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Helen will always appreciate his job.
It is not only easy—considering his artistic views and palettes—but it is also very rewarding in so many different ways.
He gets to do something he loves while getting paid for it. That's the main thing he loves about this job but there is another reason that he really really likes it, almost as much as the act of dressing people up in beautiful clothing pieces.
You see, Helen is an artist, as he loves to call himself. He works as a stylist in one of the major fashion industries in the Nocterra district. And being a stylist, he not only deals with stunning dresses and tuxedos but also stunning people of all kinds.
Some are not even people which are his favorite clients if he has to be honest since their otherwordly features are super fun to accentuate using the right accessories. And they are always so ethereal in a way Helen cannot explain.
Though, one of them has a charm that no one else has. If Helen has to describe this person, he would probably say that he is just like a black diamond among a sea of jewels. So rare, yet so striking. And this black diamond seems to have an ability to mistify Helen's entire being, rendering him speechless many times and making his face flushed with every shade of red possible.
This is why Helen always gets the heebie-jeebies whenever he reads this one particular client's name in his schedule.
Jackhal Asgedoron.
The tall, sexy, cold model with ashen skin and razor-sharp teeth.
Helen can clearly picture the eldritch entity posing in front of the camera to model for another photoshoot consisting of a turtleneck paired with an overcoat and ripped jeans that are most likely ten times more pricey than his studio. It makes sense though, Jack's beauty can only be emphasized using the most expensive pieces since he has the exact vibe for those specific clothing.
Regal, mystical, and oh so alluring.
It's rare to find such a mesmerizing creature and Helen feels blessed by the Twelfth Goddess of Luxia for the job he's currently having that leads him to meet his number one muse.
His number one muse who seems to be calling him to the dressing room using Nina—one of the best make-up artists Helen has ever worked with—as the messager. The girl giggles as she tells Helen about the client in room eleven, nudging him with a wink that can be translated to "go get 'em tiger" to which Helen rolls his eyes in response.
With a half-anxious half-excited bounce on his feet, Helen grabs the outfit he's been envisioning in his brain ever since he took a look at the rack of garments he is presented for today. He fiddles with the fabric in his hand as he does his usual ritual whenever he's nervous: muttering the mantra that consists of "I can do this" and "it'll be okay" and also the newest addition "he's exceptionally attractive but I have to focus".
Finally settling with the amount of nerves pooling below his heeled boots, Helen exhales the final shaky breath before opening the door to the dressing room. He can only hope his face is not warm when his eyes are greeted by the sight of Jack wearing beige corduroy pants, shirtless, sitting in front of the mirror while sipping on his daily dose of infant blood, looking drop-dead gorgeous as always.
The model's hollow eye sockets appear to be directed towards the book on his lap, his left claw scanning the letters in braille that protrude from the paper in a quite mellow manner while his right claw holds a clear tumbler that is filled with his favorite beverage. Blood, or if you want to be specific: AB blood that is freshly taken from an unwanted newborn baby. Helen sometimes thinks it's a bit morbid but after living with his former roommate who is a moth person, he can't really judge much.
Helen quickly closes the door behind him and sets the clothing away on a nearby clothing rack, touching the fabric with delicate hands to check if there are any markings or spots in them for the last time. He remembers the day he almost made a model put on a lacy ivory blazer with a speck of coffee, which he immediately switched into a knitted sweater that fit the outfit better.
Still, he almost made a mistake.
And that was neglectful of him.
If he ever does that to Jack, he doesn't think he can ever forgive himself. He might just pack his bags, quits his job, and cries himself to sleep before moving to another country and completely changing his identity so no one can ever recognize him as "the one who tainted Jackhal Asgedoron's beauty with a tea-stained blouse".
"Is there something wrong?" a deep husky voice utters, snapping Helen out of his dramatic and equally angsty reverie.
He fumbles with the chiffon shirt's puffed sleeves, trying to find his voice, "Not at all, I'm just checking if there are any imperfections. I will be with you in a moment."
