to the balcony for some privacy.

"Siegfried Cox," she started off the conversation with a bang, leaving the designer mildly startled. "He was at the shoot before mine today and he approached me right after asking about you. I know, it's kinda dumb, no one's in the right mind to ask about you instead of me. Anyway, he wants to talk to you."

Casually brushing aside the off-handed remark made by his star model, Vanille rejoined by explaining how extremely busy he was the coming week.

"Oh come on," Violet snapped with a roll of her eyes. "The top model of your uncle's time is asking to see you and you're, like, turning him down? I'm telling your uncle."

This very naturally got the designer spluttering and anxious. Already he could imagine the hour-long lecture courtesy of Uncle Al. "Fine, yes. Alright. Please leave my uncle out of this. I guess you could, I suppose, arrange a meeting for um, next Tuesday or I'll just get Florence to reach out--"

"No need, he's waiting downstairs in the lobby."

"W-what!"

"Yeah, he knew you were gonna say yes. I mean, no one says no to him anyway," shrugged Violet, watching her best friend come down with a stellar headache and finding this all oddly amusing.

"Absolutely terrifying. Forget about lunch, I think I've lost my appetite," he sighed. "I'll see him in my office."

*

To be in the presence of Siegfried Cox was a thing of a dream. Though Vanille was never the kind of person to be distracted by names and titles, he was well aware of the industry giant; the face of multiple luxury brands on billboards all across the biggest cities in the world. And to think this very man was seeking a favor from him.

The day just simply couldn't get any worse.

"Vanille." The handshake was nothing short of impressive. Still, the designer was careful not to be taken in by formalities and eyes. Those eyes. They looked strangely, oddly familiar.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Cox. What can I do for you?" He'd said this in the flattest tone; perhaps the only perhaps in the industry who dared speak in such a way to a man of experience. Yet, he'd put on an obligatory air of nonchalance so faultless, it was really hard to complain about.

"A lot," Siegfried smiled for a start, taking a seat across him without so much as asking. Indeed, the pair were a strange duo. Vanille felt as though he was speaking to a father-in-law figure he did not particularly like. "It is about your new project. I've heard interesting things about it. I'd like to recommend a model that would suit the needs of your new fall collection."

Vanille paused. He was not aware Siegfried had been looking into his work. "I see. Well Mr. Cox, I am afraid we do not accept recommendations over here in this studio. It is against our policy. Would you perhaps have anything else to propose?"

"You see Vanille, this model I am referring to," said Siegfried rather calmly, "he is my son."

The head designer did not see the difference between his previous request and sudden addition. "And?"

Siegfried appeared fairly surprised. "Many studios have demonstrated particular interest."

"We are not one of them."

His guest laughed. It was this honest, genuine strength of Vanille's that made him so strangely attractive in an industry built purely out of connections and the virality of things. "And that is why your studio is perfect. The boy needs to be taught a lesson."

Naturally, Vanille was not feeling very inclined. The way Siegfried was speaking to him almost sounded like he was giving out instructions--making demands instead of requests. This was a favour! Not some unruly order he was obliged to follow.

"Then the boy should go to school," the designer offered one of his standard smiles in return. "Perhaps you may not be aware, Mr. Cox, but this is not a school. Allow me to redirect you to a proper one if you so wish to... teach your son a lesson."

"He is twenty-three." Siegfried frowned in confusion.

"That was sarcasm, Mr. Cox. Sarcasm." Vanille nearly passed out from a lack of intelligence. Unbeknownst to him, this was a common trait in the family. "Either way, if it is manners of the industry you wish for him to adopt, I don't see why Julia's would not be a perfect option. She'd take him in. Otherwise, your neighbourhood kindergarten would do."

The industry's top model was unfazed. "Yes, Julia had offered. You are not wrong. The thing is, Vanille," Siegfried reached into his briefcase, tight-lipped, "he chose you."

This had him blinking. Twice. "Sorry?"

