Vance's voice aches and his head bows when he imagines Ethan pressing a hot and lingering kiss to the front of his trousers. Ethan knows his body, intimately, from only a single measuring. He knows Vance's being just as deeply from a chance encounter. Beneath the eccentric exterior, the old flannel shirts and thick glasses, there is the mind and talent and heart of an artist.
An extraordinary man, who cared enough to make Vance this exquisite beauty.
He admires himself in the mirror, turns every which way. He goes to the closet and takes a pair of shoes to complete the outfit, and regards himself that way too. The color is unusual but it is not retro, as Vance had so carelessly called it in the shop. It is one of a kind. In fabric no longer manufactured. It is a suit that will turn heads, that will curl whispers with envy.
And Vance had not even had the decency to pay for it.
He thinks again of the beautiful man who made it, the effort he put in, the sleepless nights. Vance looks at the time and wonders, irrationally, if Ethan won't still be at the shop. He wonders what Ethan would do should Vance return, when he told him so blatantly not to.
No.
Even for someone in love with his work, entirely possessed by it, even Ethan Adler should be home just before midnight on a business day. Perhaps the next day, then, in the morning when there is only the corporate breakfast, and no seminar until the late afternoon. Perhaps then he will go and thank Ethan properly for his suit.
The pervasive silence that followed Ethan's outburst now hangs heavier than his words. He was stitching something when Vance arrived for measurements, and Vance wonders what that delay, too, has cost him. In the glimpse of the workshop there were countless fabrics, shirts and suits in various stages of assembly.
In a fit of curiosity, Vance goes to his phone and takes down the number left on the message earlier that day. With a bolstering breath, held, he dials it.
"You've reached Ethan Adler," responds Ethan, his curt tone rife with disinterest even in recording. "If you're looking for a walk-in, I'll take your measurements, but the waitlist for a completed suit is approximately four months. If that's not fast enough for you, then we're probably not a good fit. Thanks for calling."
Vance listens to the tone and hangs up without saying a word.
Four months. Four months. And Ethan had made the suit for Vance on demand within the space of a weekend. He feels cold. He feels dizzy. He feels guilt like a sickness, from his toes to his hair, pulling a pain to Vance's chest that he can't ease away with a mere rub of his hand.
He had demanded of Ethan and berated his work, had come in completely ignorant to how the man worked, how long his work would take, how much it would be worth. He stands, now, in a suit so beautiful he fears to even sit in it, though he knows that it will remain pristine when he stands again. He stands, now, a man who learned a lesson, when he had sought to teach one instead.
Carefully, Vance removes the suit, finding a new hanger for it, settling it into the closet alongside the other two he has in there. He thinks, longingly, of the small dusty studio, of the man within it. He thinks of how in the morning he will find a coffee shop near enough to have the coffee still steaming by the time he chimes the little bell on the front door.
He thinks of how he will apologize, and hopes that it will be accepted.
chapter four
Ethan decides to go in late, and that's only after he reconciles himself to going into the shop at all. Waking up in a pile of warm dogs, in his narrow little bed, he's hard-pressed to return to the work he put off all weekend. He'll need to rework the books for the month to see if he can make rent after spending so fucking much for nothing in return.
The thought is enough to make him pull his pillow over his head and lay motionless and unhappy for another half hour.
When he finally drags himself up, it's because the dogs need a walk and he needs coffee. He sets the latter to brew and performs the former, relishing the crisp snap of autumn in the air and the whisper of leaves against the sidewalk. When he returns to the apartment, he dresses himself in an untucked button-down, tan trousers and suspenders. He hardly looks the part of a bespoke suit-maker.
In truth, clutching his thermos as he leaves for the shop, he hardly fucking feels like one. Not after being berated, despite how readily he fought back. Not after being humiliated, and having one of his greatest works treated like ready-made shit. Ethan's never felt angry for jerking off before, but there's a first time for everything.