"Well, I think it is best for you to dress me now since the photoshoot starts in forty minutes," Jack hums casually, the guttural accent of his makes a shiver creep up Helen's spine.
Jack may be a quite formal person but he seems to love teasing Helen with quips and sarcastic remarks which Helen absolutely adores but can never show because, well, it's embarrassing and his pride is just high enough that he cannot lose himself to his own indulgences even if he wants to sometimes.
And especially not in a professional environment.
Helen sighs his utmost careful sigh, pulling the chiffon shirt away from its hanger and walking towards Jack who is now standing up. He towers over Helen greatly with his seven-foot frame of pure masculinity that can overwhelm presumably everyone in the room. Including Helen himself.
But the stylist is strong. He isn't one to back down in front of the beast as he helps him with buttoning the shirt, fingers grazing occasionally on grey skin, just enough to make Jack lets out a gentle sound similar to a cat's purr. The model stands still, feeling Helen's shifting arms in front of him, his movement is slow but precise and his ocean eyes focus only on the buttons in his hands and totally not on Jack's eyecatching navel piercing.
Jack can't help but smile, "Staring is quite rude, don't you think?"
Clasping the last piece of the white button on the shirt, Helen faces Jack's smile with an empty expression. His heart is beating much too fast for his own good and he can feel his face flushing from the thought of being caught gaping at the body jewelry on Jack's belly button but he mustn't show anything to not get himself fired.
"I apologize for the stare," he pulls himself away from Jack to grab the mesh corset decorated with wine rose details from its hanger. He also does this as a way to breathe in his own air without suffocating himself on Jack's scent which smells a lot like a combination of woody bonfire and petrichor, "I was merely admiring, though that isn't a great excuse."
Jack's pointy elven-like ears perk up at the sound of Helen's boots clicking against the tiled floor as the stylist saunters once more to him who reaches out his claw to grab the corset in Helen's hands, still exhibiting that teasing smile, "I accept your most sincere apology."
Their hands meet and Helen is about to drop the corset from how warm Jack's claw is but he retracts his hand instead, unconsciously frowning from the skin contact as his heart pitter-patters as if he's a high school student who just got confessed to by his crush. "If you do then please let me do my job myself," he grumbles while standing behind the model.
"Ah, excuse my discourtesy then."
The response to that statement pauses in Helen's throat from the slight chuckle that sneaks out of Jack's thin lips. Helen smiles a mischievous smile as a devilish idea forms in his mind, reasoning what he's about to do is just a harmless little revenge for how much Jack loves to poke at his easy center.
His hands are meticulous as they shift the corset to its supposed position before his right fingers intertwine with the strings of the clothing piece as his left hand pushes on Jack's back firmly, making him stand as straight as a fridge. If Helen really thinks about it—which he does—Jack is built somewhat like a fridge, with just enough muscles to define his sturdy form that has an aura of a calm monster in a way that can only be described as terrifying but also utterly and devastatingly ravishing.
Helen pushes that thought away, alternatively focusing on his previous plan to retaliate in a way to stop himself from feeling the whole garden of jumping grasshoppers and fluttering butterflies along with twinkling fireflies in his stomach. Jack's back is warm underneath his palm and he has to force himself to pull back so he can eventually go forth with his impish scheme.
"It is completely fine—"
Crack.
"—so please don't worry."
As Helen ties the strings together in a tight knot, he covers his sniffle of a laugh with a cough, somehow feeling proud and flustered at the same time. He is mistaken to think that plan will distract him from the feeling of his stomach flipping as he now has to go through this styling session with sweaty palms and a half-working brain after hearing Jack's choked groan.
Although the aura of the room is still light, Helen can't help but feel a bit agitated, just now thinking about the risks and consequences of his actions, putting aside the thrilling thrums of his heart for a moment. But all of the negative thoughts vanish right at the moment he hears the heavy amount of amusement and humor in Jack's voice as he speaks, "Goodness, that didn't seem to be fine. Were you trying to suffocate me?"