On the table between them, Siegfried placed a photobook of sorts. A portfolio-style collection of, presumably, the key projects younger Cox had been featured in. "He turned down the offer at Julia's. And Martin's. And LeClair's. Nothing I say will convince him otherwise. He listens to no one."

Vanille struggled to comprehend the stranger's poor upbringing, perhaps partly the fault of said man sitting across him. "Like I said, Mr. Cox. Your local kindergarten would do."

"He requested for you, specifically." Siegfried laid out, and from the look in his eyes, was perfectly serious. "Out of all the other designers vying for his attention."

The young talent sighed, adjusting the glasses sitting atop his nose. A slender little thing. "And this is?" He gestured to the photobook, gaze latching onto the letters 'CK' printed at the bottom of the cover. No picture. Just a list of big names. 'CK'. 'VERSACE'. 'HUGO'.

Straight-faced, he turned back to Siegfried. "Everyone knows underwear models lack expression and authenticity."

"You could teach him." The man rose from his seat, fixing his blazer.

"I'd have absolutely no benefit from this transaction, Mr. Cox." Vanille laid out quite frankly, unwilling to turn a single page of the photobook. "I don't need an underwear model. These pictures are unnecessary."

Siegfried shook his head, flashing the sort of smile that would have, in every other occasion, sealed deals in a heartbeat. "Keep it as a souvenir, then." He made for the door of Vanille's office, perfectly capable of sending himself out. "I'll be waiting for your call."

What confidence, thought the designer then, appalled by the man's behaviour but at the same time, oddly intrigued by the familiar name on the cover of the photobook. Somewhere in the past, he'd seen it. Where, exactly—he did not know.

A week later, he'd come to discover the audacity; the criminal; the absolute idiot by the name of Leroy Cox and there was no going back on his word. Eventually, Vanille had given in under the circumstance of having one of his test run models call in with a sprained ankle. Which unfortunately meant they had a spot vacant on a short notice and, well, no one to fill it.

The head designer had Florence ring Siegfried the day before a shoot to ask for Leroy Cox's availability for a supposed 'test-run'. Unsurprisingly, Vanille was taking precautions. He couldn't simply add some random underwear model to his list when, clearly, he had a brand to establish.

At present, the designer was on set ensuring everything was in place, testing out lighting variations and backdrop colours that would match the collection they'd be test-shooting for the next two hours. Five minutes before the model's official call time, Florence tapped Vanille on the shoulder.

"He's here."

"Good. Send him to Layla." He said to the uneasy-looking assistant, who hesitated still. He noticed only after turning away that she hadn't quite made a move to leave the room and so returned his attention. "Is something the matter?"

"Well um... he wants to see you first."

"That sounds perfectly childish," said the designer, mildly appalled. "What does that even mean?"

"He said he's not going anywhere until you receive him." Florence explained yet again, trying not to laugh. Vanille sighed.

What a handful he was. And who does this man even think he is? Goodness gracious.

"I'll be right back," he said to the camera crew before leaving the remaining tasks to three other assistants and making his way down to the studio's reception area.

Put quite simply, Leroy Cox's existence was illegal. The man was absolutely, awfully criminal in person, perhaps five times more so than in his photographs. Worst of all, Vanilla hadn't the slightest clue about his blood relation to Siegfried Cox. He'd seen Leroy's face, as everyone else in the fashion industry would have, at some point, in front covers and billboards alike but his name somehow eluded the designer entirely.

As a matter of fact, underwear models were never the sort to catch his eye and the only reason he'd paid the young man some (some) extra attention was due to the fact that he'd met him once--back in his alma mater. Leroy was in the year above him.

"Mr. Cox." He greeted with a hand, extended towards the seated male who, despite having to raise his gaze to meet the standing designer, seemed as though he was the one above. "I hear you have taken a liking to the reception area and prefer not to leave it."

They shook; Leroy rising from his seat with candles for eyes that never once left Vanille throughout their entire exchange. He said nothing. Merely expressed some form of amusement with a snort and a matching flicker of a flame.

