Before Klaus had put this particular costume on he'd thought its design had been the worst thing about it - transparent material meant to stretch across his chest - too tight to be comfortable- leaving very little to the imagination, and scale-patterned leggings in an array of brightly shifting blues and greens. Now that he was in it, however, he knew that he'd misjudged it. Ugliness wasn't its worst sin, with its garish glittering scales and the transparent voile chiffon skin "webbing" beneath each arm, the damn thing itched.

Klaus had half a mind to call the whole thing off as he examined himself in the mirror. He could plead illness. Honestly, if this whole affair didn't have a concert attached it, he might've done just that, if only to spare himself the indignity of being seen in this particular travesty, no doubt hand-picked by his ever helpful agent, who seemed just as keen on the idea of selling his body (and dignity) to the masses as he was on monetizing Klaus's voice.

Making his way to the car, the urge to call the whole thing off grew tenfold as his driver opened the door and Klaus saw, not the usual hired minder meant to drive him up a wall with moon eyes and little pleasantries during the course of the drive, but the king of bullshit himself. It was official, today was going to be the kind of day that he couldn't forget, but would desperately want to by the end of it. Maybe he could slip away after he'd discharged himself of his obligations (concert and post-concert meet and greet) and stop for a bourbon or three on the way back.

"Douglas," Klaus greeted as he slid inside. It was always Douglas. Never Cole. Always said in the same perfunctory way with barely a hint of inflection. Never anything that might allude to the fact that his presence was a welcome one. Far from it, in fact. That man was the herald of hell itself on a good day. If Klaus was lucky, Cole would go back to reading whatever trashy magazine he'd picked up and leave him to his own devices for the duration of the drive.

As he pulled at the transparent flesh-toned fabric where it rubbed against his collarbone, trying to get a bit of relief, Klaus had a sinking feeling that lucky wasn't on the menu.

Whatever, it's not like he was required to be personable until they reached the venue and he took up the mantle of Ventis, Prince of Song. For now, he was just plain old Klaus Cartier - itchy, and aggravated, and suddenly in desperate need of a vacation. Or, at the very least, a coffee. He'd need the extra energy if he was going to keep up with this asshole. Why the hell did he have to be a morning person on top of everything else? "We're stopping for a coffee on the way." It wasn't a question. 

Cole Douglas

Cole's smile broadened slightly as Klaus took his seat. He did not, in fact, choose the outfit--but he wish he did. It was just so--perfect. It almost made him want to chortle, but he restrained himself just this once.

He did not object to Klaus's demand for coffee, instead putting on a sympathetic expression as he agreed.

"Of course! We're stopping by Starmie's on the way. I can barely function without espresso."

The car began its journey, and as Cole chuckled at his own remark he would return to reading the zine with a flourish. He held it in such a way that Klaus would be able to stare into his own eyes on the cover.

By this point, Klaus should be able to recognize the issue Cole was reading--and thus he should know exactly why his manager had decided to accompany him on this trip. After a minute of silence, Cole would chuckle to himself and shake his head.

"My goodness, popstars these days say the darndest things--sometimes when they're not supposed to." Cole's eyes peered over the zine, hiding his smile and leaving Klaus with only his cold gaze.

"Wouldn't you agree, Ventus?"

KLAUS CARTIER

It was official, there was a hell and Klaus was in it. Maybe his father had clocked him harder than he'd thought one of the many times he'd mouthed off as a kid or been caught trying to run away, and all the rest of it had been one headlong rush into the flames - the fame, the fortune, the slow torture that greeted him each and every time Cole Douglas opened his mouth, all of it - hell. If it weren't, Cole wouldn't even think about opening his mouth before Klaus had had his first caffeine fix of the day, but Starmie's was several blocks away, and Cole was still talking.

"And here I thought everyone wanted more reality from their idols, or did you whore me out to that one reality show for funsies?" he deadpanned, in no mood for the conversation that Cole was angling for and still entirely too pissed off about his costume to give ground just yet.

Yeah, he'd fucked up. So what? The fan he'd mouthed off to had been a total creep, and it's not like Klaus had known that there was a scum of the earth gossip rag journalist behind him hanging on his every not so polite word. If he'd known, he would have been a lot more creative. 

"Oh, wait, you wanted me to do my Ventis impression, right? Lemme see what I've got left in the tank." At that, he affected an apologetic tone that was completely at odds with his words. "Sorry boss, you're right, I shouldn't have told that scumbag of a fan to go fuck himself after he tried to shove his hand down my pants. Next time I'll totally let him diddle me for the tabloids. After all, he was trying so hard to show me how much he appreciated me." Half way through, the faux apologetic tone broke beneath the weight of his fury. If Cole knew what was good for him, he'd abandon this line of conversation sooner rather than later. 

"I'm sure that would go over well." The deadpan was back and coffee was still far too many blocks away to be having a conversation, let alone this conversation.

Cole Douglas