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skittimagines · 2 years

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From @ao3commentoftheday ‘s SHORT FIC CHALLENGE, no. 7: “The meeting part of a meet cute AU.” I went ahead and did the meet cute scene for a Sylnatz fic I’ve had living in my brain for a while, called Sylvain Jose Gautier is an E-Boy. Not sure if it’s something I’ll ever expand on, but I had fun working on this bit in isolation!

It was gonna be a disaster; Ignatz could tell. He’d take one step past those broad, white doors and into the maw of too-fancy apartments, and instantly, everyone would know that he was a sham. Every second more that he spent sitting out here–eyes of the doorman surely on his back, because everyone could tell that Ignatz was a sham–was another pinch of embarrassment onto his shoulders, hunching him lower and lower. It was a miracle that he didn’t get up right now and flee the scene.

Instead of running off, though, Ignatz ran in place. He pulled his phone from his pocket, wiped down the screen, refreshed Instagram, checked the opaquely written e-mail to make sure that he was in the right place, right time, right procedure. Then, he put his phone back away for a few seconds before starting all over again. Each time, the message on the screen seemed to become more and more confusing. Sylvain might as well have sent him a treasure map, nothing but a dotted line and an X. What would Ignatz find under the sands? A pile of money, enough to have his own pristine, white apartment? A career? Or maybe just a glimpse at the life of someone that he surely had no business thinking about anymore.

Agony. It was utter agony sitting here for so long. The rattan bench dug into his legs where he perched as if about to teeter off. Ignatz had already buzzed once, but maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe he needed to e-mail Sylvain and let him know, or maybe he just needed to get up and hit the buzzer again, or maybe he could just walk out, leave a message with the doorman. At this point, Sylvain was about fifteen minutes late receiving him, anyway.

Ignatz was halfway to standing, still undecided on what he was going to do, when the doors finally opened. Heart leaping, Ignatz straightened and preened–damnit, Slyvain wouldn’t want to see him all worked up like this–and deflated when he was met with someone else. A black-haired stranger that looked at him like he was gum on the bottom of a shoe. Though Ignatz tried to make it look like he was just coincidentally standing and cleaning his glasses this very second, the damage was already done. Dirty look received. He wondered off-handedly if he’d be able to slip past the hallway door while it was still hanging open.

Then, just as Ignatz was retreating into himself, the stranger stopped and addressed him: “You’re the artist. He wants you in, now.”

Ignatz swallowed and reeled from questions cropping up in his head. Who? Why? How’d he know Ignatz was an artist?–he scratched that one when he looked down at himself and his rainbow-patterned shoelaces. With a dry mouth, Ignatz reckoned with the man: “Are you Mr. Gautier’s…” Friend? Groupie? Boss? “...assistant?”

“Something like that,” the fellow snickered as he buttoned his black-striped sleeves. He contrasted with the location, not the least for his dark palette; he looked disheveled, as if he’d been busy at something intense. Hair splayed from his ponytail, crinkles in his shirt, red across his face… In his head, Ignatz ran over the title of groupie again.

As if that thought would make him any less confused. Now, Ignatz was wondering whether Sylvain had truly left his bicuriosity behind in high school, and beyond that, he was wondering why on earth this meeting would be scheduled right after a liaison of that sort. Did people with groupies plan their affairs around their business schedules? Did someone like Sylvain even have groupies?

“Stop staring,” snipped the groupie-or-not-groupie. “Didn’t I say he wants to see you?” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to the now-shut hallway doors. When Ignatz stepped awkwardly towards them, still watching the man with wide eyes, it became apparent that he was not going to be let in. Somewhat shamefully, Ignatz shuffled to the buzzer and thumbed it once more, while the stranger stalked outside.

This time, there was a crackling voice that answered the buzz: “Felix, you didn’t lock yourself out, did you?” It was fuzzy, but the smooth, almost surfer-like affect was familiar. It made Ignatz tense up.

“Erm,” said Ignatz, unsure if he was meant to be pressing the buzzer to speak or not. “Is this… Sylvain?”

The speaker responded with scrambled sounds, before Sylvain spoke up breathlessly, “yes, yes! It’s me! Sorry about that–come on up.”

The doors clicked and gave way to another lobby, this one infinitely more swanky than the one Ignatz had been sitting in. He scuttled past crisp couches and untouched fireplaces to, as Sylvain suggested, come on up, counting doors all along the way, lest he miss the right one. Sylvain’s apartment was at the end of a third-floor hall, its door identical in its stoic eggshellness to all the others, but with the unique capacity of being able to completely repel Ignatz’s hand when he tried to knock. He damned himself for hesitating after he’d come so far.

There was no need to knock, however, because Sylvain opened the door with nary a touch. He must have been listening, or sniffing the air for fear. He filled the threshold bodily, despite not having a football-oriented physique anymore. Across his cheeks was a broad grin.

Ignatz struggled against his frozenness to offer a hand for shaking, but Sylvain didn’t seem to notice. He took Ignatz by both shoulders and embraced him with a chest-deep sigh of, “it’s been too long, buddy.” Ignatz was afraid he might be crushed, or smothered by sweet-smelling body spray–chocolate AXE, he recognized in a few sniffs. Sylvain must have still believed it to drive the ladies mad.

After a few too many pats, Ignatz squeaked a plea, “good to see you, but… need to breathe.”