This very naturally left Vanille mildly unhappy, only because the man was being very attractive and it was s-simply, simply impolite to be so attractive after years of being apart. Well. Not that Leroy had any reason to remember a mere design student in the year below him.

"What do you have for me?" Said fire to ice as the latter led the way to the second floor, where the dressing rooms and studios were located. He had one of his assistants bring a rack of the collection pieces he'd picked out and burned the midnight oil to prepare for today's test shoot.

"Personality," quipped Vanille, glancing sideways with a clever little smile. "Apparently, underwear models shed all their personality along with their clothes."

Leroy was unfazed. "You think that applies to me?" He smirked, catching the designer slightly off-guard. That awful, disarming look in his eyes that burned. Needless to say, he was as much unable to respond as he refused to do so, abiding by his policy to minimize the entertaining of perfect idiots.

The pair arrived at a private dressing room right beside the studio set and Vanille got to work at once. Leroy was introduced to a pair of stylists who were in charge of his hair and makeup but prior to the model's arrival, the head designer had already pulled them aside for instructions: to be as light-handed as they could on the model.

GLACE's branding, in the first place, had a number one rule and that was not to alter the original appearance of their models and, even if they were to apply makeup and do up their hair, to have the changes be kept to an absolute minimum.

"Your father said you needed to be taught a lesson," said the designer, running his fingers along the rack of carefully selected outfits he'd handpicked and made slight adjustments to the night before.

Leroy met his gaze in the mirror. "What kind of lesson?"

"Well initially I'd assumed it would be somewhat related to practical experience related to the industry but clearly, that is not what you lack," his hands paused over a black button-down, featuring a sharp mandarin collar with faded detailing that was only noticeable up close. A double-breasted leather jacket of burnt umber to match. The pants would be clean; something straight-cut, which he remembered altering the night before. "I was hoping you'd be better able to explain what your father meant by... 'lesson'."

Leroy's laugh was like the low burning of a flame. A sound that demanded the attention of those who heard its crack and felt the heat. "He likes playing by the rules."

"I see. And I suppose you don't." Vanille returned to his side with a complete set of clothing only to realize that the model hadn't once removed his gaze to look elsewhere. It explained the heat on the back of his neck.

"Do you?"

One look. A hint of something on his lips and the designer felt oddly under attack. Strangely enough, they shared select values of their own; and that was a distaste for the status quo.

"I'd like to buy you a book on manners."

"Did you write it?"

"No, of course not Mr. Cox. I design clothing. Books are a pleasant pastime but certainly not part of my career."

"Then I'm not reading it." The model hid a smile behind steepled fingers and Vanille was beginning to understand what Siegfried meant by teaching. Aside, the pair of stylists were applying the finishing touches to Leroy's hair and face and trying their best not to let slip any form of amusement over the highly entertaining back and forth.

The designer dismissed and thanked them for their work (light-handed as instructed, so much so that it would have been impossible to tell there was anything on his face) before presenting his supposed 'student' with the selected set of clothing.

"For the first shoot," he explained shortly, gesturing towards the room divider. "I'll see you in the studio. It's through the door on your... h—w-why are you undressing?"

Leroy raised a brow. "You want me to wear those over my clothes?"

"No! No, that is not what I meant," Vanille was gobsmacked to the moon, unable to grasp just how much of a handful he was. "There is a room divider to your left and it exists for a reason, Mr. Cox."

The response he received in turn was absolutely criminal. It concluded the need to have the model existence removed, b-banned from the universe.

"Just thought I'd show you how I look without personality."

To think he'd have his words used against him! The treacherous burn on his cheeks betrayed an otherwise calm and collected exterior. He needed to file for an arrest warrant against the man before him.

Curiously enough, this was not the first of times Vanille had experienced such unlawful activity done unto himself by the very same person of interest.

He was a freshman when they first met. A quiet, mindful little deer who kept to himself and under the radar, ears perked and eyes like a summer pool at the sound of rustling fabric and a sewing machine. The first campus-wide fashion show was held halfway through the second term when most final year students were far too tired to involve themselves with anything other than finals and internships and first-years were still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for competition.

