This is a Vintage AU. Basically, I adore the vintage aesthetic of old cars, clothes, music, all that jazz (hehehe), but I don't want to get involved with the history, political context, or even geography of where this story is taking place.

This story basically has a very Vintage aesthetic, without any of the context. It takes place in a made-up city, in a made-up world, and with made up countries. My point is, context doesn't matter in this story. You can imagine this set anywhere. Even in your hometown. The only thing I'm interested in is getting that aesthetic.

I like the green grass under my shoes
What can I lose, I'm flat, that's that
I'm alone when I lower my lamp
That's why the lady is a tramp

The Lady is a Tramp – Ella Fitzgerald

Down by the river where the boatmen ply, across the first bridge you see, is a little blue shop with a painted sign, where works the best tailor in the city.

Imagine, if you will, come snow or rain, the trees blowing this way and that, a little blue shop with a painted sign, and the tailor-man holding onto his hat.

He puts up a card by the door, it reads, Business As Usual instead of Open. That should give you a sense of his tastes, he says…the same thing, but with a little more flair. The shop is called Daisy Belle with a tag-line in yellow paint. Clothing Made to Order. And there is the tailor-man, as intense as frostbite, sitting in his backroom, threading his sewing machine.

He is Lovino Vargas, the best-dressed man in the city.

Oh, sure, celebrities with their silky suits and pomaded hair, they'll strut about pretending they're special. But they don't know. They don't realise. They are just caricatures. Parodies. Parodies of Lovino Vargas.

You won't see him with a single piece of fabric that doesn't belong. He'll wear his tie to match his shoes and wear his shoes to match his eyes and button his shirt to match his cufflinks and pick his cufflinks to match his trousers and then he'll wear a blazer that clings to his chest and don gloves that fit like…gloves, and when he smiles, people sigh a little, wishing he'd look their way.

But he has no time to look at anyone.

He is the best tailor in the city.

Even if nobody knows it yet.

Every day Lovino wakes up at six am, for no other reason than he likes the mornings. He spends two lovely, quiet hours on three cups of coffee. Maybe he'll read the news, but that's not important to him. Lovino's not interested in the world outside his orbit. Some would say that's a bad thing. Maybe it is. But he loves what he loves, and doesn't feel a thirst for more.

By the third coffee, he'll have started doodling on scraps of notepad paper lying around. Sometimes he'll draw on used envelopes or on the backs of bills and invoices. He draws clothes. He's not much of an artist, honestly, but he can draw drapery and dresses. He does it so he can think about work.

Lovino.

Loves.

Clothes.

He doesn't love them because he likes to look good. He loves them on a deep, philosophical level because clothes are tools and they can turn you into the person you want to be. Clothes are second skin, as the saying goes. Nothing makes him happier than stitching people a dream they can wear.

One of his regular clients is a young woman with large breasts who feels insecure about her body, and she brings him her favourite fabrics and crosses her fingers as he takes her measurements. She says, "Do you think I'll look pretty in it?"

And Lovino smiles his most comforting smile and says, "Dresses don't make you pretty, Yekaterina, you make the dress pretty."

She smiles a little shyly, and adds, "and your tailoring makes them pretty too."

Lovino laughs but doesn't deny it, because his tailoring is superb and he knows it.

Another customer wants to feel powerful. He is a man with rounded shoulders who never feels tall enough, or brave enough. He always asks for power-shoulders on his blazers, which Lovino is happy to add because he thinks power-shoulders look good on anybody.

"I always feel better when I wear one of your suits," he chirps.

"Clothes are the skin we choose," Lovino says, as he often does. "You choose to feel better."

There are permanent indents in Lovino's skin from holding scissors too long. He needs glasses when he works because threading needles strains the eyes. There are chalk stains under his nails and his fingertips are always dry. But he's proud of these little symbols. They're beauty marks.

And it's nice to think that the clothes he makes are out there somewhere, making the world a little bit prettier.

A few years ago, Antonio had felt a bit of pity for his newly unemployed and divorced best friend, so he'd casually asked, "Hey, chin up, buddy! I can't help with the marriage thing, but maybe I can give you a job? I mean, I really need an assistant."

