Chapter Text
The fabric was lush and smooth, butter-soft against his skin. It draped over his chest in a way that felt deliberate—cut to follow the line of his shoulders, to skim his waist, to fall just open enough at the collar that the dark trail of hair there looked intentional instead of careless.
Even Fiyero had to admit.
He looked irresistible.
He turned slowly, left, then right, watching how the light caught the material, how the mirror gave him back a version of himself he almost didn’t recognize. His hair—usually a riot of sun-lightened copper—was darker now, closer to its true shade, swept neatly to one side. Polished. Elegant.
Expensive.
The pants she chose for him fit so perfectly. He looked stately. Like a perfect, kept boy.
Because that’s what he was, wasn’t he?
The thought sent an unexpected flicker through him.
“Turn around,” Elphaba’s voice was low and quiet behind him.
He did.
He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped performing for the mirror and when he started performing for her, but he could feel it now---the way his shoulder’s eased back, the way he stood a little taller. The way he wanted her to look.
He felt her gaze before he saw her move, heat pressing against his spine like a hand that never quite touched.
“You wear it well,” she said. Measured, almost detached.
Praise, delivered like an assessment.
His mouth curved without permission.
“You have good taste,” he said lightly, because that was what he was good at.
For just a moment, her eyes lingered too long.
She was seated—long legs crossed, spine straight, composed in that quietly imperious way that made every tailor in the boutique fall over themselves to please her.
And Fiyero?
Fiyero took one look at her and decided to push his luck.
He turned from the mirror, slow and deliberate, letting her watch the line of his body as he moved. The suit moved with him—fluid, molded to his frame, whispering wealth and elegance with every shift.
“You should feel how soft it is,” he said casually, stepping between her legs.
“I already know,” She said, looking up at him, chin tilted, unreadable. “I picked it.”
He smiled. He saw the way her jaw clenched, the flicker of interest in her eyes. “Then you’ll want to make sure it passes inspection.”
Before she could respond—before she could shut it down—he bent slightly and eased himself onto her lap.
Her breath hitched. Her back, if possible, was straighter than before.
He kept most of his weight balanced through his thighs, spine straight, body angled just so. If anyone had walked in, it might have looked like he was merely leaning, like he was showing her the fabric close up.
But Elphaba knew better.
She could feel the warmth of him. The tension thrumming through muscle and restraint. The clean scent of him—soap and citrus and something more expensive—curling into her breath.
Her hands stayed carefully, stubbornly still.
Fiyero tilted his head, like he was genuinely trying to be helpful. “Here,” he murmured, taking her hand and guiding it to the lapel. “Right there. It’s all in the weight. See?”
She didn’t answer.
Her fingers grazed the fabric. Then lingered. Then moved lower.
Fiyero’s breath hitched. Her hands grazed the fine detail of his trousers; he could feel the warmth of her touch on his thighs, as it moved closer... and closer...
Elphaba was watching him, mouth parted, and he shivered a little under the intensity of her scrutiny.
He couldn’t help it. He smirked. “Sorry. Was that too forward?”
Her voice came out more clipped than she meant. “You’re meant to model the clothing, not sit on me.”
Fiyero laughed, pressing a bit harder into her hand.
“I’m multitasking.”
He saw that familiar, sharp look of deliberation in Elphaba’s eyes, like she was analyzing and cataloguing him in real time. She darted a quick glance at the closed dressing room door, and seemed to come to a decision.
“You should try this,” she said, laying a hand gently on a neatly folded silk shirt beside her. It was a deep blue, with a fine geometric pattern of copper and gold thread.
Fiyero met her eyes with a steady, challenging one of his own. You’re going to have to be clearer than that, Miss Thropp, he thought.
He reached for the shirt, already taking a step back towards the mirror.
“No,” she said, stopping him with a light touch of her fingers on the sliver of bare chest peeking out of his collar. “You can change here.”
He let his mouth curve into a small smile. “I can do that.”
With slow, deliberate movements, he releases one button, then another, watching as Elphaba’s eyes go lower, lower…
The cream-colored silk slid off his shoulders and puddled to the floor. He didn’t look away from her once. It’s all Fiyero could do not to run his hands over his chest in invitation. No, his audience wouldn’t like that. She needed a softer touch.
He rested his fingers on the waistband of his trousers. Waited, until she had lifted her eyes back to his.
“I don’t think this color goes with the shirt,” he said, almost-convincingly nonchalant. “I’ll try the other pair.”
A button. Then the zip.
Fiyero stood in nothing but his black boxers, which did very little to hide anything.
He feels the full weight of her gaze as she takes in all of him. He has never felt more powerful in front of a woman who could possibly crush him with a single word to the right people.
He takes one step closer.
“Go ahead,” he said. “You can touch.”
She smiles at that. At the cheek of it.
Fiyero shrugs, becoming bold. “It’s part of the package.”