Young Vanille had spent weeks in the sewing studio after school hours making his submission from scratch. He'd left the completed hand-sewn suit in the studio for an hour or two for dinner and upon returning with a camera, found it in absolute ruins—torn and tattered. Weeks of hard work down the drain left him in quite the state of shock. The supposed model he was working with back then had decided to jump ship as soon as Vanille came to him with the news of nothing to wear.

With mere hours left to the competition, the first-year had completely given up all hope of participating in the show and seeing the work he was so proud of shine on the runway. It was then that a model in the year above him passed the studio by coincidence and heard the quiet sobbing in the room. Back then, Leroy had recognized the student as a childhood friend of his; memories of red leaves under his feet and conversation under a maple tree, on opposite ends of a seesaw.

"Makes you wonder how it looks in one piece, if it's this nice torn up." It was without notice that the upperclassman had entered the studio and stood before the wooden tailor's mannequin that was barely clothed and had several huge, unsightly cuts in the front and back. As though someone had stabbed a pair of scissors through the fabric and ran it all the way around the piece of clothing.

Vanille had looked up from the floor, reaching for his glasses which he had removed for the ease of tears and eye-rubbing. He was speechless—watching the second-year undress before him and, instead, slip into the torn and tattered suit that he'd made.

Back then, all he could focus on was the way Leroy had laughed at the look on his face. It reminded him of the low flickering of a flame, heated and hypnotic. A sound so strangely attractive. It was beyond criminal, the way he'd actually pulled off a piece of clothing that was practically in ruins. For some reason, Leroy Cox was illegal in everything as much as he was in nothing; and perhaps the odd balance of being clothed and unclothed (as the torn and ripped fabric seemed to impress upon) worked in his favour.

There was no perhaps. Vanille's work had been unanimously deemed the best in the show and needless to say, was awarded the grand prize without an inch of pushback. As a freshman in his first semester, the designer had not the slightest impression of who, exactly, Leroy Cox was, let alone the fact that he'd nearly risen to the position of the fashion school's most recognized teen model, partly due to his father's position in the industry.

To Vanille, he was very simply a candle in the darkness—lit in the most unexpected of times and coming to his aid without demands of anything in return. To him, this small and seemingly insignificant incident in Leroy's career meant very, very much.

Only... well. He hadn't expected him to turn up on billboards and magazines barely clothed. For some reason, it had left the designer feeling oddly betrayed.

"I see you are fond of using your brain in the strangest of instances. All of a sudden, you're dishing out expert comebacks," said Vanille after a sigh that served to recollect himself, turning his back on the undressing model under the pretense of searching for accessories. Leroy did not require any accessories.

"Fits like a glove." The model could not help feeling a little surprised as he buttoned up, noticing the impossibly snug fit of both the dress shirt and the pants. It was unusual for a model to fit into a pre-made collection on the very first try without further amendments by a tailor. Even the shoulders, where the sleeves began and cut right off, were exact to his measurements.

Vanille returned with a pair of formal shoes—cap toe Oxfords—that complemented the outfit and, again, they seemed to fit Leroy perfectly. The latter, with his interest piqued, decided to note the strange coincidence but kept it mostly to himself throughout the shoot. He'd gone through a total of four outfits and an hour's worth of cameras for Vanille to finally give in to the model's criminal charm. The entire collection was made for eyes like his.

Something else worth noting was the way in which Leroy's eyes would rest, every now and then, between the click of a shutter and the change of a pose, on the designer standing several feet behind the photographer.

He was positioned optimally between the computer synced up with the camera and the dressing rack, checking every shot that came through whilst stepping in to adjust a sleeve or cuff on occasion. The meeting of their eyes bothered him very much.

For some reason, Leroy's gaze was nowhere down the lens of the camera as long as the photographer had not instructed him to look. It was, rather illegally and criminally, on him.