Gilbert Beilschmidt had jumped at the chance, because that's the dream, working with your best friend. He'd said, "Really? That's so awesome! Thank you! I'm totally up for that!"

Some dreams are better as dreams, he supposes in hindsight.

He has all the necessary skills, because Gilbert is as pushy as he is organised, so he can get the Prince anything he wants, whenever he wants it, and maintains his schedule so that Antonio doesn't have to think twice about what's my plan tomorrow? Gilbert handles it all. He's a good friend. A good friend who gets paid 2000 bucks a day.

The money is one of two reasons he doesn't quit, the first being that Antonio is his best friend, and it's hard to refuse him. Even if Antonio is

the most

irritating

human being

On. Earth.

Antonio does not need an assistant. He needs a babysitter. Someone to drag him away from hotels and brothels and bars and movie theatres and operas and restaurants and any place he can catch some tail, and yell at him: You're a PRINCE. A real! Life! Prince! Act like a prince!

Gilbert had yelled these exact words once.

Antonio had laughed. "I am acting like a prince, Gil," he'd retorted, cheerful and unfazed, "Princes do whatever they want."

Gilbert did not care about Antonio's sex life, really. He wasn't some celibate nun or something himself. Antonio's parents cared, though. They cared a lot. They spent about an hour every day whining to Gilbert about their son who was such a goddamn slut, their son who gambled, their son who smoked a little bit of…illegal stuff on the side. "I mean, sure, he's our youngest, sixth in line to the throne, it's not like he'll be a king—"

"It's not like he wants to," Gilbert cut in once in a while, trying not to yawn because he was speaking to the Queen. Sure, he'd known the woman half his life and she saw him as one of her own, but still. Queens are queens.

"—Yes but he's still a member of the royal family, he ought to start acting like it!"

"I'll talk to him," Gilbert says like clockwork, even though he probably won't, because he's bored of talking to Antonio about the things teenagers are told in school (don't drink, don't have sex, don't do drugs, or you'll die). It's not like Antonio listens.

This friendship was a lot more fun when Gilbert wasn't a salaried employee.

Antonio'll go missing for days at a time, which is a nightmare for everybody in the royal family because he is still a prince, and maybe someone has taken him hostage or had him shot. It doesn't help that Antonio sacks any bodyguards assigned to him, before wandering off on his hedonistic adventures. Ohh no, he doesn't worry about himself one little bit. That's Gilbert's job. Inevitably the queen will start shrieking for her dear sweet boy to come back home, and Gilbert's the one driving around the city looking for Antonio.

He'll turn up eventually. Sheepish but satisfied. Until the next thrill.

"It's like there's something broken inside you that you're trying to replace with all this crap," Gilbert says once.

Antonio laughs again. "That's such a cliché."

"Yeah, the sad rich kid."

Antonio beams at him, and throws his hands up in the air as though to embrace the sun. "I'm not sad, Gilbert," he assures, practically radiating joy, "I'm just a free spirit."

Antonio is such a free spirit that one day, Gilbert receives a phone call, and he can hear loud whistling in the background, and the blaring horns of ships leaving port, and realises the call is coming from a dockyard.

"Gilbert," Antonio says in a nervous rush, his tone alerting Gilbert to something very wrong, "Gilbert, you're my best friend, I trust you with everything, so you can't tell anybody what I've done."

Gilbert's heart stops. "Oh fuck, have you murdered someone?"

"What? No. No, I've…" Antonio's voice trails away for a moment, and then picks up with newfound resolve. "I'm leaving in ten minutes. This is just my call to say that I'm safe, I'm fine, and not to worry."

"Wait, what?" Gilbert shrieks, jumping to his feet and wearing his coat while still trying to hold onto the receiver of his telephone. "Where are you going—"

There's a loud, blaring noise, and Antonio says, "That's my ship! Gotta go! Love you!" And he bangs the receiver down and disappears into the sea.

That was fun. I'll update...soon hahaha.