FSE

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Elliot arrived seven minutes early. The directions were clear enough: take the stairs, not the elevator (the elevator might “squeal like it's in pain," according to the memo), proceed to the third floor, and report to “Feather & Frame Studio" for a professional shoot. A photo, HR had said. Nothing involved. Just a simple recruitment flyer for the mesh training initiative.

He was offered a stipend. That made it efficient. The studio door was ajar. He stepped in. Plants everywhere. Ceiling beams full of them, hanging vines curling like they were reaching for the camera gear scattered across the room. Folded fabrics in every color lined the walls. The floor had been stripped to bare wood — someone had scribbled “POSE ZONE" in chalk inside a taped-off square.

Elliot stood near the center, hands at his sides. Waiting. And then—

The door flung open behind him, hinges protesting.

“Oh," came a voice, sudden and saturated. “They sent me real."

A peacock Beastborn glided into view — tall, opulent, and unreasonably radiant. His plumes caught the morning light like polished glass. Feathers shimmered from shoulders to tail, dyed in patterns too intricate to be natural, bracelets stacked so high they clinked when he blinked too hard. He stopped two strides in. Gasped.

“You're not stock footage."

Elliot turned slightly. “I'm Elliot Grayson. I was told to arrive at ten."

“You're early," the peacock whispered. “And pressed. My stars, you ironed."

“I try not to appear unkempt."

The peacock placed one clawed hand to his chest as though steadying something deep and endangered.

“They said this was a tech piece," he murmured. “Something municipal. I thought I'd be shooting a datasheet in khakis. But you—" He swept forward, circling. “You have lines. Posture. Realness. That face. It's so human I could cry."

“I am human," Elliot said.

“That's not what I meant and you know it."

Elliot didn't.

The peacock stopped in front of him. Extended a hand like it was a blessing. “Ravian. Freelance stylist. Artistic direction, visual communication, and—occasionally—community outreach pieces when the check clears. Today's theme: inclusive workforce appeal. Or it was, until you walked in and ruined the shoot with your goddamn bone structure."

“I was told this would take fifteen minutes."

Ravian scoffed. “If I can capture this in fifteen minutes, I should retire. You're everything these boys pretend to be in concept mockups. Look at you — that skin? That hair? That utterly devastating absence of affect?"

“I'm just neutral," Elliot said.

“No. You're honest. That's what makes it work." He snapped his claws. Lights flicked on across the back wall. Panels shifted automatically — soft glow bouncing off Elliot's coat like someone had planned it. “Take that off."

“The coat?"

“Yes. We're going to ease the audience in."

Elliot hesitated. “This is just a flyer."

“A flyer," Ravian echoed, turning dramatically. “To attract young professionals. Do you want them to think the field is stiff and bloodless? Or do you want them to believe they might sit next to you someday?"

“I don't understand."

“You wouldn't," Ravian said. “That's what's beautiful."

He waved his hand, already halfway across the room to grab something off a rack Elliot hadn't noticed before — a set of vests and button-downs in shades of slate, cream, and indigo. Not flashy. Not ridiculous. Just... tailored.

“Let me see you in structure," Ravian said, voice low now. “Let me dress the calm. You're not a model, Elliot. You're a thesis. And I intend to prove it."

Ravian returned with an armful of options, each one held like a precious artifact recovered from a more dignified time. Linen, soft weave, restrained lines. Colors that didn't shout, but hummed with intent. He dropped the pile on a padded bench beside Elliot, fluffed his tail dramatically, and clapped his hands.

“You'll want to take the shirt off too," Ravian said, softer now. Not dismissive — reverent. Like he didn't want to disrupt what was already working. “Let's see what we're working with."

Elliot set his satchel aside, took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt with efficient fingers, and folded it cleanly into quarters. Ravian watched, silent. No commentary. His gaze traced every exposed inch of skin like it was something rare — not beautiful in the typical sense, but quietly right. Like an engineered surface no one had thought to appreciate before now.

Once Elliot was bare from the waist up, Ravian stepped forward with the slate-blue linen shirt. He didn't hand it over.

“Arms," he commanded, holding the shirt open.

Elliot stepped forward and let the fabric slide over his skin. Ravian guided it with clinical flair — smoothing the shoulders like he was pressing the shirt into obedience.

“You're lucky linen listens," he muttered, tugging the sleeve. “Most fabrics try to correct their wearer. This one knows better."