The photographer did not seem to mind. In fact, halfway through the shoot, she'd realized a stark difference between the look he gave the machine in her hands and the look he gave somewhere to the upper left corner of her viewfinder. So much so that she found herself telling him to look elsewhere for the perfect shot.

"Let's take five," said Vanille to his trusted photographer by the name of Si Yin, who in turn nodded and announced this to the rest of the crew.

The designer then wasted no time in going straight to his idiot student, making slight adjustments to the fold of his collar and the buckle of his belt. The pair exchanged no words; Vanille busied himself with the amendments whilst refusing to return the heated gaze of his companion that followed his fingers.

Professional photographer Xu Si Yin did not miss the golden opportunity to snap a couple of shots, all for the sake of furthering her photography skills, of course. The pair looked picture-perfect; so much so that she caught herself wishing this was a duo shoot instead.

"Did the academy not teach you how to look straight down the lens of a camera, Mr. Cox?" Vanille managed under his breath, fixing a minor detail of the model's leather jacket.

"They give us a partner to look at, usually." Ah yes, thought Vanille. But only if the brands he modelled for catered to women's lingerie as well as men's underwear, but still. "Guess I'm having some trouble."

"With adapting to the circumstances of the shoot?" Finished Vanille with a rare smile. "Indeed—"

"With taking my eyes off you."

*

Surely, that statement would have sentenced Mr. Leroy Cox to a lifetime in prison for stopping the pulse and turning ears red as a strawberry. It was with great difficulty and effort that Vanille got through the rest of the shoot without calling it off, selecting the top ten shots and sending it to the publisher for a photobook collection and dismissing the crew.

The model himself had left soon after the end of the shoot for another late night assignment, not forgetting to bid the head designer a brief but criminal farewell that for some reason, had included a naughty wink.

"He's good," said Violet over Vanille's shoulder, watching as Si Yin browsed her shots on the computer and rated her picks on Photoshop for ease of selection. "Wonder why Siegfried sent him to learn a lesson."

"Well he does have an attitude, to say the least," the designer was unafraid to point out. "But I see what you mean. Yes he is incredibly attractive in front of a camera. Of course, the clothes are the star. They complement each other perfectly."

Both Vi and Si Yin caught on at once with a sharp turn of their heads. "Did you just—" "Oh my god you said he was attractive!" "Vanille found a human being attractive? I m p o s s i b l e!"

The initial surprise was shared amongst crew and employees alike, hardly able to come to terms with their block of ice head designer melting at the thought of a candle. Over the next couple of shoots they had for the rest of the fall collection however, everyone bore witness to the pair's endless banter and inability to keep their eyes to themselves.

Eventually, one of them was bound to ask the other out for coffee. Or perhaps not coffee but something else, since Leroy Cox did not seem very much fond of caffeinated drinks as much as he was thirsty for a sip of that frozen lake.

A week after the fall collection shoot was a cocktail launch party for a joint collaboration amongst the industry's very best, held at Ritz Paris in one of the luxury salons for a grand evening experience. Needless to say, Vanille was invited as a VIP guest and, unsurprisingly enough, was in need of a 'plus one'.

He'd asked nearly everyone. And by that, he meant everyone. Violet had a private appointment that evening; Si Yin magically had something other than binge-watching her Korean Drama series on a Saturday evening to do; even Aunt Julie and Uncle Al were out of town for vacation.

Sad to say, Vanille was friendless and partnerless. He'd given the rest of the VIP guest list a glimpse and another name had, very naturally, caught his attention. Yes, Leroy Cox was invited to attend the launch party as well. Only—the list stated that he'd turned down the invitation. Julia, one of the party's organizers, went on to reveal the idiot's lack of interest in social events like such.

To: ljcox@gmail.com

From: [email protected]

Subject: Cocktail Launch Party

Dear Mr. Cox,

Good evening. I am writing to discuss a rather serious matter regarding the upcoming cocktail launch party you were invited to. I understand you have declined to attend the event; of course, that is completely up to you and I do not wish to influence or change your decision.