Slyvain apologized and gave some room, though he still didn’t release his grasp. That smile still lived on his face, warm and genuine. He didn’t seem the slightest bit offended by the zillion faux pases that Ignatz was sure he’d committed since showing up.

“Well, come on in! I can fix you a drink, or something. Kick your shoes off, all that.” Sylvain said as he dragged tangle-footed Ignatz inside.

“A drink,” Ignatz repeated under his breath, looking to the windows. It was barely one in the afternoon. “Um, I think I’m alright, thanks. We should talk about–”

“Work, I know.” Sylvain puffed and finally let go of Ignatz. He propped his hip on a granite kitchen island, looking very little like someone who was hosting for a work partner. A pair of loosely tied joggers sat low around his hips, showing a flash of red boxers under a simple tee with a hem just a little too short. For such a casual set of clothes, though, a closer look made it clear how expensive each article was, and its precise tailoring to lead the eye in just the way it was leading Ignatz’s right now.

Sylvain clapped his hands, snapping Ignatz out of his wandering and ogling. “How’s this start, then, mister artiste? Take some sketches? Jump right in?” He posed and stuck out his chin, turning every which way, seeming intent on giving Ignatz an eyeful. “Can you tell which one’s my good side?”

Every side looked pretty good, as far as Ignatz was concerned. Practically perfect. Smooth, sun-kissed skin, not a hair out of place… Even beyond Sylvain himself, there was an air of flawlessness to the apartment. Natural light filled the space, greenery in the corners, neon signs on the walls, every view a photo op. It made Ignatz feel quaint in all of his mis-matched colors.

Ignatz’s continued nervous silence made Sylvain’s joliness dampen slightly. “Hey, don’t spook. I’m kidding, man! I got a studio spot downtown for getting down and dirty, so for now, it’s just logistics and… well, and some catch-up, right?”

“Oh,” said Ignatz. “Yeah, of course.” It was more than a small relief that Sylvain seemed to have this all figured out. Ignatz had worried for a second that he’d be found out as being totally inexperienced in portraiture. Now, he had at least a little bit more time to hide that fact.

They talked schedule for a long, long time–Sylvain, it seemed, was a busy man, with a life very differently paced from Ignatz’s retail-study-sleep cycle. Eventually, they settled on a semiweekly situation, hardly more than seven hours of painting each week. It made Ignatz reel to think about how long it would take, considering how much time went into his landscapes. All the while, Sylvain’s phone peeped and buzzed constantly from its place under that slice of midriff. It seemed like he’d learned how to tune it out, but Ignatz flinched and checked his own phone enough times to make Sylvain apologetic.

“Sorry,” Sylvain said with a grimace. “I get all kinds of crazy DMs after I post the real slutty stuff, y’know? Here, look at this one.” He turned his phone towards Ignatz, who had to crane to account for glare, to the point that he was a few centimeters away from a long, storied message about how much some stranger wanted to grope–and do much, much more to–Sylvain.

Cupping a hand over his mouth, Ignatz recoiled. “You get these a lot?”

“Not usually this graphic.” Sylvain chuckled, but there was a crease in his brow as he put his phone away. “I don’t know what they think I’m gonna do. Fall at their feet? If it was that easy, I would’ve gotten a lot more ass in high school. But, hey, it’s those kinds of people that keep my lights on.”

A staggering blush was still burning Ignatz’s cheeks. He wondered, the next time that his eyes wandered across his old acquaintance’s navel, whether he was really any different from those kinds of people. Did a few fleeting interactions in their teenage years really make Ignatz any different from the legions of fangirls banging down Slyvain’s door?

Sylvain clapped his hands and said, “there. Phone’s silent. Now it’s just you and me.” He met Ignatz’s gaze with a soft smile, the kind that was made to melt hearts. Curse it as much as Ignatz did, it worked.

“Don’t worry about me,” Ignatz defended. “I think I’ve got everything I need, anyway.” He skimmed over his notes: a schedule, a location, a ballpark payment that would have been beyond his wildest dreams if he didn’t spend so much time around Lorenz. “The last thing I’d want to do is overstay–”

“Hey now, don’t be like that.” Sylvain put a hand on Ignatz’s shoulder and herded him back into the barstool before the kitchen island. There was a lot more grabbing today than Ignatz had been prepared for. Sylvain’s hand squeezed, giving Ignatz a shiver, as he said, “I think I know what you’re really looking for.”

Ignatz swallowed and tried weakly to make some space where he wasn’t getting mouthfuls of chocolate AXE. He knew he’d be seen through, but so suddenly! “I-I’m sorry, I don’t–”

“You want a foot in the door, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’m used to it.” Sylvain plucked Ignatz’s pencil and jotted a date on the top of his notes, followed by an address. “There’s a party at the end of the year, it’ll have all the right people. And I can do all the schmoozing you want, ‘kay?”

Ignatz was definitely working on that day, but he said, “thanks, Sylvain. I’ll–I’ll be there.”

Another squeeze. “And hey, I was thinking… maybe while we’re at it, you could draw some stuff for the paid audience, eh?”

That would mean nudity. There was no way Ignatz was doing that. And yet… “of course.”

#sylnatz #sylvain jose gautier #ignatz victor #prompt response #skitty writes #fanfiction #fe3h #fe3h fanfic #i really like writing for niche cult ships lmao #i wonder how much of this can even be enjoyed without the context surrounding the premise #guess well see!!

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