Helen almost laughs at that but his apathetic posture remains flawless. Straight back, chin up, and a tight grip on the charcoal cargo pants he just snatched from the clothing rack on the side of the room to keep him grounded to the reality that may or may not be crashing on him.
He's glad Jack takes that little mischievous plot in a good-mannered way which victoriously simmers down the anxiety in Helen's brain for the moment. Since he got away with that and Jack is taking a bite of the bread he's been baking with a fair share of enthusiasm, Helen has to continue. He's not backing down now, there's no way. And so, he walks up to Jack with another plan hatching in his brain, considering this one as the last dessert he will be making for today.
The stylist repeats the mantra from before while passing the pants to Jack, his eyes staring right through the model's soul as he tries his best to give him a spellbinding grin which Jack easily picks up from his playful tone, "You must be hallucinating. I was simply just doing my job."
Gazing at the dumbstruck expression on Jack's face, Helen feels smug. In his head, he can imagine himself bathing in the absolute glory of seeing the usually charming and composed Jack gobsmacked for about ten seconds. Helen can safely say that he's winning in life and he is sure that he can die merrily now that he's able to make the untouchable Jackhal Asgedoron himself tongue-tied.
Satisfied with his successful plan, Helen slowly turns his back to walk out of the door since his job is quite practically done for about twenty minutes, unfortunately missing the wicked tint in Jack's grin.
"Nefarious, aren't you?"
The dark chuckle echoes along the walls of the dressing room, making the goosebumps rise on Helen's covered skin as he freezes on his spot in front of the door. As if enchanted by a spell, Helen can't seem to move his body, sensing an impending doom in the form of footsteps coming straight toward him. His breath is caught in a string of voiceless thoughts when a claw double times the size of his hand lands on his tense shoulder.
He has never felt more like a prey in a predator's trap before.
"I-I personally think I am not," Helen inaudibly curses himself for stuttering, unintentionally letting Jack know how vulnerable and nervous he's currently feeling from the slight tremble on the words that left his tongue. The hand on his shoulder shifts tentatively to hold his neck, and the brush of Jack's thumb directly on Helen's skin causes an exhilarating jolt to his knees. His whole body shivers, "If you would be so kind to unhand me, then please."
"Care to tell me why should I do that?"
Helen sputters at the question, accidentally letting his mask of composure crack for the second time. The building urge in his gut to smack the hand on his neck and bolt out of the room is very apparent as the air around him seems to take his breath away and the closeness of Jack's body behind him isn't helping the wild paintings in his head about what might happen if he ever so much as moves a finger.
Trying to appear as calm as he can, Helen huffs, "Because my job here is done?" He didn't mean it to sound like a question but he's grateful for the fact that his voice was devoid of any emotion.
Jack hums once again, his chest rumbling. Helen has noted that the model does that often, a habit that is endearing in his eyes. He also notes the hot breath right beside his ear and the subtle growl in the way Jack lets out his words, "Not quite. You are forgetting something. Something important."
The grip that Helen has on the door is so tight that his fingers are turning white and his back is pretty much pressed against Jack's chest when he closes his eyes from the closeness. His heart is hammering as if he has just run a marathon and his breath is as short as a hangman's rope.
"A pair of loafers, perhaps?"
Helen really has to refrain himself from smacking Jack in the face for that. He's getting irritated, finally able to move his limbs in his control again and the first thing he does is gently seize the hand on his neck that has been pestering his nerves for the last couple of minutes. He then turns around to face Jack, glaring at his stupidly dazzling visage which consists of his perfectly sculpted cheeks and thick eyebrows and kissable lips and—
God.
It's so hard to stay mad at that face, and it's been like that since the very beginning. Jack's current expression is exactly the same as the one he had the first time Helen was ever upset with him. Crinkled cheeks that are held up by an innocent-looking smile, nose and pointy ears flushed, and hollow eye sockets that seem to taunt him.