As his boots thump against the cement, Ethan wonders what would happen if he stopped taking new clients altogether. He could finish up the work he's got, collect on his payments, and get enough to live on for a long time for selling the shop's location. He could travel. He could move somewhere cheap and quiet where the dogs will have room to play.
His father––his grandfather for that matter, who built the fucking shop––they're no doubt rolling in their graves at the consideration. Ethan lets the steam fog his glasses as he sips his coffee, free hand stuffed into his pocket.
The shop is much the same when he opens it as it had been the night before when he had locked it up. He waits for a moment, back against the door, and regards the space as though for the first time. He discards, for now, the memories of being a little kid here, playing with the fabrics, turning the handle on his grandfather's sewing machine to watch the needle go up and down. He discards that and looks at the space as a customer would, as someone would who has never seen it before.
It looks like a place out of time, with its cash register and curtained back room and heavy vintage mirrors. It looks old. It feels tired.
Ethan rubs his eyes and walks further into the space. Switching on the lights as he goes, he sets his thermos on the low stool where it is reflected by three mirrors. He makes his way to the back room and hooks back one of the heavy curtains to be able to see the door should anyone walk in today.
He should make a fucking sign or something. No more walk-ins, ever.
Then he makes his way through to the bathroom at the back to relieve himself and wash his hands in preparation. He hears the bell ding distantly over the door and he sighs, wondering how deep he will have to dig today to muster even a speck of friendliness for a new customer. He dries his hands as he calls that he'll be right out, and considers himself in the mirror.
Then he doesn't.
He walks through the workroom and runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to settle it, and opens his mouth to apologize for taking his time before his voice is stolen.
Before him is the suit he made, fitted perfectly––perfectly––against the man for whom it was made. Vance stands tall, stands proud in his new suit, and in his hands he holds two small cups of coffee.
"Good morning, Ethan," he says.
Ethan's heart hitches on a single unsteady beat, before he narrows his eyes. He doesn't look at the suit again. He takes enormous pains not to look at it again. Instead he settles his gaze on the dark eyes that meet his own. "I told you not to come back here."
"I know."
"So why did you?" Ethan asks slowly, in the same tone he might use for one of the dogs who's shit on the rug.
"To apologize."
Ethan snorts. "Bullshit. I don't need your apology. It wasn't enough to waste my time, was it? It wasn't enough to make me spend effort and money without even a deposit." He strides closer, coiled tight, every muscle snapped to rigid focus against the handsome, smug asshole who wears the most beautiful suit Ethan has ever made.
"No. You had to do all that and refuse to pay and come all the way back down here so that you could tell me personally that you weren't going to. And for what? So you could feel like you taught me a lesson? Well, you sure as shit did."
"This is the most exquisite suit I have ever worn," Vance admits, once the initial onslaught of words has passed. "It's as though I finally know the meaning of bespoke.
"I was wrong, and I was cruel, and I am sorry."
"You were, yo
u were, and I bet you fucking are," Ethan responds. In his chest, his anger winds sinuous, invasive between his ribs. Like tightening vines his ribs ache from holding such hurt in his heart, as to see such an inspired piece on someone so handsome. No. Unpleasant. That's the word. "What do you want from me?" Ethan asks. "Want to waste more of my time? You want to destroy more fabric? How about I do it for you? I'll just go get a bolt of something one-of-a-fucking-kind and take a knife to it."
"Allow me to pay," Vance says, stepping forward.
Ethan takes a step back and shakes his head.
"I don't want your money. You got your suit. You gave me some goddamn perspective on what I'm doing with my life, which seems to amount to 'making a lot of bad choices'. And now you even get the satisfaction of being the big man who comes to say he's sorry, so you can carry on guilt-free." Ethan folds his arms tightly. His jaw aches in the hinges and he stiffens it. "Please go."
"Mr. Adler."
"You're not listening. Again," Ethan says. He lifts a hand, fingers splayed, then squeezes them hard against the bridge of his nose. "Please, just—"
"You have made a thing of beauty," Vance responds, interrupting with a step closer. "I've never seen or felt anything like it. My behavior is unworthy of your creation." He swallows, hard. "It is unworthy of you."
