the tea length bouffant dress is silky, rippling like water under the rolling of his arm, shining under a critical eye. he tilts his chin towards her to show he's still listening, pleased to bask in the nostalgia of her company, even if he'd never admit it outright. hoenn has been so brutishly lonely and gods, it's nice to hold a garment in his hands and not pick apart himself in his mind's eye. 

hers is a welcome placeholder.

yes, fashion can take you anywhere. and it has, but has it really been so long? he'll leave that image of himself to her - smiling, eyes hidden under shades, skin sun-kissed and laugh like liquid gold. joyous. beautiful. unblemished.

"mm, i'm working my connections, trying to weasel my way into next month's nylon. it's been arduously adorable watching her work."

clawing at the walls and snarling into the dark, purring orders to a mouse of an agent, sniveling and groveling and exchanging hands and money and more - no, less, rosie, less, less. 

a smile crawls over his lips.

"go on," he says, finally deciding with a click of his tongue. "put it on for me, won't you, doll?"

Alison Everly

☉

she looks good. like, stupid good, and it makes him green with envy, languid with jealousy. he toys with a stray lock of hair, cat's-eye gaze darting from the dress she'd just put back on the shelf. her arms open for a hug and he folds into her, sighing as his pianist fingers slide between her shoulder blades. 

familiar, smelling like home. 

"still wearing clair de lune?" he says as he withdraws, stepping neatly to the side so he can fish out the dress she'd discarded. the price tag twirls and he nonchalantly glances, focusing instead on how it might hug her hips and compliment her bust. 

unlike his own waspish attendant, he has an eye for what fits. 

"mm, i've been here and there, but i'm back in hoenn now for work. mila alexopoulos practically begged me to wear her for this fall season. you remember mila, don't you? primarina designs? twig of a thing - always putting those awful-looking colors in her hair," he says, with affection. 

Alison Everly

☉

"that's where you're very, very wrong, mon chéri. there's always truth in there. garish, terrible truths hidden under steaming piles of colorful shit." he would know. sallow photographs, violent slander, a lifetime of climbing and crawling and begging on his hands and knees cut down with knobbly fingers against a keyboard and snap decisions put to paper for the world to see. 

the buttons have been pushed and he delights in seeing the other's face fold in on itself like a moldy pretzel.

it makes it easier, asking. "appetite. the food here is just so unappetizing," he drawls, voice rich as the butter that fills kalosian cuisine. "i hear your paltry pantry is the place to pinch something that might help."

each p annunciated with a drumming of his pointer finger on the counter. 

elijah gardner

☉

he runs his fingers between his thighs, twisting in front of the mirror to watch his body curve. ugh. he swats at the duck tail on the bunched skirt. there's not enough thigh meat there to fill it out and no amount of fussing is working. he swears and shimmies out of the whole outfit, tosses it haphazardly into the corner of the dressing room, and tugs back on his blouse and miniskirt. 

the boots take several minutes to lace back up. vivi is still sipping her frappuccino, lounging on the plush loveseat in the waiting area. she regards him, notes his lack of clothes, and huffs as she stands. 

"i told you i'm a zero," he says hotly as the curtains are drawn and a very flushed, very stressed woman returns with a bundle of clothes in her arms. "not a four. not a two. zero."

frustration, desperation, maybe even a touch of anger colors her cheeks, but she swallows it back with a pretty smile and apologizes profusely. vivi chuffs delightedly and then pips, drawing ambrose's attention away from his attendant and to - 

"well, my stars, is that allie everly?"

Alison Everly

☉

greens half-hidden by the hooded lids of a working man over and done with all the shit in the world thricefold. he's no nonsense, cut and dry; ambrose ought to cut his own losses and meander his way out, but he doesn't do meandering.

or leaving without getting what he wants.

"oh, everyone needs a little sensationalism. what's the point if we can't pretend we're larger than life?" he chuckles and when the man stands, he leans his hip into the counter, lazing with his million dollar smile.

"honestly, i miss when the only newsworthy stories were," and with a sweeping display of his arms, gold bangles clinking against each other, "is top champion kyle lopez a top or bottom? FERNANDO SILPH and Stormy Silph - more than siblings?"

he sighs and then hums, considering. "so why do you read it?"

elijah gardner

☉

he needs oh so many things. he needs some bubbly prosecco and he needs mila alexopoulos to cut him his newest dress and he needs to lose a couple to wriggle his way into it and he needs someone in his bed tonight and he needs to take vivi to the track otherwise she starts to get antsy.

more than that, he needs to be anywhere but here.

this pocketful of nowhere. this dusty corner of the world that's been left forgotten. he's here by recommendation of friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, about the au naturale remedies that plants can provide.

but saying it out loud sounds stupid so he doesn't. he shifts his weight to the side. the white latex boots creak. a finger traces the knobbly wood of the counter.