That expression is the most terrifying face Jack can ever make in Helen's opinion. It's the expression of pure contentment that oozes power and confidence. It shows the absolute certainty of how everyone that is confronted with it is wrapped around Jack's claws and how he can easily control them all with just a tiny bit of tugging. The model has the ability to turn people into puppets just by a mere countenance alone and alongside it being paired with how good he looks makes it so much more dangerous than harnesses or chains.
It's a shame that the stylist knows Jack's weakness or else they would be playing this cat and mouse game forever which Helen doesn't really mind but it's getting on his nerves and he doesn't want to lash out at Jack. It would ruin everything he's been building, not just his career but also his bond with the model himself. And that is the last thing he ever wants to do in the history of forever. There's no way in hell Helen is going to be patient though.
With a tight smile that barely reaches his eyes, Helen replies, "Then let's find you some shoes, shall we?"
Not wanting to utter another word in case his pitch changes due to his vexation, Helen smoothly pushes Jack away and walks to the shoe closet. The gears in his mind turn as he scans the shelves that are arranged according to their colors and styles. His eyes linger on the black platform boots, considering his options with a pair of well-crafted umber dress shoes on the top shelf. He props his chin as he starts to visualize what the model will look like in both pieces, imagining how an already-tall Jack would be in the boots and how his charms will be elevated by the dress shoes. From the mental imageries alone, Helen almost spouts a string of profanities but quickly withholds his tongue, fixing his posture with conviction.
He never thought his imagination can betray him, especially now. Nevertheless, it just did. And even though current Helen physically wants to throw himself out of the window, the more unhinged part of him is grateful to finally have another source material to make art from. He can see himself in the ungodly hours of the night wiping the sweat off of his forehead from the humid air in his studio as the brush in his hand illustrate a majestic watercolor painting of Jack waltzing with a skeleton (how Helen usually pictures himself in many of his creations) while wearing those damned platform shoes.
Nothing in the world can ever stop Helen from picking those boots and if there is, he won't ever let it stop him. Once those dangerously ornate boots that may cost his whole monthly salary touch his hands, he immediately knows he choose the right decision. Even though the shoes are heavy in his hands, he feels airy as a spark of light as if the weight on his shoulders has been lifted away. With these boots, his job to style the ever eerily bewitching Jack will be done and he can't help but feel very grateful for that since he doesn't think he can deal with the model for another hour due to how suffocating their little banters can be.
Helen turns around after humoring his thoughts, ambling to Jack who is already seated on the styling stool, sipping the blood carelessly. He blocks the raving of his mind and kneels down, loosening the straps one by one while looking at Jack's vermillion lips as he mutters something incomprehensible from Helen's hearing span. With a speed that is much faster than how he usually completes a task, Helen happily adjusts the last strap. "There we go, please stand up so I can make sure everything is fine to soothe the building anxiety in my brain..." he murmurs the last bits of his statement, mentally smacking himself on the head for slipping so much.
If Jack heard what Helen said, he doesn't mention it at all as he stands. Though, the slight tilt of his lips says something and Helen is still unsure about what it means. He starts to reposition some of the shirt's folds and fix how the corset fit, brushing a few stray hairs from Jack's shoulders before stepping back to see what the overall look looks like.
Helen sighs, his eyelids drooping and blinking blearily. He lifts his hand to massage his eyelids as his expression softens, dropping the mask of his frown. "You're beautiful," the stylist whispers, smiling slightly, tired but satisfied to see his final work.
Jack's ears twitches for the second time today as he choked on the beverage in his hand, blood splattering to the mirror beside him, thankfully none got on his shirt. The model's face is frozen in shock, a heavy blush covering from the tips of his ears to his whole neck. His eyeless sockets are wide in disbelief and the droplets of blood dripping from his agape mouth are gleaming as he wipes his chin which is now stained in red.
