Chapter Text
Heathcliff wanders the city’s backstreets and winding alleyways, tightening his scarf. He’s not exactly supposed to use these dark alleyways anymore, but it's always been where he’s the most comfortable. It’s no danger when you know each nook and cranny like the back of your hand, but he guesses it wouldn’t end up so well for him if he were seen—whether it be by paparazzi or some of his past mates. Still, he can’t bring himself not to come through here each time he passes it by. It’s still his old street, after all. Even if he can’t bring himself to say it publicly, anymore.
At the very least, it doubles as a shortcut back to his place, so he couldn’t say that he was coming back here for no reason. Besides, he never liked those stuffy nest-backstreets borders, what with all their stupid regulations to “keep people safe”, though he knew they were always making shit up just to serve themselves. They always were, the lot that lives up there. Though, he’d never say it out loud, because he supposes that as of now, he was also part of the lot that lives up there.
He probably should be making a civilized effort to go through them legally more often, but he’s more used to the twists and turns of these puzzling back-alleys. At the very least, he wouldn’t have to deal with those people who keep poking and prodding him out under those stupid fluorescent lights that would never stop blinking. You’d think they’d have those fixed by now, but some things never change. The fans, or the people who are just trying to do their jobs: they’ve mixed and melted and blended so many times over that it’s all just the same to him now. And no one’s ever cared that he comes through this way. The convenience of fame, he supposes.
Heathcliff sighs—it’s so cold that he can see his breath. He should have taken a thicker coat, but he didn’t expect to be turning in this late. Time flies, even when you’re not having fun, and time was always something that he could never get enough of. Not back when he didn’t have a care in the world, and certainly not now that he actually has things to do.
His hand tightens around the bag he’s been carrying back. Everything is still so strange. It’s weird, y’know; one second you’re just some talentless hack with a stupid dream, and the next your face is on every billboard lining these god-forsaken streets. And that stupid dream still hasn’t come true. He’s still convinced this is a dream ( or, maybe in this case, a nightmare ), and it’s scary to think that one day he might just wake up , even if everything isn’t exactly perfect. But at least the mindset means he’s doing all he can to live his life to the fullest; and if the process includes giving himself up from the core, then so be it.
He’s started living above his studio; no point in getting a separate place when he’s gonna be spending most of his time working anyways, he reasoned. The building he’s got had two floors anyways, so he put a mattress up on the second and called it a home. And it is, for better or for worse. It wasn’t even often that he’d go up there, anyways; more often than not, he’d fall asleep at the desk in the middle of a sketch or at the sewing machine with the whole thing still running ( though, he’d been more careful about that last one recently. it had ended up costing him a lot of fabric than it was worth ) more often than he’d actually make his way up the stairs, so really, all the mattress ended up doing was collecting dust. Or, Hong Lu slept up there if he was staying over ( which was probably a lot more than he should have been. he’s not very knowledgeable on contracts, but Heathcliff isn’t sure if there’s another set of models and designers that have the same sort of strange relationship that they do ), but he’d always bring his own sheets and other shit anyway, so it’s beside the point.
But what’s a home if not a place to store your shitty mattress, anyway? If he thinks about it for long enough, it’s not really all that much of a transition from where he was living before. He just moved from a dodgy apartment with a dodgy mattress to a slightly less dodgy apartment ( that still had the same dodgy mattress ). Working from home is always a benefit—not exactly something he could do in his previous career path, so he’s grateful for that. Plus, he even had a microwave. Major score. And at least this time, he didn’t have to share the space with anyone he didn’t want to—no loud neighbors, no aimless drifters, no one banging on his door to tell him what to do. Basically, he could be alone all day and do whatever the hell he wanted with all that free time.