"not a fan of the tabloids?" he asks instead with a pretty smile, eyes much like a cat's locking in on their newest toy.

elijah gardner

☉

no pills! that's what he said. that shit's the first rung of a ladder he's not ready to climb again. no psych appointments. he is fine, thank you very much. back and better than ever, babes. into the lion's den, out with - 

ugh, this place sucks. boring. sleepy. full of old ladies and retirees. he'll prattle until he dies that he's not a creature of habit, but the vapid space of boring anonymity makes him want to die. pink half-moon shades, matching vivi's own pink stars, and all the world is painted gay around him, but they don't look at him like a fashion icon. 

cape and latex boots with far too many straps to be comfortable, but more than enough to make twink daddies swoon. gods, he misses kalos. he feels the side-eyes, the stares (and really there are only a few people in the streets and they're not actually looking). 

the door chimes. smells hit him. not of a thousand different types of spritzed perfumes or mint tabs after a quickie run to the bathroom, but of dry herbs. like incense. it reminds him of a weekend fling with an artist in santalune. 

he painted flowers for a living. 

"hellooooooo?" he calls out. vivi palms her glasses down and peers, unimpressed, around their surroundings. 

elijah gardner

☉

oh and goodness, this is simply why they adore her. they see her straining at her bonds; she wants to eviscerate them, but she can't. and they can't be too cruel to her either, can they? because no one else will work with them now and they know that. 

what's a little mutual destruction between friends? 

"ugh, doll, ravish me. you've terrible taste in coffee boutiques, but your brain worms are delightful little creatures. you're an artist. you're an extravaganza."

and then, after a sip: "no fucking chevron."

mila alexopoulos

☉

vivi sips surreptitiously, creature of habit that she is. ambrosia wants to make mila feel special so they don't tell them they switched from six pumps of sugar-free vanilla to five pumps of sugar-free vanilla and one pump sugar-free brown sugar and yes, you can tell the difference and how is sugar-free brown sugar even sugar-free?

"still?" they say incredulously. oh, far, far too long. this is a rabid, rapid, vapid environment. slip up for a day and you're behind by a whole week. a week? and you're last year's news. in mila's case?

maybe they'll get better negotiating terms because of this. 

"you know i don't have time." a model's worst fear. "i'm too hot a commodity. i need to be back out there. i need to be wearing something new. something spicy. something by your darling little brain.

"i can get you, at the very least, into vogue, but i need you to slap me back on the cover."

mila alexopoulos

☉

they snatch up the coffee as soon as it's set down in front of them. vivi goes to take hers, because of course mila alexopoulos knows to get a coffee for vivi too, and ambrose gulps a couple of stevia-tasting go-go juice down while they finish tearing this place apart on the web.

"and i heard primarina can't even find advertising space in vogue," they chirp back primly. 

"oh, baby, you look so tired." they pull off crescent moon shades that match vivi's in both ostentatiousness and impracticality. they pinch the temples, allow the other to fold, and gesture with the half-folded accessory to mila herself. 

"but yes, this. this is what i'm missing. passion. i'm tired of wearing yesterday's news."

mila alexopoulos

☉

this coffee shop is grade a shit and the barista is a fucking whore and put whole milk into their skinny latte on purpose for no reason other than to Fuck With Them so there goes six bucks (not that it matters, really), but it's about the principle of it. it's the principle of the matter. 

principal? no, no, it's principle because a principal is supposed to be your PAL. they remember that. 

vivi watches them type furiously. the lopunny has starry shades on and preens her ears while rose goes through the motions of their meltdown. their iphone catches the sun, but it goes right over the pink uv shades and she doesn't have to bother blinking, but she does catch their screen.

yelp. google. fucking craigslist. one star, one star, one star. and then intermittently, texts to the person they are ATTEMPTING to meet here.

cunt. i'm waiting. 

i'm still waiting.

bring me better coffee.

this place sucks.

you have poor taste.

you shouldn't be late for your meetings.

mila alexopoulos

☉