Soft Hearts Hold Secrets

The Party

"Sir, please, I need you to stop moving."

It was the third time the tailor had to murmur out to quiet phrase, and it was the most impatient of the three. It was said with a deep sort of sigh and through slightly gritted teeth, the words thin and teetering on the brink of icy. Muriel could only nod, like he had nodded the past two times he'd been scolded, and try to hold himself as still as he could.

He'd only been fitted for a suit once before, and that suit was long gone. Muriel rid himself of it the moment he'd gotten out of Lucio's grasp, selling it to some rental shop for a handful of cash. He always hated the look of it, the touch of it -- what it meant and what it linked him to. Despite all of that loathing, however, Muriel regretted giving it away. If he still had it, stashed deep in a closet somewhere or tucked beneath his bed, he wouldn't have had to get fitted again.

Count Lucio's party was to be held only six hours from then. Muriel's first job as the Scourge again was the keep watchful guard of the Count all party long -- to sit and stay still and silent whenever Lucio would show him off or touch his hair or tug on his suit. Most of Lucio's employees would be there on watch as well. Higher employees, trusted employees, would be there for pleasure.

Asra was going to be there for pleasure.

The tailor's studio wasn't cold, but Muriel felt like shivering. Uncomfortable chills thrummed through the flesh of his back with every touch of that stranger's hand against his skin. Muriel stood, dreadfully exposed, wearing a mesh shirt and trousers as the tailor measured his waist and his arms -- muttering beneath his breath whenever Muriel would flinch or squirm away. His body was on full display. His scars were on full display. It didn't help that the Count was sitting at the table by the wall, watching with narrowed eyes and a sly smirk as his Scourge was fitted and tailored.

The tailor pulled the measurement tape a little tighter around Muriel's waist. He flinched again, breath stuttering as he flicked his gaze down to the tailor.

"Too tight," Muriel said, his mouth dry, his voice nothing but a croak of sound.

The tailor shrugged. "It's supposed to be tight," he said. "Fitted suits, remember? Besides, I'm being paid extra to make sure the suit meets his-" the man nodded his head toward Lucio, "-standards. He wants a tight suit."

"I don't want a tight suit," Muriel argued, voice a little louder than he wanted it to be. He'd been mumbling earlier, in a tone that the Count hopefully wouldn't be able to hear. Then, however, his words were almost loud enough to echo about the studio. He swallowed hard and looked down to the floor, shivering again -- whole body flushed with an uncomfortable red. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "At least make it a little looser."

"I want you to show off your muscles, not your stupidity," Lucio said from where he was, drumming his golden fingers on the table. Just as Muriel had hoped, he hadn't been able to hear any murmur before that one, but he'd heard all of the responses that Muriel had been given. "This isn't being tailored to your standards, they're been tailored to fit mine."

He got up from where he'd been leaning on the table and began to approach Muriel. Either he didn't notice how uncomfortable it seemed to make him, or he didn't care - the latter was more likely.

His eyes darted from Muriel's face to his meshed shirt, lingered in one of the least subtle ways possible, then flicked back up to catch his gaze again.
"It looks good like this. Better than it would be if it were however you'd like it."

And as if the awkward tension and the sharp comments weren't enough, Lucio then chose to reach up and flick some of Muriel's hair away from his face.
"We need to do something about this," he added, his lips curling up into more of a shit-eating grin. "We'll get that done after your fitting, Scourge. How much longer?"