At this, Ethan raises his eyes like a creature cornered. He wonders if he's not still sleeping, imagining what their conversation might have been, what it could have become. But there Vance stands before him, setting his coffees on the counter, luminous as a spring hyacinth. Ethan hates him for this too, for making him notice, heart struggling against the tangled threads of his anger.
"It was––it was ecstatic. I didn't stop to think about money, about other work. I didn't sleep. I hardly ate. I couldn't, because all I wanted—" Ethan stops himself. He sounds like a child, he feels like one, helpless and frustrated. Ethan laughs into his hands before letting them fall to his sides. "All I wanted was to see you wear it."
Vance takes another step closer, watches Ethan tense but not recoil, and considers him. He knows he appears exhausted still, despite the time he has to sleep now.
"Why?" Vance asks him, as Ethan's brows furrow before elaborating. "Why did you make it for me? Why did you not demand a deposit, why did you not make me wait four months, as you would any other client?"
"I didn't think I needed to demand a deposit," Ethan says, and he knows he must sound as pathetic as he looks. "Not from someone who comes in wearing a suit worth five-figures. I didn't think you'd fucking stiff me for fun."
"And the waiting list?"
"You said you're from London. I assumed you'd have to go back, you wouldn't be here." Vance's brow raises as Ethan's words fall flat. He sucks his lips between his teeth, another expletive trapped behind them, a threat to call the cops if he doesn't just go. But when he opens his mouth only the faltering truth falls from it. "Because you're handsome. Because I wanted to see you in it. Because I was inspired, and I thought—"
"You thought?"
"Maybe you were something like a muse," Ethan says, the words sharpened by his bitter smile. "Thanks for the lesson."
Vance swallows, and Ethan slips back into himself, walls up against further words or suggestions or potential cruelties.
Instead of speaking, Vance steps closer, fast enough that Ethan doesn't have time to flinch back. He sets his palms on either side of Ethan's face and kisses him.
Vance's hands slip down to gently hold Ethan's shoulders when he tenses in panic and surprise. A strained sound rises high from Ethan, fingers curling around Vance's wrists, against soft fabric and familiar stitching. Their lips flow together, cresting as their tongues touch, before Ethan ebbs suddenly and jerks away, just enough to lift his eyes to Vance.
It is everything he wanted, with the one man in the world who he no longer wants it from.
Ethan knows it's a lie as soon as he thinks it.
"I don't kiss assholes," he whispers, eyes narrowed, but when Vance's mouth again crashes hot against his, Ethan slips his arms around Vance's shoulders and lifts to his toes with a whimper.
"I'll kiss you, then," Vance murmurs between kisses that Ethan now controls entirely. They are hungry, greedy, needy things and Vance's entire body shivers. Ethan's hands seek against his hair; his body arches up against Vance's with little undulations that drive a soft growl from him.
Vance bends, just enough to slip his hands beneath Ethan's thighs and hoist him up. He grins at Ethan's protest that is half-snarl and half-purr, quickly lost in a sloppy kiss. He feels wild and alive, knows he is a slave to his muse no matter how much he fights it.
"Selfish," Ethan groans.
"Yes."
"Heartless."
"Yes."
"Fucking—"
"Trying."
"You wish." The declaration doesn't stop Ethan from fisting a hand tighter in Vance's hair to bend his neck and watch how the collar sets perfectly against his skin. It doesn't stop him from following the line of it with his lips, sucking hard against Vance's pulse. It doesn't stop his legs from tightening over Vance's hips, pressing together groin and belly and chest and lips, again and again, twisting together in a furious kiss.
Vance's strength is just as Ethan imagined it. He carries Ethan effortlessly, turning him to the wall to pin him there and squeeze his ass hard enough that Ethan moans, the tremulous sound a more earnest declaration than any words.
