Clothes do not make a man, a man makes the clothes — masses say this often enough.
Perhaps, yes, such a thing may be true; should the clothes be made by the hands of a common tailor.
However, at the hands of one Lorcan Velyanov, a designer so highly regarded the clothes he made nothing less than a symbol of status. If you could afford his creation, you were lacking in nothing.
A man so famous, whenever and wherever he appeared, he would likely be swarmed if not for the guards who so often protected his being. When it all began, where it all began, there were no particular records.
For all there was to know, it happened with the suddenness of a flood. One moment, the country's aristocracy was at peace, and the next, a man clad in fine garb was everywhere.
Inescapable.
Lorcan heaved a sigh, head and neck heavy as lead, sitting up against the headboard. He had thought that perhaps this time his whereabouts would remain unknown.
At the very least until the formal affair of this shop's inauguration.
Alas, there was only so long a man's plan could remain unhitched.
The man rubbed his face, exhaustion etched thin despite the plentiful slumber the night before. He could already hear the distant clamour of the crowd gathered outside the bounds of his new home.
Was this not the sole reason he had left the previous place behind — the crowd, the people, the noise?
"Why can I not have a moment of peace?" Facing the ceiling of his room, the Alpha beseeched, grateful of having drawn the curtains before sleeping yesternight.
Slowly, laboriously, Lorcan crawled out of the bed, blackened fingertips digging into the soft fabrics of his bedding.
Once he clawed himself free from the comfort of his sleep, the Alpha ran a hand through his slightly long tousled hair and dragged his feet to make himself at least presentable.
He was but a lone inhabitant of this home, a touch too large, and silent too long. Once he deemed himself decent, dressed in a simple white shirt with black pants and braces, the designer reluctantly lumbered towards the tightly drawn curtains and took a peep.
Sure enough.
Another sigh found its path past his lips as he took a step back, eyes shut tight.
Yet another crowd had gathered outside the gate of his bungalow, modest and fairly new; a discreet purchase made a few months before.
"How do these people find my trail?" Frustration bleeding thick in his hoarse voice. "I could have sworn I left little to no trace."
Stumbling away from the window, the Alpha continued to grumble whilst descending a flight of stairs to find the kitchen.
"Why even am I hounded? For the clothes I make? I am but a simple designer."
A designer who initially wore his own clothes to advertise them, having little choice of models left. But the explosive popularity of the magazine with his appearance caused them to persuade him to continue the path.
How entirely unusual for an Alpha to sit and pose for the pictures. His appearance garnered attention first, then his clothes, and then Lorcan's life in its entirety.
His feet stomped through the marble floor, shielded from the cold by leather shoes, towards the kitchen. He needed some tea.
Lest the headache make him crass.
The designer stood tall, waves of his raven locks slipping forth as he pressed his fingers upon the high bridge of his nose.
Once the kettle was settled upon the stove and the water beginning to heat, he stepped back and nursed the distant thrum of an impending headache.
Ever so slightly, the ache behind his temple receded, allowing the man to open his eyes and examine the blackness staining his finger tips.
It was dark yet fading all the same. Deep yet shallow, akin to an eroded wood left in embers far too long.
Along the back of his hands, ran a web of blackened veins, like they were dead but the blood still coursed through. The web of black veins crawled up his fore and upper arms, then wrapped tight around his throat.
Lorcan wasn't quite fond of this feature of his. The sight made him heave yet another burdened sigh.
His arms slackened by his sides, just in time for the kettle to whistle.
At least tea was a familiar and welcomed comfort.
The consoling thought had yet to fade, when a sharp onslaught of pain spread through his forehead, then his entire cranium, and crawled down to the back of his neck. The pain caused an unflattering yelp to escape the designer's lips as he swayed, grasping the edge of the countertop for stability as he held head, eyes squeezed shut. He drew in a sharp bracing breath, hissing quietly.
