Fabrisse was supposed to be inside the Von Silberthal residence at the seventh bell sharp. It hadn't been the seventh bell yet, but he was also nowhere near the Von Silberthal residence. He was inside Liene's room.

"Ahhhh . . . I should have something you can wear here . . . Underneath this pile . . ." Liene non-aetherically scrambled through her closet, flinging aside sweaters and tunics in a desperate hunt. "You really had me turning my closet upside down twice today."

Her room was a chaos only she could navigate. Books teetered in unstable stacks on every flat surface, their spines facing in every direction, some open to random pages. Papers—scribbled notes, sketches, receipts—fluttered across the floor like dry leaves in a windless storm, alongside actual dry leaves. An assortment of shoes, socks, and gloves formed tiny obstacle courses around the bed, where the covers were either balled or hanging, revealing a tangle of blankets and pillows. Amid this carefully curated anarchy, small rings, pendants, and ornamental combs peeked from under heaps of discarded clothing, seemingly waiting for her summons.

Liene dug deeper, lifting a blazer here, a suit jacket there, only to grimace at each find. One jacket had too many brass buttons, making it look like a miniature general's uniform; another was cut in a way that practically screamed 'festive ball gown,' despite being intended as a jacket. She held up a suit jacket meant for a boy, but its fabric was a shimmering teal silk that would draw all eyes for all the wrong reasons.

He lingered, caught in the paralysis of uncertainty, his gaze adrift as though scanning some invisible lexicon for the proper thing to say. As per usual, whenever he found himself just standing still and doing nothing, he started offering completely useless comments, "Your space is kind of . . . messy."

Liene paused, one hand clutching a particularly garish scarf, the other pressed against the edge of the closet frame. A bead of sweat traced a line down her temple. "Are you planning to help me," she asked, "or merely furnish a running commentary on the state of my room?" She actually sounded annoyed for once.

"I mean endearing. It's endearingly messy." He added to his commentary of the state of her room.

Her eyes lingered on him a beat longer, and the sharp edge of her earlier glare easing into something almost shy. "Awww, thanks. You too."

Did she just say I'm endearingly messy? What does that mean? My room never has paper lying randomly on the floor.

Liene dug through the closet one last time, pulling out a dark, charcoal-gray waistcoat and a crisp white shirt with delicate embroidery along the collar. "Here," she said, thrusting them toward him. "It's, uh, technically unisex. You'll just have to make it work."

Why does she have more than one waistcoat if she never wears any of them?

Fabrisse knitted his eyebrows as took them hesitantly. "Unisex?" he repeated, eyeing the embroidery, the soft taper of the waistline, the slightly flared cut that would never be acceptable for a strictly masculine ensemble. In his hands, the fabric felt lighter, softer, more pliable than any boy's formalwear he'd ever worn. It was not ill-made, but every stitch, every fold, reminded him it was designed for Liene, for curves he did not possess.

Liene watched him with an amused gleam. "It'll look fine. You'll see. Just try it." She just had to top it off with an absolutely silly grin.

Fabrisse sighed, carrying the waistcoat and shirt toward the private changing quarter, muttering under his breath about the unfairness of gendered tailoring. Once inside, he peeled off his jacket and shirt, hesitating a moment as he regarded the garments in his hands. The waistcoat seemed impossibly narrow at the shoulders, the shirt impossibly soft at the chest. Yet, begrudgingly, he began to dress, sliding the shirt over his arms and buttoning it as best he could.

When he finally pulled the waistcoat over it, he felt . . . wrong. The silhouette was subtly different from anything he had worn. This thing had softer lines, a nipped waist, a hint of curvature in the torso. It wasn't outright disastrous, but every movement felt unfamiliar. He adjusted it, smoothing the folds as he tried to convince himself he looked at least passable.

Glancing in the mirror, he let out a low, uncertain huff. "This feels . . . very wrong," he muttered.

At least, if he couldn't fix his suit, he could fix his hair. His hair, naturally falling in gentle waves and swept to the side, had a tendency to rebel when left unattended. With careful fingers, he smoothed the strands into place, taming the subtle curl at the nape and pressing down the stray wisps that threatened to frame his face.

Meanwhile, Liene's voice floated through the door, teasing but gentle. "See? You look great."

"You haven't seen me."

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"Then come out so I can see you."

Fabrisse hesitated a fraction of a second at the door, then stepped out. The mirror in the hall had offered only a pale prelude to what Liene now saw. Her gaze caught him and froze. For a moment, the words she might have said faltered on her lips; her hands clenched lightly at her sides, and her eyes widened just enough for him to notice. She wasn't looking at the shirt, the waistcoat, or the embroidery. She was looking at him, and suddenly that made him very self-aware.

Why's she staring?