In the five months that Helen has been working this job, he has never seen Jack stare at him like that before. With genuine surprise and a spark of something else which makes the stylist wakes up from his weary state and walks up to the model to clean the blood on his chin with a handkerchief. The muscles in Helen's arms slowly loosen as he listens to Jack saying sorry. He ignores the apology and the burning flame in the back of his head that sulks from realizing he needs to stay in the room for another ten minutes and decides to question, "May I ask why are you so... appalled by that?"
"You have never complimented me before."
Now it's Helen's turn to be shocked. His hand halt from swiping against Jack's skin as he racks his whole brain for the truth of that answer. Has he really been focusing on praising the living hell of Jack in his mind that he never even recites those exact accolades to the man they are directed to? Helen cannot be any more embarrassed by himself. He feels so idiotic, mindless, foolish even. With a concentrated impulse to scorn himself to the point of no return, Helen beats himself up subconsciously. And as if to add another layer of salt to the wound, Jack holds Helen's hand which has stopped moving.
His clawed hand is warm. Well, to be frank, Jack is always so warm, physically and emotionally. And his usually deep and harsh voice is now mellow as the calming sea to Helen's eardrums. "Is something the matter?"
That question is like a lever used to pull up the cage that is binding millions of thoughts running around in Helen's mind. There are too many to count and too many to control. They pass around him and whisper their form to his neurons and Helen can't quite keep up with all of them. But he knows that many stood out from the others and they all have something in common. All of them tell him to keep calm and provide various answers to the question at hand.
'Just say no and don't panic!'
'Relax, okay? You can probably say no and he won't ask you anymore.'
'Okay, first, you need to calm down. Second, say yes and tell him everything.'
Helen contemplates hard on the last one, wondering if it's really the time to spell everything out. Should he really tell Jack everything? He doesn't know. There is no indication to know how Jack will react if he does tell him. And if Helen is really about to word vomit then wouldn't it be better when they're not in a professional environment? Just this once, Helen curses how calculating his brain is going with this. He wishes he can be like those people who just say "fuck it" and do the things they wanna do because Helen's tongue is itching to reveal every little thing he has been holding back for a bit too long.
His hand shakes in Jack's grip and his breaths are short, huffing and puffing as if he's drowning. Ocean eyes gape widely at the two endless voids of black in front of them, searching for something—an answer—but seeing none. Helen's whole face is burning, and he isn't sure if it's because of the proximity or the melting brain of his overworking and clawing his scalp from the inside. He feels lightheaded and is just ready to pass out but he can't even go under even if the constant hums and thrums coming from Jack's throat are acting as lullabies to make him unconscious. Something is holding him back. And Helen, though frustrated with everything else, is grateful because sleeping on the job is also humiliating. Not as humiliating as the fact that he has never complimented his muse before but humiliating nonetheless.
The calling of his name snaps him out of his slight woolgathering which leads him to decide the previous response might be the best one to quell the model's curiosity so that he doesn't have to take another five minutes to gather a coherent retort that may or may not be indescribable. He tries to keep his voice even but ends up faltering on his words, "I, yes. It's—"
Slam.
"You're taking waaay too long, Helen! Now I have to do the touch-ups in fifteen—whoops never mind!"
Helen stares as Nina bolts out of the room as swiftly as she walked in, closing the door behind her so harshly that he assumes it will just burst into two. He looks back to see Jack's confused face, grimacing, "We should finish this quickly."
"I'd be satisfied to see you leave if you answer me."
"Well, my answer is quite um, lengthy, so I couldn't possibly share it with you now," Helen pats himself on the back for that. He doesn't feel like he's quite ready to spill his guts despite how he almost did if it wasn't for Nina interrupting him. It relieves him knowing the make-up artists had saved him from another embarrassing moment. He is surely going to treat her to a cup of boba tea after this and thank her repeatedly while she laughs.