Elliot adjusted the hem slightly. “I assume you'll want this tucked."

“Oh, you sweet, functional creature." Ravian crouched immediately, already working the shirt into place. “Yes. Of course. What am I selling — cloud access or casual chastity?"

Elliot blinked down at him. “I fail to see the relevance with the two?"

“It's closer than you'd know, Darling." Ravian said, flattening the tuck with both hands, sweeping across Elliot's hips in two perfect arcs. “Technical recruitment for the eyes. We want analysts. Developers. Engineers. But do we want them cold? Do we want them afraid of warmth?"

“I wouldn't consider myself warm."

“No, but that's what makes you credible," Ravian said, standing again. “Now turn."

Elliot rotated obediently.

Ravian made a low sound, somewhere between appreciation and editorial suffering. “Stars. You stand like a privacy policy — firm, plain, and impossible to argue with."

“I try to appear non-threatening."

“Oh, you succeed," Ravian said, circling again. “You're a silent declaration of emotional safety. That's why this is going to work."

He snapped his fingers. The lights shifted, catching the edge of Elliot's jaw as he tilted his head.

“Good. Now: gaze off-camera. Not too intense. Just a whisper of internal monologue."

“I'm not currently having one."

“Fake it. Pretend you're quietly wondering whether your desk plant is getting enough sun."

Elliot turned his head slightly, expression neutral. “I don't have a desk plant."

“You do now," Ravian said. “And it's thriving because you're stable and gentle."

Click.

“Perfect." Ravian circled again, hands framing imaginary shapes in the air. “Okay. Now hands behind your back — not military, not repressed, just... like you're hiding a secret you think is boring but everyone else would write poetry about."

Elliot complied. “This seems unlikely to be used on a flyer."

“Oh, it'll be used," Ravian said, already adjusting the lighting. “Maybe not by the city. But someone's going to pin this to a break room wall and daydream about asking you what kind of cloud storage you recommend."

“That would depend on their needs."

Ravian made a noise like he'd just been wounded. “Stop. You're going to make me believe in sincerity again."

Click.

“Now lean — not slouch, lean. Just enough to suggest you've been working since sunrise, but somehow still smell like clean laundry and moral clarity."

Elliot adjusted slightly. “Wouldn't that give a misleading impression of the hours involved?"

Ravian sighed deeply from his throat. “You're going to ruin me."

He adjusted the line of Elliot's collar again, even though it didn't need fixing. His fingers smoothed over the fabric like he was trying to memorize it. He opened his mouth to say something else — probably too much — when his headset lit up and chirped once.

He answered with a flick of his claw. “Yes?" His eyes remained on Elliot. A pause. Then his brows drew together. “No, I haven't submitted yet. We're still in progress." Another pause. Ravian's jaw flexed. “I said he's here. We started early. Yes, I'm aware of the block. No, I'm not finished—" He turned away, pacing a few short steps toward the light stand. “I'm not stalling. I'm capturing. There's a difference."

A beat. His hand curled into a fist, still at his side.

“Because this isn't just a poster. This is presence. This is something real. You want something dry and forgettable? Get stock art." His voice was flatter now, clipped. “No. No, don't send someone. I said I heard you."

Silence.

Then, quiet — too quiet — “Fine."

He ended the call with a single swipe and stood there, back to Elliot, hands flexing once, twice, before going still. Then he moved — brisk, deliberate — to the bench, where Elliot's shirt lay folded with clean lines. Ravian reached into a pouch at his hip, drew a card, and tucked it into the center of the fold. Like it belonged there. He turned and held the shirt out.

“Unfortunately," he said, voice back to smooth, “we must part sooner than I intended." Elliot took it, calm as ever. “If you find yourself with time," Ravian continued, slipping his hands behind his back, “call me. I'd like to work with you again — when I'm not being throttled by a timeline."

Elliot nodded once. “Understood."

He dressed efficiently, no wasted movement. Shirt change, coat on. Satchel adjusted. The card disappeared into his pocket. He left without comment. The door shut, quiet as the rest of him. Ravian stood in the center of the studio for a moment, tail low, the last shot still blinking across the display behind him. Then he turned, walked to the fainting couch, and collapsed backward like a man struck through the chest.

“One flawless muse," he muttered to the ceiling. “And I'm booked solid with promotional mediocrity for the next six weeks." He draped an arm over his face. “And they wonder why I drink."