Free time, however, was found few and far in between. There was too much work to be done; you’d think that finally finding your passion paying off, as a designer no less, would be easy pickings, but Heathcliff is honestly still adjusting from the line between hobby and job . Maybe it would have been easier if he had been recognized for his own ideas, but there are a lot of specific things that he has to do now, no matter how he feels about it. Are people still interested in Victorian fashion at all, he often finds himself wondering, but he’s not designing Victorian fashion anymore so he pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind. Anything that he wants to experiment with is swiftly drowned out by the masses’ want for more of the same ( and that’s all it is, really. every new design is derivative. every new stitch is a copy. there’s no room nor reason to be creative when everyone has already recognized you for something, so you might as well just keep doing that ). And that’s just fashion, he guesses.
But it’s fine, honestly. He’s got a place, now. He’s got the means to make a lot of money. He’s got a brand new circle of friends—and with them, a brand to uphold. He’s got everything he could ever want. He’s happy .
Heathcliff continues walking down this street, feeling the shift from empty, trashed roads to people who walk under street lights that actually work. The Earnshaw Boutique stands in front of him, currently obscured by the night, though all that would change by the time morning comes again, wouldn’t it? In any case, he’s not really in the mood to do any sewing tonight, and would very much love to just slam his head on his desk and lay there until the sun rises. And when that happens, he would open the doors with a bright smile on his face and a work ethic that would never cease to be. As always.
But that was a concern for later. Hong Lu was waiting for him at home, so he should probably pick up the pace and stop musing about things that he was powerless to change. Power and valor are supposed to come with fame, he initially thought, but to this day, he still finds himself waiting around for them to arrive. He approaches, ever closer to the front doors, where he sees that a stranger is standing in front of them and blocking his path.
The old him might have shoved them out of the way without a second thought.
The new him only says, “We don’t open until eight in the morning,” in its place. “But, that’s only about four hours from now, isn’t it?” he muses, chuckling to himself.
The figure turns to him, without any hint of shock in her eyes, and he immediately shuts his mouth. They stand there unmoving for a minute. She is not a stranger. She looks him up and down, though he can’t bring himself to do the same, and settles for staring right past her instead ( no matter how much he wants to hang his head in whatever shame he can manage to make himself feel ). This is probably the worst time for a confrontation. Heathcliff can’t remember the last time he’s talked to her. God, he can’t remember the last time he’s seen her.
“…I see you’ve been doing well for yourself,” Ishmael finally says, breaking the awkward silence and replacing it with the tension that always seems to follow. “Business as usual, I presume.”
“Yeah. I have been,” is all Heathcliff can think of to say in response, since he very well can’t just ignore her like that, but he doesn’t feel like playing her game either. It’s been a while since they were able to just talk like two normal people, and he guesses that engaging too deeply will cause it to end up just like all the other ‘conversations’ they’ve tried to have in the past…however long it’s been. And he’s busy enough as it is. “Any road, hope you have a fine rest of the night,” he says, attempting to swiftly end the conversation and move past her, but Ishmael steps in front of him, blocking the path to his front door.
They stare at each other for a second ( and Heathcliff doesn’t have it in him right now to muster up the words to ask her to leave. he probably doesn’t deserve to, anyhow. but none of that is important anymore; what’s done is done )
“…you’re wearing glasses,” Ishmael observes, and it’s such a light statement with a horribly fiery charge lingering behind it that Heathcliff isn’t sure whether he should start laughing or start backing away. There’s definitely some sort of intent behind her words, but he can’t fathom what they could possibly be. And “great communicator” isn’t exactly something that he’d be putting on any résumés any time soon. So he just stands there, motionless and expressionless, because he guesses that’s just what he does best now, isn’t it?
“Miffed ya didn’t notice them earlier—been wearing them for months. You’ve seen the advertisements, haven’t you?” he responds, taking them off for a minute and wiping them slightly with the end of his shirt. “Eyesight’s fine and dandy, and these things aren’t really my cup of tea, but it’s the fashionable thing to do now, so I’m hopping along with the trend,” he continues, placing them back on his face and adjusting them. Bollocks, when did he become such a people-pleaser? He guesses it comes with the profession, any profession in the city, but he never expected everything to come and go so fast. A sponsorship deal is a sponsorship deal, after all, and money is money.
