The whispers start the moment Regulus Black steps off the private jet at Heathrow.
After a decade of self-imposed exile, designing for avant-garde houses in Tokyo, living in obscurity in Berlin and then in New York. Dressed head-to-toe in matte black, signature silver rings gleaming on his fingers, the new head of La Maison Black has arrived to claim his legacy. The fashion world holds its breath as everyone wonders if the heir will keep up with the signature classic elegance that has been known for generations as the house of Black's motto, sharp lines and silhouettes.
Soft-mouthed, sharp-eyed, golden-skinned Remus Lupin, the modeling worldβs newest obsession. Walked for Saint Laurent in Paris. Closed for Dior. Photographed by every major house. Heβs got that particular kind of beauty that looks like it shouldnβt belong to this world, and yet here he is. A little rough around the edges. A little quiet. A little wolfish.
He meets him backstage after the after-party of a Valentino show for the first time, Shirt barely holding itself together, linen clinging damp to golden skin, only one stubborn button fastened like even he didnβt care enough to finish dressing properly. Loose black jeans hanging low on sharp hips. Barefoot, for god's sake. Thereβs a pale silver scar slashing his abdomen. His head is thrown back in laughter at something a beautiful redhead whispers in his ears from where she is draped over him like a cat, his fingers skimming across her bare pale thighs.
Mine, Regulus' first thought is at seeing him. That's how Remus lupin wakes up booked to close the show for La Maison Black's comeback show at Paris fashion week.
Remus shows up late for his first fitting, hair damp from the rain, sweater far too oversized, book tucked under one arm like this is some library appointment and not the House of Black fitting room where entire careers are made or destroyed.
And Regulus, seated like a king in black-on-black tailoring, hands steepled, eyes razor-sharp, should be irritated, but instead he's watching the slow, lazy way Remus peels that awful jumper off, dragging it over his head, all long arms and rumpled hair and golden skin underneath. The faint shadow of a scar just below his ribs. A line Regulus wants, irrationally, to trace with reverent fingers. As he opens the button for his oversized jeans and slides them down in a flash, the way models are used to do in a room full of people as the atelier assistant hands over the look, a sheer black shirt and silk trousers, all sharp angles and floating fabric, ethereal in the way it should float over the body.
Regulus sends out the assistant, because no one has the right to see him like that, and it is Regulusβ hands, not anyone else's that adjust the collar. Lets those cool, silver-ringed fingers brush the bare line of his throat. The hollow of his collarbone.
"Arms up," Regulus says, low.
The shirt slides over him like a second skin.
Remus obeys, slow, without breaking eye contact. Regulus steps in closer. Too close. Tugs at the hem. Adjusts the drape of the fabric across Remus' narrow waist.
It is also Regulus who rips the offending fabric after the end of the show, Remus sprawled on his bed, pupils blown wide as he waits for Regulus' instructions.
Regulus peels him apart like a secret. Like heβs waited years to see him like this.
"You will wear what I make," Regulus says, rough, reverent, "mine." Dragging silk and lace from Remusβ skin like it's just another barrier to destroy.
Remus looks up at him, flushed, wrecked, so goddamn gone for him, and smiles, all teeth.
"Then you'd better keep making more."
It's no one's business if Remus Lupin becomes the face of La Maison Black six months afterwards.