"You . . . you look so pretty," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Fabrisse felt the weight of her words settle over him. Pretty? That wasn't something a boy was supposed to hear—at least, not in this context. Unless she was very into boys wearing girls' clothing, which would be one of the weirder things about Liene if true.

"Do I look like how a normal person should look?" He asked, tugging at his own coat.

"N-no, but . . ." She shifted on her feet, then held up her hand. "Stay there for just a second?"

"Why?"

"This angle of light catches your freckles right!"

Fabrisse stared back at her, caught somewhere between self-consciousness and mild exasperation. He hadn't noticed the freckles in the mirror before; in the hall's reflection, they had been faint, almost invisible.

Now, with her gaze lingering, the subtle dusting of pale specks across his nose and cheeks seemed to take on an unexpected significance.

After another five seconds of her inspecting him with quiet intensity, he cleared his throat. "Um. We have about ten minutes until seven."

Liene blinked, shaking off the reverie, and gave a brisk little shake of her head. "Right! Yes."

Together, they rifled through the remaining options, a more focused hunt this time. Fabrisse, still self-conscious in the coat and shirt, followed her lead. Finally, Liene held up a charcoal-gray blazer with subtle tailoring, one that screamed 'I've never been worn before' and had enough structure to offset the soft lines of the coat beneath.

"Try this," she said, sliding it toward him. "I think it'll work."

He took it, careful fingers brushing hers briefly as he accepted it, and retreated to the private changing quarter once more. The moment the blazer was on, the ensemble fell into a surprisingly harmonious balance. Fabrisse examined himself in the mirror and allowed himself a nod. It was acceptable.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a small grin playing at her lips. "Finally! I'd almost say you might survive a high-class dinner in that," she teased.

Before Fabrisse could protest or second-guess himself again, Liene's fingers twitched, and a subtle breeze stirred around them. "Come on, come on!" she urged, her grin widening. A soft swirl of wind curled at their feet, catching the edges of his trousers and the hem of his blazer, pushing them forward. He stumbled slightly, caught between surprise and the sensation of being briskly escorted by a current.

This is Zephyr's Sprint, isn't it?

"Liene! What—?" he began, but her laughter cut him off.

"No time to dawdle," she said. "Anabeth's residence isn't going to wait for us!"

The wind nudged them faster, lifting their steps into an almost gliding rhythm. Fabrisse, flailing slightly to stay upright, allowed himself to be carried along as they sped past their hallway. The cool air of the evening met them, and with another flick of her wrist, Liene directed the breeze toward the Synod's gate.

They reached the street in a rush of wind-tossed hair and hastily smoothed clothing. The Von Silberthal residence loomed just beyond the Synod.

"Fashionably late," Liene said, almost breathless. "And you didn't even spill anything."

By the gate, Anabeth stood with her arms folded, one eyebrow slightly raised. Her posture suggested impatience—or maybe mild disapproval—but Fabrisse couldn't be sure. Her expression was subtle, and he wasn't particularly adept at reading the nuances of facial emotion.

"Uh . . . hello," he ventured, tugging at the edges of his blazer, still a little flustered from the wind-assisted sprint.

"There you are, Kestovar," she said. "My mother only tolerates a certain degree of lateness. I daresay we've exceeded it."

Liene, sensing his discomfort, shot him a quick grin. "Fashionably late," she said lightly, tugging his arm as if to shield him from further scrutiny.

Then Anabeth glanced at Liene. "And you're not planning to come along, are you, Liene?"

Liene's gaze dropped to herself, and Fabrisse's gaze dropped to her. She'd actually dressed up for the occasion, though it was for the hanging out that he'd flaked on her (again).

Then Liene looked up at Anabeth. "Of course not," she said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "That'd be rude, even for me."

Fabrisse felt a pang of guilt tighten in his chest. She'd dressed up, helped him pick an outfit, and even practically carried him here with a wind spell, all after he'd flaked on their original plan. And now she was still making this easy for him, even though he hadn't exactly been reliable.

Anabeth gave a wave of her hand. "Well, Kestovar, I suggest you make your way inside before my mother starts pacing the hall." Anabeth hadn't even commented on his choice of clothing yet, and he took that as a good sign.

Fabrisse swallowed, tugging nervously at his blazer, and stepped forward. "Yes, I should," he stammered, offering a small nod.

"I'll see you both tomorrow!" Liene called as he started walking.

Fabrisse turned, a little reluctant, gave a small wave back, and mouthed a silent 'thank you'. Her fingers casually lifted in reply, but there was something in her eyes that made him pause. It wasn't the usual warmth or mischievous sparkle he was used to; it was more intense, and he couldn't tell if it was approving or disappointed.

Liene's smile never wavered, but that look lingered in his mind as he crossed the threshold of the Von Silberthal residence.

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