But Ishmael isn’t listening to his words, really ( she used to, but he’s lost that privilege a long time ago. and she’s always been smart in her decisions ). But then again, no one does, anymore, so how can he blame her? She just stares at him, meeting his eye in a certain way like she’s looking for something, but then grimaces and turns away when she can’t find it. “Ugh. You used to be the kind of guy who would laugh at pretentious and uppity folks like that; people who only do things to follow a trend . Like people who wear glasses when they don’t need to,” she huffs, looking back up at him again. “…and by the way, those frames don’t suit your face. Too wide. Color doesn’t look good on you,” she says, and Heathcliff knows it’s true. But they’re a part of his image now, so what’s a man to do?
“Well, don’t focus too much on who I used to be, mate,” he says, pausing for a moment, wondering if he has any right to call her that anymore. But he keeps going, trying not to dwell on it for too long ( not that he was ever too great at doing that in the first place. act first, think later, or maybe never ). “Haven’t been that guy in a long time, I reckon,” he says, and he knows exactly what she’s talking about. He doesn’t want to go back to being that guy . Nobody wants him to go back to being that guy .
“Hah, so we’re mates , then, are we?” she says, the bite in the back of her throat threatening to jump out and swallow him whole. Ishmael looks up at the moon and smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t think that’s the case, Heathcliff. Haven’t been for a long time.” And we both know whose fault that is , Heathcliff can almost hear at the end of that sentence, though she didn’t actually say anything. But he knows. And he doesn’t know what to say about it, so he chooses to ignore the feeling instead.
“…well then. I’m sure we’re both busy people,” he says, still finding himself unable to meet her eyes for fear that they’ll bore through his soul and leave him bare ( and then what would he have? nothing but the guilt that continues to eat at him every day ). He looks up as well and sees that the lights on the second floor are on; there’s a silhouette that stands near the window, staring down at the two of them. “I’ve got someone waiting for me up there, so I should really be on my way up,” he says, grimacing at the way his voice cracks even though it’s barely a whisper. “Hope your day’s going well,” he mumbles, though he knows it can’t be if she’s coming here of all places.
But she makes no indication of movement. They just stand there for another minute, and Heathcliff is about to bid her adieu again in any sort of attempt to just end the encounter, but Ishmael lets out a sigh and faces him again just as he was ready to attempt to squeeze past her for the second time that night. “I’m having a show. Two days from now, this Wednesday. They’re letting me use the runway,” she murmurs, and Heathcliff only stands there in this weird, stunned silence. He wants to congratulate her and tell her how happy he is for her, but he doesn’t think he should. Neither of them would be ready for it. Neither of them is looking for it. She would have had one a lot earlier if it wasn’t for him. “It’s a six in the afternoon viewing,” she quickly adds. “I don’t expect you to come,” she finishes, before turning around and beginning to walk away.
“…I’ll come,” he calls out when she’s already found herself some distance away. He’ll find the time. He’ll make time. He owes her this much, at least.
She freezes in her tracks, just for a moment. “I don’t expect you to come,” she says once more, and in the next second, she’s gone. And all Heathcliff feels is the relief that the situation didn’t end up with a fight. But he’s a man of his word ( at least, he’s trying to be. he is now ), so he pulls out his phone and clears his schedule for the following Wednesday. Who knows, maybe his appearance there will help her out with…sales…or exposure…or something…or maybe he’s putting himself on too much of a high horse. Can one man change anything on his own? Probably not, but he can at least try. He thinks about it way too often for him to just leave things as they are, anyway. It’s atonement, he conveniences himself.
And, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little curious about what she’s been up to for these past couple of years. They haven’t made much contact, for good reason on her part, and it’s not like Heathcliff has been dying to make contact himself. But if he can support her from afar, then he reasons that there’s no reason not to do so.
In the end, it will only further his reputation, no? He can see the headlines now: “Big Star Heathcliff comes to a small local show to support a new, up-and-coming designer trying to break into the big leagues”. And it’s as selfish as he is ambitious. But he always has been both.
He unlocks the doors to his studio and steps inside, leaving all his worries to be faced in the morning.