Work Text:
Simon
“Come on Simon, it’s time to leave, they’re going to be closing soon.”
Penny is acting like I’m the one who has kept us here until closing when, really, she’s the one who has spent the last three hours trying on different dresses while I’ve been sitting in the same chair by the changing rooms, idly kicking my feet and trying not to zone out and accidentally stare at people. I tried on two shirts, bought them both, and have been waiting ever since.
“Do you have all of your things?” Penny asks, and I instinctually glance around my feet to see what I could have dropped. For once, none of my personal belongings are on the floor, but as I start to look back up again, something else catches my eye.
It’s the most gorgeous fabric that I’ve ever seen.
I took up sewing a few years ago, when I was going through a bit of a rough patch and Penny said that I needed a hobby, something to take my mind off of everything else. I’m not really a professional, but I’m pretty good by this point, and I’ve taken commissions for a few people too, so I definitely know what I’m doing. And because I’ve spent the last few years saving my money to fund my emerging fabric hoarding addiction, I can confidently say that the fabric I’m looking at is incredible.
It’s a tightly woven wool, somewhere between camel and grey, with faint lavender windowpane checks running through it. The colors are absolutely lovely, the fabric is lush, and the hem is nice and crisp over a pair of fancy sleek shoes. Slowly, I start to take in the rest of the trousers that the fabric was fashioned into, and I’m even more impressed.
The checks are just the right size for the garment, and the tailoring is exquisite. Nothing stretches or pulls, all the seams are subtle, if not almost invisible, and the trousers fit like a glove.
As my eyes travel farther up, I start to realise that the tailor (because these must be special order, there’s no way they’re off the rack) really had their work cut out for them. I’m pretty decent at sewing trousers, I’ve made a few pairs for myself and even modified patterns a little to account for my thighs, but these. Well. These trousers have the longest inseam I have ever seen, deceptively slender until the thighs—it must have been a nightmare to cut the fabric so that it could taper down the leg like that without distorting the pattern.
As my eyes reach the top of the trousers though, I know that these must truly have been the stuff of nightmares for whatever talented and tortured soul had to sew them. Not only were these patterned to accommodate the longest inseam and most deceptively muscular thighs I have ever seen, but the arse that these trousers have been sewn for is just ridiculous.
It’s not that it’s ridiculously big, it’s just that it’s one more thing on top of everything else. It is very round, however, and clearly toned from years of some sport or other, and it must have been a nightmare to try and add those curves, especially considering the slim waist right above.
All in all, these are, without a doubt, the nicest pair of trousers I’ve ever seen, and I’m so taken with the tailoring that it takes me far too long to realise that there is a person wearing said trousers.
I move my eyes the rest of the way up his body, and, just above a crisp white shirt, I make eye contact with the man whose incredible physique must drive his tailor insane.
And, oh.
He’s lovely too.
He’s sneering at me, clearly aware of how long I’ve been ogling him, and I can feel my face starting to flame as I scramble for an explanation.
It’s okay mate, I was just looking at your trousers, not you! Somehow I don’t think that will fly.
By this point, Penny has realised something is going on, and she looks back to find me rooted to the same tile I stopped on when I first saw those trousers. She calls my name once, and then backtracks to try and drag me along with her.
“Simon, what are you doing? What’s wrong?”
I’m glancing between Penny and the man with the trousers, and she looks over too, then leans in to whisper.
“Is everything alright? Who’s that?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper back, “but I was staring at his trousers and he saw me and now he’s looking like that.” I try to subtly wave my hand in his direction, indicating his general attractive glower. I guess I’m not that subtle though, because he arches an eyebrow at me.
“His trousers? Really, Simon?”
“Look at them! They’re perfect!”
Penny looks torn between not being able to believe me, and wishing she didn’t believe that I genuinely meant that.
She shakes her head.
“Alright Simon, fine. Just, go apologise to him, and then we’ll leave.”
“Apologise to him? Pen, he looks like he wants to murder me!”
