Backstage simulated organised catastrophe – Hair lacquer meandered across overheated air like invisible graffiti. Aftershave collided with fresh espresso. Curling irons hissed. Mist drifted from pressing stations in spectral ribbons since dissolving under relentless spotlights. Hangers clattered. Stylists barked instructions with the urgency of battlefield generals. Somewhere, somebody swore because a sleeve had collected foundation. Elsewhere, some poor sod discovered spray tan upon ivory silk and briefly reconsidered their very existence.
Kai studied his fleshly reflection in an enormous mirror bordered by theatrical bulbs. A midnight blazer hugged the contours of his torso with mathematical precision.
He pouted. “Mate...”
Elliot scanned a peek amid tightening bootlaces. “What?”
Kai pinched the lapel between thumb and forefinger as though handling contaminated evidence. “This fucking thing costs more than my first motor.”
“So?”
“So?” Kai scoffed. “Ten grand for stitched fabric. Humanity’s genuinely lost its marbles,” he sighed, “fashion’s the biggest scam ever invented, eh.”
Elliot snorted. “You’ve completely missed the joke, mate.”
“What joke?”
“The label.”
Kai blinked. “What about it?”
“It matters about as much as scented bin bags.”
“Absolute piss-take.”
“What d’you mean?”
“The jacket’s got sod all to do with it.” He straightened his hood. “If you are in shape, Primark starts looking like Savile Row.”
A makeup artist wandered past carrying brushes like medieval weaponry.
Kai folded both arms. “Explain yourself, Professor Catwalk.”
Elliot stood, dusted undetectable lint from immaculate shoulders, then inclined his chin at a bloke in the area. “See him?”
“The lad wearing the plain white cotton tee?”
“Yup.”
“He looks expensive.”
“He spent twenty quid.”
Kai grimaced. “...Bugger off.”
“Nope.”
“But...”
“Meanwhile, Mr Designer Waistcoat over there,” Elliot whispered, subtly indicating to a model buried under logos, “resembles somebody whose accountant accidentally dressed him.”
Kai watched photographers gravitate instinctively to the fellow wearing nothing remarkable whatsoever.
“...Bollocks.”
“They’re chasing confidence.”
“Seriously,” Kai said, “some fella spends ten grand trying to pose rich…” Eliott shook his head. “…while another spends six months eating chicken, broccoli, and saying no to doughnuts,” Kai interrupted, “…then walks in wearing a plain white T-shirt and everyone reckons he’s inherited a fucking castle.” Elliot shrugged. “That’s because the real indulgence isn’t stitched into the fabric, wanker. It’s carved into the bloody frame underneath.” Kai’s eyes lit up. “So getting fit…” He ceased articulating and wore his perfume. “…is the fit,” Elliot finished whilst he zipped his trousers.
Silence lingered. Steam veiled the haze, bluntly blurring individual luxury emblems before vanishing entirely. Funny thing, mirrors. They erased branding. Purely posture remained.
Kai watched his own stance unconsciously straighten. “Holy hell.”
Elliot beamed. “Exactly.”
“So everybody keeps chucking fortunes at wardrobes...”
Elliot breathed. “...instead of sorting whatever’s neath.”
Kai giggled. “That’s terribly tragic.”
“Nah,” mouthed Elliot playfully.
“No?” exclaimed Kai.
“Just abso-bloody-lutely efficient marketing.”
Nearby, an assistant wheeled another rail overflowing with parka shimmering within the wash of white luminousness like armour belonging to fabulously wealthy peacocks.
Kai reached for one sleeve. “Incredible craftsmanship for all that.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Elliot gently stopped him. “But tailoring rescues textile.”
Kai tilted his head. “Discipline rescues people.”
Those words settled somewhere unexpectedly deep.
Outside, bass thundered through runway speakers, each vibration rolling underfoot like distant artillery.
Kai exhaled slowly. “You ever notice something weird?”
“Eternally.”
“Nobody buys coats because they are cold.”
“No?”
“They’re hoping aura comes free inside the pockets.”
Elliot burst into laughter loud enough for three stylists to glare simultaneously. “Bottle doesn’t blooming turn up wrapped in tissue paper.”
Kai smirked. “Where’s it hiding then?”
Elliot pushed one sleeve to his elbow. “There.”
Kai raised one of his eyebrows. “My forearm?”
“Nah, knucklehead. The gym.”
“Ludicrous, innit?”
“What?”
“Lads keep shopping for swagger,” Kai simpered, “and confidence is usually in the gym pretending to hate squats.”
A pause ensued. Longer this time. Not awkward. Comfortable. Around them, frantic hands adjusted ruffs, polished shoes, tugged cuffs, fixed collars, retied knots, reapplied powder, reshaped tresses. Countless frantic gestures chased perfection measured only by passing an ovation. Yet beneath every pricey garment stood thousands of forgotten repetitions. Early alarms. Skipped desserts. Heavy barbells. Sore muscles. Unrecognised decisions. Zero clapped for those. Everybody admired the results.
A stage manager stormed into the space. “Ninety seconds!”
Models immediately formed orderly chaos.
Kai straightened his jacket. “You reckon audiences actually believe they are staring at togs?”
Elliot chuckled. “Course.”
“They are rather wrong.”
“Massively.”
Kai smiled. “They’re watching persistence pretending to be fashion.”
Elliot opened the runway curtain. They exchanged a grin.
“Right then.”
“Let’s go convince all and sundry these clothes are the stars.”
“They are not, you twat.”
“No?”
“We are, you daft bastard.”
Blinding light flooded the dressing room like sunrise filtering via the basilica glass.
“Ready?”
Kai cracked his neck. “Always.”
Together they strode towards roaring applause. Half the crowd imagined couture had stolen all the attention. Neither garment would survive another season. Discipline would.
Neither bothered correcting them.
