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“Goodness, Cutie,” he breathes, ushering you into the room backstage, “Did you really run all the way here?”
“You said you needed me. That it was an emergency. Besides, I was just a few blocks away,” you pant as he pulls you deeper into the room. Despite how chilly you are, you can’t help but admire how elegantly Rafayel is dressed.
“Uhh… yeah,” he says, tilting his head and bringing his gloved hand to the back of his neck, “So… about that… I may have exaggerated just how much of an emergency it was. And things may have been resolved about three minutes before you arrived.”
“Rafayel, you—!”
Looking at the crisp lines of his deep, navy blue jacket, you resist the urge to pounce on him and he drops his hand to his side, smiling wide, “But hey, now that you’re here you can help me with something else. Talia had some fabric samples delivered and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind having another opinion on them, especially from someone she adores as much as you.”
Aware that he’s trying to butter you up by making this about Talia, you snort turning your face away slightly. He crosses the room, gesturing to a series of gorgeous, hanging fabrics, all in varying textures and tones of purple.
Giving them another glance, you feel yourself give into his beckoning look, eager to get a feel of the textures in your hands as he starts pulling out lengths of fabric and laying them about the room.
Shedding your jacket at the door, you attempt to warm your hands on your cheeks as you walk up to the vanity, where two silky shades of a wine-purple colored fabric await you.
You follow him as he continues to lay fabric after fabric out before you, teasing you by bowing and referring to you as ‘madame’, pretending he is the modest dressmaker and you the arrogant and fashionable heir who has come to be dressed today. He plays the role so perfectly, you can’t help but laugh.
Finally, you two peer down at the remaining colors.
“Now that we’ve come this far, I’d say we need a model, don’t we?” he says, looking up at you, “We could wait for Talia to finish up, however long that might be. Or you could model them for me.”
“I have a better idea,” you start. Picking up a length of cloth, you drape it around him like a scarf and peer up at him, “Wouldn’t it make sense if you were the model? Your skin tone is much closer to hers, after all.”
His ombré eyes are dilated a bit more than usual as he looks down at you, and he quickly clears his throat, pretending to examine the length of fabric you’ve draped over him, “Makes sense. Clearly my beloved student has learned well.”
“Oh, it’s all thanks to my devoted teacher,” you purr back, and he smiles broadly as he looks back at you, his waves of indigo locks swaying gracefully with the movement. He really is so handsome, it’s a little aggravating.
Clearing your throat, you try to take control of the situation again, pointing and demanding, “Well, what are you waiting for?”
“Okay, okay! Someone’s eager to get me to strip for them,” he hums, pulling his gloves off and tugging at the sleeve of his jacket, “In another scenario, I’d be scandalized. Luckily for you, all my discretion flies out the window when art is involved.”
He winks at you as his jacket falls to the floor and you blush and turn away as he starts to unbutton his undershirt.
“What do you think, Cutie? Should I take off my pants, too?” he teases.
“There’s no need. We can just lay the fabric against your shoulders and start from there,” you wave your hand dismissively as he chuckles innocently.
“Whatever you say,” he says, holding his arms out at his sides, “I’m ready. Lay ‘em on me.”
Giving him a scrutinizing look, you sigh and walk over, taking a couple lengths of fabric in your hands, “I’ll try to be careful. My hands are still cold from being outside.”
He hums in acknowledgement though you don’t think he’s paying any attention to what you said as he’s already analyzing the first color in the mirror across the room, raising it toward his cheek.
This goes on for a while. You’re aware he’s gone into artist mode now, his attention focused on the potential patterns and designs in his head as he continues to move the fabric thoughtfully, bundling them into the shapes they might be sewn.
Though you used to get annoyed about being ignored when he was like this, now you find it interesting to watch his creative processes in action. When he holds his arm out again, you drape a slightly more pink shade of purple across his forearm, which he immediately regards with an intense frown.
“Mind holding that against my waist instead?” he asks, gesturing to one of the discarded colors. Retrieving it, you move to hold the fabric up when he suddenly yelps, clutching the ribbons of color against him as he recoils from you, betrayal written all over his face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” you ask, looking down at the fabric in your hands for what you would assume was a very sharp dagger if you weren’t already acquainted with his dramatics.
“Your hands are colder than a seafood-on-ice buffet,” he whines, “What are you trying to do, turn me into a fish stick popsicle?”
“I warned you that my hands were cold, Rafayel,” you glare, and he pouts even deeper, “You just weren’t listening to me.”
“Oh, I heard you. I just didn’t think I’d feel the icy claws of the wicked sea witch on me so far from home,” he says with a terrible shiver.
Squinting up at him, you try to remain annoyed, biting your lip to resist the laugh that threatens to slip out of you. Concerned by your silence, Raf looks down at you and, seeing your expression, leans down and nudges your cheek with his own, chuckling softly.
“No need to be silent, I forgive you,” he hums, and you roll your eyes, “You did essentially just run to my rescue a little while ago. How can I stay mad at you?”