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Introduction to Fashion Design had been the only class Casca Naborn had really ever wanted to take. "Wow," said his Aunt Mia, "one word: whattafag," and only made gulping motions when he tried to point out that that was more likely three words and anyway saying all fashion designers were gay was like saying all ballerinas were gay, and that ended in a shouting match that he refused to participate in but was there for anyway. He never let himself be drawn in. He just never let himself be drawn in with loud words.

He'd done intro to textiles, and was glad that before he'd ever had to swallow his masculine pride and ask his mother had taught him how to sew -- now that was something he despaired over: a needle and thread, never, not with his claws. Not a chance. But he knew how to use a sewing machine, and he could draw if it was one hell of a pen and he tried hard, and spent even more time trying hard while practicing on how to look as though he wasn't trying very hard at all. That took up most of the trying.

Fashion design. On weekends he ate Bambi's mom, still warm and kicking.

He held the slip of paper in his clawed fingers as he went back to the assigned desk, his skinny jeans extra skinny that day (and fraying -- he'd frayed them on purpose when he bought them, and had to beat the hell out of them to give them the stonewashed look. Unhip to wear new jeans) and his armwarmers proclaiming him hopelessly hip, though Aunt Mia also always greeted him with DID YOU GET IT FROM HOT TOPIC? like she was funny or something.

Delilah ba Lindo. Team projects. God.

"Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome," Casca drawled, because drawling was what he did best. He was still scanning over the project form clipped to their names with every sign of slightly frantic despair. "Delilah. Enchante."

"Oh," he said, a little deflated and not wanting to show it. Delilah and his meeting had been a lifetime ago -- long enough for amnesia. He took her hand briefly, because it was Continental, and then sat down opposite her and recovered to shift his wings about his shoulders: "Yeah, that kind of. You know. Happens. Nobody will give me a medal for it yet, ma petite."

Cascati looked back up at the teacher and then back at the brief. "No groups of three?" he said rhetorically.

The gargoyle gestured towards her a bit helplessly. "Well," he said, slowly, "the only problem is, you're frou-frou and I'm scene. You're tea-length cocktail dresses, I'm ties with t-shirts. You're paisley, I'm denim. The fashion sense of a hipster and a frilly-skirted prep -- not that there's anything wrong with your frilly prep, you pull it off, mignonne -- might make this kind of. Impossible."

Casca passed her the brief. "Read it and weep," he said. "We have to design something based off a non-clothing object or place. We'll kill each other, darling, I'm just pointing this out."

"Yeah, but these colours aren't pastel colours," Casca persisted lowly, still apparently obsessed with how they were ebony and ivory and ne'er the twain would meet. "And -- all right, cherie, one thing straight: I'm not designing an outfit based on anything you could find on the t-shirt a college lesbian would wear, so no flowers, rivers, meadows or wolves. Capische? I don't want to be a d**k, seriously." (Except that he kind of was.) "It's just. That's a no-go for me."

He drummed his claws on the table. "Uh, traffic light," he suggested, a bit hopelessly. "Rollercoaster. Starbucks logo. Any of these striking a chord in you, darlin'."

"I like it. I have an iPod," he said, more than a little mystified, "unless you're talking about 'what do you think of music for the design,' in which case I say: ma petite, too broad." Delilah saying 'd**k' did look slightly weird. Like Barbie swearing. He rested his chin on the heel of his hand and looked at her, grey eyes narrowing in thought. "What about sheet music?"

"Sure you want to go flat white and black?" he said. They'd dipped pretty quickly into knowing exactly what the other one was saying, and where they were going -- Cascati was fairly surprised. He'd only been in the class a few weeks, and he'd never sat next to Delilah. As far as he'd been concerned, she was a teal-haired Malibu Barbie with not a lot to say for herself, and a pretty, vacant way of staring. "We could add in some sepia if we wanted to be less stark, darlin'. But that's got some good shape in it -- I like lines. Do you like pinstripes, yes or no."

Thank God. He'd gotten into a partnership with someone who sounded like they weren't completely stupid. Though -- she did look like Malibu Barbie, Casca was still suspicious.

"Metaphorical," he said, drawling it out into its component syllables: me-ta-phor-i-cal. The gargoyle was looking at her with much more interest than he had done before, swinging one arm around the back of his chair in order to study her better. He pushed a stray blue-white curl out of his face: made a mmf sound in the back of his throat. "Blue Danube. Okay. We can just print it out to be physical."

He yawned hugely behind his hand and then looked rueful, as though remembering something. "Uh -- just letting you know, I can't work on weekends. That going to be a problem?"

"I thought we were just being ironic and using it to get some blue included in the design," he said, "if you're going to be all literal over it, don't. Just do it. We have the perfect set up: the sheet music, that means we already have all this shape and three main colours to pick from, none of them are pastel, everyone goes home happy. No? You have a good idea, don't get all technical on me."

They were already talking in hushed voices: some of the other pairs were still going around the room saying um and thinking out loud with a slightly hopeless air of what's my topic? Casca said, "And Danube blue is already a shade, so. KISS. Keep it simple, stupid -- just a saying, honey."