ArchivedLogs:Elegant

Elegant
Dramatis Personae Shane, Steve	2016-03-26 "Thankfully for you, I've put in enough thought to make up for all your lack."
Location <NYC> Garment District
The Garment District is named quite rightly. In the square mile of the Garment District, some of the world's best fashion designers, clothing manufacturers, and models are packed into the office and retail buildings of the District. The streets are busy, and the clothing of the passers-going always, always fashionable. One might easily miss the name of the shop if not specifically looking for it: Emerite Clothiers. The storefront is small but tastefully appointed and brightly lit, filled largely with menswear of early 20th century patterns executed with modern fabrics and sensibilities. In the back there is significant space given over to a fitting area bordered on three sides with tall mirrors, with a dais in the middle. Said dais is currently occupied by Steve, who is looking a little harried. He wears a white stand-collar dress shirt with blue pinstripes, suspenders, and sharp gray trousers. But shortly the tailor returns -- he's perhaps in his late 30s, balding, lean and weatherworn, with a dark olive skin-tone and piercing black eyes -- with a gray vest. "This may not fit you quite right, but of course all of this needs adjusting, so it isn't so important as all that. I just want to see how you look in it first... Please, your arm, Sir." He coaxes Steve into the vest eagerly and cirlces around in front of him to fasten the buttons -- even though Steve is already moving to do so himself. "There you are!" The tailor steps back and admires him. "Please do take a turn around for us?" Steve blinks at him a few times, but obliges -- carefully, as if he fears he might break everything he's wearing if he moves too suddenly. To one side of the dais, Shane is, for the moment, just watching. Admittedly watching kind of /intently/, black eyes huge and wide and a decidedly amused smile on his lips at Steve's very-careful-turning. Not nearly so dapper just now in dark jeans and plain black henley, a few shopping bags already draped over his arm, he is giving careful scrutiny to the ongoing fitting. He has an arm folded across his chest, his other hand lifted to half-cover his mouth. Head tiiilting slowly as he examines the outfit, at long length giving it a decisively approving nod and a thumbs-up. "I'd hit that," is his eventual judgment. Steve flushes very red at Shane's pronoucement, but the tailor, at least, looks unflapped. In fact, he's suddenly quite animated. "Oh! But it occurs to me you would look /quite/ fine in a brocade vest -- not every gentleman call pull that off, mind you." He's already peeling off into a forest of clothing racks, muttering excited to himself. Steve...isn't actually looking any /less/ mortified. "I'm glad you like it," he says at last, his smile kind of thin and worn. "I don't think I look half as elegant as you do in clothes like this, but I do /like/ the aesthetic." He glances back up at the mirror. "I guess I'm not immune to a little nostalgia, after all." "Fff. Elegant?" Shane's brows lift, his mouth hitching up at one side. "Don't think that's the first word that comes to mind when most people see me. You are rocking that, though. Guess you'll --" For a moment his gills flutter -- smile drawing a little more pinched. "-- Guess you'll have something pretty kickass to wear to church tomorrow." "It wasn't the first word that came to mind when /I/ first saw you," Steve reminds him, "despite your very dapper outfit. It's not a matter of learning to see past you, but to see you as you are -- small and blue and sharp, and yes, very elegant." He tilts his head. Studies his reflection again. A shadow of a frown passes over his eyes. "It /does/ look nice, though I'd reserve 'kickass' for certain other portions of my wardrobe..." The tailor returns with a much fancier vest, black satin on the back and a deep blue sapphire scrollwork brocade on the front. He helps Steve out of the gray vest and slips the new one on instead. "As I thought!" he cries, delighted. "Not ideal for business, perhaps, but for an evening out? This compliments your eyes perfectly." Steve glances at Shane again, kind of helplessly. Shane's gills flutter again, brows pulling together and his hand running somewhat self-consciously down against his shirt. He gives his head a quick shake, trots closer to the dais to tip his head up (up! up!) and look over Steve. The purse of his lips and narrowing of his eyes is critical, head waggling uncertainly. "Not with that shirt," he finally says. "But he's right about your eyes." "Hm..." The tail tilts his head first one way, then the other. Sidesteps one way, then the other. "Of course! Black!" With that he darts off again before Steve can say a word. "I confess, I've never put anywhere near this much thought into clothing before now," Steve says, stepping down from the dais. His reflections draw closer to where the two panes of mirrors meet. "Perhaps I should, more often. Though..." He trails off and does not pick back up before the tailor returns with a black poplin spread-collar shirt. Steve obligingly strips down to his a-shirt and tries that one one, as well, still awkward and unused to the assistance of another pair of hands. "Thankfully for you, I've put in enough thought to make up for all your lack. And Dai worked in fashion for so long it sort of -- rubbed off. I guess." Shane's smile brightens at this new shirt. Wider, toothier. "Fantastic. Huge improvement. You are so set for a night out on the town." "And I am eternally grateful for your assistance." Steve is still tugging the vest straight, turning this way and that. "Does look better," he agrees at last. "Wait." He suddenly looks a little concerned, a little lost. "/Am/ I going out for a night on the town? Or did you mean that in a general sort of way?" Shane's gills flutter -- though this time in time with a quick grin, a silent shake of shoulders in laughter. "Well, why not. There's an awful lot of town, and how much of it have you /seen/, really, when it wasn't splattered in zombie brains? Should go enjoy some music. Food. Danc..." He trails off here, brows furrowing. "... there's a lot of good shows," he decides instead. "This is New York," Steve says, smiling gently, "you can live here a lifetime and never see the whole of it." He is silent for a moment, the corners of his eyes pulling tight. He shuts them. Opens them again. "Yeah, lots of good shows."