the horror of our love

It was interesting, listening to how David spoke; he wasn’t trying to schmooze like so many of the politicians that came through his dressing rooms tended to do. He wasn’t lying, as so many more of them were prone to. Mark could feel the honesty in his voice as he spoke, and he decided he liked that quite quickly. It was a rare thing to get an honest voice in general about the world these days, and in a politician? Even further rare. Especially a handsome one.

Chuckling softly at David’s confident, carefully worded statement, Mark shrugged a shoulder. “I’m inclined to think much the same — politicians aren’t often different from one another when it comes down to it — but he seems to make some rather… grand promises. The marriage bill, the healthcare reform support… It’s all quite impressive. As far as I’ve heard, that is. I’m afraid I’m too often distracted by his… lackadaisical appearance, to focus much on his promises that he’ll inevitably break should he actually make it into office.”

How vain, shallow, Mark sounded; he knew well that he was at best precisely what David had anticipated coming back into the dressing room, and at worse, even more vain than the other man had thought he would be. He could only assume that David had spent more time in these rooms than he appeared to, though, for if he was a politician seeking out discussion with a designer of all people, then he had to be about more than a bit. “Can I get you a drink, mister Price? Coffee, water, wine?”

David

The marriage bill was rapidly becoming the weakest point in David's entire damn campaign and it was quite honestly the bane of his existence. "Well, if you and your partner want to have the security of a civil union and all of the benefits of that then I'm your man," he said with a toothy grin. "And between you and me," David said in a conspiratorial voice, "I wouldn't trust a politician that wears Christmas socks in October." The sight of those tiny candy canes under his opponents slacks had almost caused David to break into horrified laughter during the National Anthem. Perhaps he was a bit bitter still.

It was a vain thing to pick up on, perhaps. But perhaps that was precisely what David wanted. Indeed, he wanted to lull this obnoxious dolt into a sense of camaraderie much like he had with dozens if not hundreds of others. It was David's bread and butter. "I suspect you should probably be chasing after them," David said as he tilted his head towards the door the models had cleared out of only a little while ago. "And I should probably go find my seat. But thanks for the hospitality."

David Price; Mark ran through the names that he knew in silence for only a brief moment, coming up with a politician - a republican no less. A republican stood before him, at a fashion show that was likely filled with just the type of people that he detested most, for as Mark had come to realize over the last several years of adulthood, republicans were the most conservative type of people - and a fashion show full of gay men with little interest in anything save their appearances and the clothes that they pinned on their ever thinner models was far from conservative.

Still, there David stood, with a hand shake firm enough to have Mark smiling just the slightest bit more guardedly. David was large enough that he could be dangerous, very easily, and in such a small area, it was a bit unnerving. His smile was, however, charming, and Mark somehow found that a bit more relaxing than the words that the other offered up - though the smooth tone of his voice certainly helped that calming effect along quite well.

"Thank you - interesting is the intent. Not many people design quite like I do. I’m surprised to see a man of your stature here," Mark admitted, gesturing toward a chair for David to take a seat if he so desired. The models around the room in their various states of ready, simply dressed, and not fully dressed were eyeing the politician with keen eyes, as though debating whether he was someone they could come over and flirt with for the sake of bettering their position at the moment or if he was more interested in Mark and the designs around them. It was a quick, half-glaring look from the designer that sent them scurrying off, model by model, to finish preparing properly for the show.

"David Price, the republican candidate for this upcoming race, correct?" he questioned, keeping his tone prim and neutral as he leaned against the fixing table he had been working at when David came in. "It’s been quite a close race thus far, as I’ve heard - the polls are rather tied on which way the vote will be swayed. Word among the models is, your opponent is drawing in the young crowd a bit better than anticipated. Liberalism seems to draw in those under twenty-five much better these days."