She glances over at him once, then rolls her eyes at me. “You’ll be fine. Go tell him you’re sorry for staring at him, ask for his number or whatever, and then we can go.”
I splutter, and even more blood rushes to my face.
“What? No! I’m not- I can’t- He’s not- I can’t just ask him for his number!”
“Fine, then apologise and forget about him, I don’t care, just don’t draw this out anymore than you already have!” And with that, Penny gives me a shove in his direction.
The man has been staring at me the entire time I was whispering to Penny, contempt clearly marked on his face. Now, as I get closer and watch his lip curl slightly, I become even more aware of how scruffy my own clothes are, just a hoodie and ratty jeans. I jam my hands into my pockets to resist the urge to tug on my hair and make that worse too.
“Erm, hi.”
Brilliant start, Simon. That’s sure to smooth things over.
“Hello,” he says, in the poshest voice I have ever heard. “Did you need something?” His mouth is cruel, but also a bit hypnotic.
“Sorry. I wanted to say sorry. For, y’know. Staring. At you.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“It’s just- your trousers. They’re good. Nice. They look nice.” He’s still scowling at me, but his eyes have widened slightly. “I sew!” I blurt out, trying to explain. “I sew, and I noticed them, and your tailor did a good job!”
He huffs a breath out of his nose, and I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or contempt.
“You were staring at my trousers?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise at first. I noticed the fabric. They’re just really nice.”
If the floor could swallow me whole any moment that would be fine.
He still doesn’t look happy, but now he looks a little less scary. He probably thinks I’m crazy. I start casting around for ways to end this conversation and retreat back to my flat and never leave again, when his voice startles me out of my panic.
“Would you like his number?” I can feel how blank my face is, and the man sighs. “My tailor, the one you’re so enamored with, would you like his number?”
I recover from the whiplash of being offered a number and then realising it’s not the number of the attractive man in front of me just long enough to choke out a, “Um, sure,” before he shocks me again.
“Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“Your phone. Hand it over.”
I do as he asks, only belatedly realising that this might just be his way of getting revenge for me being a perv. He doesn’t smash it though, just enters a number and sends a text.
“There. I will send you his number once I get home.”
I glance down at my phone and see he’s added himself to my contacts as T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch.
“Oh, umm, thanks mate.”
“Did you need anything else?” His voice is still cool, and he’s still looking down his nose at me, but I don’t think he is quite as disdainful as he’s pretending to be.
“Nope. I’ll just, ah, go now, sorry about the whole staring… thing,” I mumble, then turn around and try not to sprint back to Penny.
She’s smirking at me.
“It looks like that went well. I thought you said that you weren’t going to ask for his number.”
“I didn’t! He just gave it to me. Or, well, he gave it to me so that he could give me the number of his tailor?” My voice goes up at the end as I realise just what a weird explanation that is.
“Sure, Simon. Alright,” she says, and then starts to walk towards the exit.
I follow, but after a few steps I realise that I never read the message he sent to himself. I fish my phone back out of my pocket and swipe over the screen.
Me (3:21 PM) Nice trousers.
Before I can stop to consider what I’m doing, I’m sending him another message.
Me (3:27 PM) Did you just send yourself a compliment?
His response is almost instantaneous.
T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch (3:28 PM) I certainly wasn’t complimenting your wardrobe; for someone who claims to enjoy sewing, your clothing is a disgrace.
I’m about to tell him to piss off, but then another text comes through.
T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch (3:28 PM) I would be happy to offer you some sartorial guidance, however. Would tomorrow evening at 7 be acceptable?
Is he… Was that…?
I whip around to see him, and he’s still standing by the same fountain I saw him at earlier. When we make eye contact he sneers a little, but then gives me an almost mocking once-over in the most exaggerated fashion I’ve ever seen before sending me a tiny smile.
I can feel my face burning for the third time today, but I grin back before returning to my phone.
Me (3:30 PM) It’s a date :)