"Very well then," Jack exhales, light, and Helen is ready to go but his hand is still trapped in Jack's hold. The stylist doesn't have the time to utter a query as the model continues, rubbing Helen's knuckles with his thumb, "Though, would it be okay if I ask to meet you at the closest bakery on Saturday this week?"
Helen's breath hitches. He must be dreaming or hallucinating or something. Because there is no way in the seventh circle of hell that this is happening. Jack is not asking Helen out. He is just asking him for a totally normal rendezvous at the local bakery on a holiday to discuss the answer that Helen could've lied about just now. It is not a date. Helen reminds himself of that continuously, his brain crashing, his heart palpitating, and his stomach backflipping. He can feel the burning on his face and he is convinced that his head could explode if he puts enough willpower to manifest it. The only thing he can think about is how he wishes Jack won't feel how sweaty his hand is. He doesn't want to mortify himself more than he already is.
Finally able to find a word that can express his willingness, Helen replies, "Yes." He is forever thankful that he doesn't sound like a deflating balloon just now.
"Perfect. I will see you then," Jack smiles, some of his sharp teeth showing, attractive as always. The model finally lets go of Helen's hand but not before giving it a sweet squeeze that makes Helen's heart swell like a bug bite.
This man will be the death of him, truly.
Walking away from Jack's warm body is a bit hard but Helen manages to do it and as he eventually faces the door once more, Helen opens it up and gets himself out of there. Although a small part of him wants to stay, the majority of his being would rather get out of there before anything else happens. And also to save himself from the bursting of his internal organs that feel like they're on fire. In fact, his whole body is hot and there's a minor migraine forming in the back of his skull. He might take a break today and stay low or else the risk of him passing out while picking between a crop top and a sweater vest is going to be higher than usual.
As he sits down on his usual work desk, he fixates on the hand that is still emitting warmth from how Jack was holding it earlier. He still can't believe what happened. He still can't believe what Jack had said and what he had said. Without noticing, he smiles and lets out a few free-spirited chuckles, shaking his head at the curious situation. Jackhal Asgedoron, the infamous model, asked him for a private meeting at a bakery down the street. Young Helen—or Helen from five months ago—would never expect to even work for a name so popular, let alone go on an outing with the monster.
With the last airy laugh out from his mouth, Helen closes his palm and sighs. He has to calm down. He's still on the clock for heaven's sake. Maybe he can plan on what he will wear for the thing once he's home and not at his workplace. But that doesn't mean he can't take inspiration. After all, there are a lot more pieces in one of the closets scattered in this building than his entire wardrobe back at his studio. He needs to be ready and he needs to do his job. So why not do both at the same time?
Helen puts on a determined grin as he grabs his trusted notebooks filled with his sketches and stands up, ready to take on the next task in his schedule. He brushes off any hair strands from his coat and walks to dressing room number twelve, meeting a rushing Nina on the way.
The girl grabs his arm tightly and looks him in the eyes so intensely that Helen lets out a gasp, "Helen, you need to tell me what happened in there after this, or I will powder you until you're choking."
"Yes, I will. Go along now," he shooes her, can't help the mocking tone.
Nina pouts as she huffs, letting go of Helen's arm. "You're the reason why Jack was nearly late to the photo shoot, you sneaky snake!" she declares then scampers away.
Helen rolls his eyes and gets back to what he was about to do. He loves the girl to the moon and back, she's his best friend after all, but sometimes Nina can be even scarier than a banshee. And in Helen's opinion, banshees are horrifying. Though, he still has to thank her for earlier. He doesn't know what will happen if he continued there, maybe he will run his mouth to the point where it all just doesn't make sense anymore. Just thinking about it makes him shudder as he arrives at the front door of dressing room twelve.
He glances at the name of the model in his schedule, repeating the mantra he has been saying ever since he was in college. Clasping his hand on the doorknob, he exhales for the last time and puts on his cool facade. There's only one thing in his mind.
He can't wait for Saturday.