Unfortunately, I have run into quite the embarrassing problem of not having with me a companion available on the evening of the party. Julia has emphasised the importance of a plus one at events like these, especially for those among the VIP guest list.

As such, I am seeking some advice from others in the industry and reaching out to parties of interest. I say this but truth to be told, I have no one else to write to. I hope to hear your opinion on this matter; should you have any relevant advice or splendid solutions to my dilemma.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

V. J. White

Mere minutes hitting the tiny 'send' arrow and nearly regretting every instance of the past hour, Vanille received a text from an unknown number. The text was as vague as a lake on a foggy morning. It contained a single word:

Yes.

And that was how Vanille had so unknowingly and suddenly landed himself a partner for the cocktail party. The pair arrived in the same Maserati, dressed in subtly matching outfits that were both designed by Vanille himself.

Despite intentions to keep a low profile and out of everyone's conversations, the designer found himself and his partner the topic of interest for the evening. Everyone, including Siegfried (dressed impeccably smart, needless to say), had had their interest piqued.

This however, attracted some unwanted attention from green-eyed monsters, prevalent in the industry and more so when it came to youthful, talented designers who'd already made their mark at a young age. Vanille had as many enemies as admirers and he was well aware of it.

Therefore, he was not very surprised when he felt a wet, chilling splash on his back halfway through the evening and turned to see Andre Pierre in the most boring of suits, a glass of red wine tipped over at an exaggerated angle in hand.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't see you there." He pretended to apologise, absolutely destroying the red stain on Vanille's back by wiping it with his other free hand.

The designer had been in the middle of an intelligent conversation between several other VIP designers and runway producers when the incident occured and while everyone else in the circle had responded in shock and devastation at a ruined dress shirt, Leroy from the other end of the room had noticed the commotion at once and crossed the distance, removing the jacket of his suit as he did.

"Thank you," managed Vanille under his breath when he felt the material draping over his shoulders and turned to see the model by his side. He excused himself from the group, altogether ignoring and brushing Andre aside to inform the party's hostess that he would be returning to his room for a change of clothes.

"Would you like one too?" He turned to his companion, who nearly laughed.

"You brought an extra suit in my size?"

"Well. I brought along with me several outfits for a fitting tomorrow morning down the street, so." He offered as an excuse, controlling the blush on his cheeks.

They arrived at Vanille's hotel room in a matter of minutes—a royal suite of absolute luxury—and drew towards the wardrobe where the designer had, earlier in the evening, hung up carefully pressed pieces of clothing. For ease of selection, he proceeded to lay a couple of them out on the bed.

"Take your pick." He said to the model. "You may try them on, if you wish to do so." And just to lengthen the private, amusing time they were spending together, Leroy did just that. Tried on every piece of clothing.

Also because he so terribly enjoyed observing the subtle ripple in his companion's eyes every time he undressed.

Most importantly, he was once again incredibly intrigued by the fact that every suit jacket, pants and dress shirt seemed to fit him... perfectly. As though they were made for him; and him only. He voiced the magic.

"Do they?" Coughed the designer, averting his gaze. "Hm. Well, they follow the standard make. The fit is a style specific to GLACE. Maybe that's what you're referring to."

"More than that. It's like you know my numbers," teased the model, loosening his tie for some reason. There was no reason. He'd meant the light-hearted remark as a joke. A little tease.

To his pleasant surprise however, he got much, much more in return.

Vanille froze on the spot, pale before blushing to the tips of his ears and revealing the truth of the matter. That since their first encounter in school, he had taken to designing and making all primary versions of his clothing line in Leroy's measurements. He'd even kept up as the model grew and updated the numbers as he did.

The pair said nothing. Leroy stared, taking in the flustered snowflake before him and feeling the amusement, attraction, awe and electricity in the air and holy fuck was he turned on.

In the heat of the moment, he offered the only measurement that was missing from the list of shoulders, chests, waists and all. After all, he was hoping to see the designer without an inch of 'personality'.

W i n k w i n k.

-END-

See you next week!

Thank you for waiting.