In coming and going, who have you become?

...Who have you become?

A/N: Angst, it's all angst, and I would love to leave this on a bitter terrible ending because i'm an agent of chaos, but i won't be doing that to you yet <3 as for the request.... I may or may not have gone completely off the tracks, the story just brought me here.

i haven't really had the patience to proofread this (it would take even longer to post, so there's that) forgive me for repeating some stuff or just inconsistencies.

In my head the inside of Hell Hall has mixed together with the rooms from The Favourite, it's giving royaltycore yall.

On a more personal note, I did test positive for Covid, that is also why I was able to upload at all. My symptoms aren't bad at all, I've had worse colds, thank goodness, guess I just have a couple of days to clear my mind a bit, since I can't really study with this sick brain.

Warnings: Homophobia! Sexism. Alcohol and drug abuse.

~5800 words

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Someone else. That was who you'd become. Both of you. Though you didn't really know her part of things until the day you met, yet again. And it was another one of those days, impossible to forget. But this wasn't like the first reencounter, it had a bitter taste to it.

You knew who she was, there was no mistaking it, you knew her hair colour from childhood and no one else would dare to make a brand quite the way she did. You had read a couple magazines while you were away, sitting in your apartment in Paris, your cup of tea cold and forgotten as your mascara ran down your face. She made it, she had her brand and you knew this was only the beginning.

Cruella. You wondered why she went for that name her mum used to say to her, the one part of her she had to avoid. It was just impossible to imagine that she could have changed who she was, though it didn't surprise you to imagine that life had its ways of damaging even the kindest of people. That's why it was so shocking to come face to face with her, to have her treat you this way at first.

And it was fair that she didn't recognize you, but it didn't hurt any less. Almost a decade had passed. Your hair was now dyed too, the stark opposite of its natural colour. Your clothes were that of a grown up for the times, a high-society lady, just like the ones you'd talk shit about. You were forced to change who you were completely, even the way you walked and the way you talked, all of your liveliness was gone, replaced by a cold demeanour, a lack of response to show you didn't care. That was who you had to become to survive.

Christian Dior. A name that made people think about fashion, about perfumes, about high society and expensive things. To you that name had meant so much more. He was not only your boss, but he saved you.

You took it very seriously when you had to leave, you couldn't bear to put them in danger, they were the people you would always love the most. So you ran away, pretty far away for a kid. You found yourself crossing the way to Europe, not even knowing when you were in what country, just roaming around clueless, lost and afraid. The perfect recipe for disaster.

In Germany there was a bar that made you think of your Estella, the black and white decorations, the red details and the general punk aesthetic. In your state, that was the only place where you felt remotely safe.

Not that a bar is a particularly safe place at all, let alone for a teenager. But you begged to work there, barely even knowing how to speak the language, and they took pity on you.

At first it was just that, a job, a place to stay. But eventually all the alcohol around you made you cave in, and since you didn't know any better, and no one cared to help you, it became your companion. That was when things started getting blurry. Drunk nights, drunk days, and eventually they fired you. You couldn't stand being sober. It made you think about her, about the way you left, about the way she felt.