It was a hard bargain to try and breathe, to brave through the pain stabbing mercilessly at the back of his eyes. Another day, same agony.
"I despise this." The Alpha hissed to himself, his voice choked and shaking once the torment faded away. A lifelong affliction he would never be rid of.
Once the pain was gone entirely, the man slumped on the floor, knees meeting the marble with a dull thud. Hand pressed to his chest, Lorcan Velyanov hacked, the coughs dry and painful to his own ears.
After a few moments too long had come to pass, he dropped his shaking hands and sucked in a deep breath through his mouth.
His body still trembled whilst settling into the chair by the pointlessly big dining table. Bringing the fine china cup to his lips, the man took a sip, drawing in a deep breath all the while a much needed warmth rushed in his body, giving him a moment of reprieve.
However, he could rarely afford to rest or linger, not when his shop had yet to complete its organization. Not when the day of its inauguration drew nearer every moment. So, he began to prepare himself for the short journey to the shop.
Really, it was little more than a demented game of hide and seek, with the Alpha as the hider and the people as the seekers.
How long could he continue to hide?
…
Meanwhile, in the Ashmore March.
"Did you hear?" A maid whispered to another standing beside her, unwittingly right outside Nathaniel's room.
"About?"
"Words have it that he may really be in the march." The beta whispered softly, anticipation stark in her low voice. "If it really is true, I wonder if I can see him myself."
"Do not delude yourself, dear." Her fellow maid rolled her eyes, huffing, though with a faint blush visible on her cheeks. "How could the likes of him meet you?"
"Don't be so sour," the beta scoffed while holding a basket of clothes to wash, steps quickening. "Who knows, maybe something like all those stories will happen? He will see me and be taken, and then court me grandly!"
The maid giggled with a dreamy expression on her face. Falling in steps with her, the other maid allowed disgruntlement to show on her face.
"Grand delusions! If there is anyone he will notice, then it will be Young Master Ashmore."
"..."
Behind the closed doors of his room, Nathaniel listened to the two voices fade, fingers running through his long, lavender locks as he brushed them with an elaborately carved comb.
"Did you hear them?" Standing behind him, Veronica Montegmory, Omega daughter of Baron Montegmory and his best friend, asked with a teasing smile hidden behind her fan. "He might be in the march, Nathaniel. Are you not excited?"
Nathaniel looked down at the comb, then his amethyst eyes flicked towards the mirror, staring at their reflection in silence. Then, with a small smile, he made a quiet noise at the back of his throat.
"Are you still speaking of him?" Slowly, he placed the comb in the drawer and stood. "What is so remarkable in him? I fail to understand what interests you so greatly in a designer."
Saying so, the Omega shook his head, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked.
"What is there to not be interested in?" Veronica scoffed at his apparent indifference. "For one, he's an Alpha. He's famous. He is a seamster. A designer. And the clothes he makes are really beautiful. And…" The woman twirled on her feet, fan fluttering as she spun to face her best friend. "Most importantly, he has influence."
Influence.
Nathaniel paused, eyes dropping to the fan laying on his bed. Influence, the very thing they chased after.
"Influence, huh?" He murmured, picking the fan and snapping it open. "How influential, you reckon?"
Veronica Montegmory shrugged, the only time she did was with him. In the privacy of her best friend's room.
"I heard just last month some Duke in the Eidel Kingdom extended him an invitation to make his daughter's debutante dress. Words have it he proposed an exorbitant remuneration too."
Nathaniel raised a singular eyebrow in interest, snapping the fan open to press against his lips, the Omega spun around.
"And?"
Veronica gave him a wide smile. "The audacious Alpha rejected."
Immediately, both of the Omega's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?" That designer rejected a Duke's invitation?
"Yes."
"Were there any adverse consequences?"
Veronica shook her head, lower lip jutting out slightly. The very picture of innocence.
Egregious.
"How could I know, dear. I'm just an Omega."