"Put me down," Ethan gasps, shivering as Vance's manicured fingernails curve through the thin fabric of his trousers. His grip loosens to let Ethan slide free, but with a frown Ethan tightens his legs. "Don't you fucking dare."
Vance can't help but laugh, the sound spreading goosebumps over Ethan's skin and filling his cock flushed and hard. Ethan's fingers spread, following the lines of the jacket's lapels, down again across the tie. He examines, cheeks aflame, both Vance and his suit from so near, and to Ethan's great dismay, he finds neither wanting.
Vance takes the pause as invitation and ducks his head to press a hot kiss against Ethan's neck, pulling a groan from him as his hands seek over the suit he's made, venture to the skin of the man who wears it. He is squirming and warm, panting quick angry breaths into the air around them both and––for the moment––saying nothing more.
"You are proud," Vance tells him softly. "So terribly proud, yet it is entirely warranted. Do you have any idea how talented you are?"
Ethan snorts, wriggles more and Vance squeezes his ass to stop him.
"Of course you know. And I made the mistake of being the first person to tell you otherwise." Vance kisses reverently against Ethan's neck, turns his head to nose behind his ear, to take the earlobe between his teeth and tug it until Ethan moans. "Muses are cruel things."
The words shudder Ethan's voice, the bruise sucked against his throat pitches it higher still. "Mine is an asshole," he mutters, lodging a hand in Vance's hair and fisting the other in his lapel. Tight coiling muscles rub his body in slow sinuous undulations against Vance's own. "A curse of inspiration that plagues the artist and draws their attention from patronage, from paying clients."
"I'm paying for the suit," Vance promises.
Ethan snags his hair tighter to bend his head back and turn their eyes to meet.
"You're not."
"I am."
"You haven't." Vance makes another movement to set Ethan down, but he only clings harder. "Not now," he mutters against Vance's mouth. "Not until I'm done climbing you like a tree."
"You're very demanding."
"And you talk too much."
Vance smiles, and Ethan presses their lips together again, the kisses no less desperate, no less rough than when this started. It is a battle between them at the moment, and both seem content in their own chosen victories––Vance in Ethan's forgiveness, and Ethan in his muse.
As though chastened, Vance pulls Ethan from the wall again, and takes the steps necessary to deposit him on the nearest couch instead. He pins Eth
an's hands when they seek to drag Vance closer, and he sets one knee to the couch to balance himself and loom. Ethan's cheeks glow scarlet as embers when Vance removes his glasses and sets them gently to the floor.
He really should have put a fucking note on the door, because he can hardly be pressed to stir from where he is, body rocking outside his control against the man above him. He spreads his fingers across the collar of the jacket and to the buttons between them. They pop free of their holes one by one and with a moan, Ethan slips his palms against Vance's shoulders to slide his jacket free.
Stitch by stitch, he dressed this man. Stitch by stitch, he will undo him.
"I didn't trust you would find the right color of tie," Ethan tells him, lips sinking against the hard line of Vance's jaw. He unknots the Windsor and tugs the silk free with a zip of fabric against fabric. "So I made you that, too. The pocket square," he says. "Hand stitching along collar and wrists and waist because—because if I couldn't be the one to touch you there, at least my seams would."
Ethan arches upward when Vance kisses him, their tongues tangled to taste the other, coffee and lingering mint and delicious heat. Their lips spread smoothly, parting and closing, as Ethan lovingly slips loose each button on Vance's waistcoat and then the shirt beneath. A glance downward makes him groan, cock leaking in his pants when he pushes his hands against the thick pelt of hair curling dark on Vance's chest.
"I knew it," Ethan grins, before his smile splits to a laugh. "I fucking knew it."
Vance smiles as Ethan explores him, bending into his touch, humming, pleased, as Ethan's hands seek over his back, next, still beneath his shirt and open vest. With an arch of his back and a deliberate bend, Vance takes Ethan's mouth again.
His hands seek between Ethan's legs, rubbing deliberately against his soft pants until Ethan moans, and he works the button open.
Bespoke Page 4