Mark paid little attention to the actual information of the races these days; it was more about what they wore, how they appeared, for him, but he knew the technicalities of the parties enough to know that republicans were more conservative, and thus the democratic party was likely more popular - especially when it came to the more recent marriage issues. “What brings you to the show, Mister Price? This hardly seems like your type of function - not that I’m complaining in the least, of course. A handsome man in a suit at my show? Not uncommon, but they don’t often seek me out either.”

David

David knew that he was like sugar to these people. Why he had no idea, but if Mark was looking to rile the straight boy then he clearly was a fool. He hadn't gotten to where he was by letting twinks distress him. Letting the pad of his thumb lightly brush against Mark's palm, he broke the handshake and sat comfortably. 

Models had never truly been his type - David preferred his woman catty and strong enough to fight, if only for a little while. "Well, you can't stay ahead of the polls if you don't stay near the pulse." He decided rapidly that Mark would be able to see through a lie. Perhaps he could charm him by being frank. It had certainly happened to him before.

Mark

The fashion world was hardly prepared for the line that Mark Aston had come out with this season. It was all the rage, in his opinion; there were several figures to design for, and the ones for the tiny, stick-thin girls that ran rampant throughout the shows were growing quite boring for him. Which was why his line - not deemed a plus size line, thank you very much, for a plus size line indicated that he wasn’t gearing it toward the general public - was so very different from the average.

And the models that this particular line brought in were, thankfully, more pleasant in temperament than the girls that so often came through his office, seeking a show despite being utter nightmares when it came time to dress them and get them properly made up for the show. Still, it didn’t make the pressure any less now that it was time for the show to begin and the crowd was still filling in. It would be a later start than he wanted, honestly, but at least the crowd was large enough to warrant that.

As he adjusted the bust on a girl’s dress - “You gained almost an inch and a half in the last month, how are you still growing? You’re nineteen!” - he felt the atmosphere in the room shift. The girls gathered around him were turning toward the door, mixed responses coming from them as they saw the looming figure there. Some were pleasant, others looked wary, but in general, it was a rather good response. Mark, however, didn’t see who had come in, and therefore didn’t look up from his stitching.

"If you’re delivering flowers for a lady, please feel free to come on in. The show is going to start soon, though, so you may want to get to your seat before they start walking out," he offered out around the pins clutched between his lips. "There, you’re stitched, go to makeup now," he murmured, straightening up and turning toward the door to see the figure there. And wasn’t that a handsome face? Instantly, Mark’s expression turned up into a smile as he took the pins from his mouth, approaching the gentleman and holding out a hand. "Apologies, the show’s so close and that dress didn’t quite fit right. Mark Aston, I’m the designer. And you are?"

David

Rule number one for being David Price: Don't shit where you eat.

It was a rule often easier said than done. What cut throat politician hadn't considered being a bit less metaphorical with their throat cutting during election year?  David would admit to admirable methods of eviscerating (sometimes quite literally) the competition, but really when all was said and done it funneled into rule number two for being David Price: Charm and dominate. 

With his good looks and his ability to mask his own shark like motivations, David had very few road blocks in his future. Unfortunately one of his few road blocks was idiotic trips to media functions. Like fashion shows, for instance. David couldn't for the life of him figure out what watching a bunch of half starved heroin addicts dressed by a fag had to do with politics (and republican politics, no less), but he slapped a smile on his face and wore his best suit anyway. 

Keeping said smile on his face was definitely more of a challenge. People were boring, vapid. David had experienced deeper and more interesting conversations with his daughter and she wasn't even in first grade yet. As soon as he could slip away he did, ghosting away into the fitting area almost before he could be missed. Their was just as much chatter behind the scenes, if not more, but David felt the muscles in his shoulders relax ever so slightly. At least he wasn't talking to his colleague's wives any more. 

As time passed and the apparent designer seemed to pay no heed to him (an unforgivable offence typically), David watched in cautious interest. So this was the pansy boy who was responsible for his suffering. How charming. David quickly scanned the designs he could see, attempting to memorize some small detail he could work into conversation later.