The Himbolicious debut show at The Carlu had not yet begun, and Trey was already treating the front row like a throne.
He sat with one ankle resting over his opposite knee, gold sunglasses still on despite the low theatrical lighting. His fitted black-and-gold jacket was open just enough to display his chains.
Beside him, Wells had chosen something far less theatrical. He wore a fitted black short-sleeved button-down, the top buttons left open across his broad chest, dark blue jeans and polished black shoes. The simplicity only emphasized his muscular build. In a room overflowing with pink, sequins and carefully assembled fashion statements, Wells looked powerful without appearing to have tried.
Trey glanced around the grand ballroom. Pink light washed over the Art Deco columns. Guests carried rose-colored cocktails. Even the programs had been printed on glossy fuchsia card stock.
“That is a lot of pink,” Trey observed.
“It is a Himbolicious show,” Wells replied.
“Still. They could have warned me. Gold needs time to adjust to competition.”
Wells looked at him. “It is a color, Trey. Not a hostile takeover.”
The music began before Trey could answer.
The first model emerged through the illuminated archway, and Trey slowly lowered his sunglasses.
The man was an extraordinary physical specimen—broad shoulders, narrow waist and powerful legs—and he wore a cropped pink athletic top with fitted white trousers that appeared engineered to emphasize every hour he had ever spent in a gym.
A second model followed in a white compression shirt with vivid pink panels. Then came another in a sharply tailored rose jacket worn over a sculpted bare torso and pink-and-white briefs.
“Okay,” he said. “I understand the brand now.”
Wells watched the model turn at the end of the runway. “The construction is excellent.”
“The construction is unbelievable.”
Wells’s expression suggested otherwise.
The parade continued: compression pieces, cropped tanks, fitted shorts, harness-inspired tailoring and gleaming accessories, all rendered in shades ranging from pale blush to electric magenta. The designs were playful without sacrificing precision. Each garment celebrated the body wearing it rather than attempting to disguise it.
That principle worked particularly well because Zane appeared to have collected the most perfectly built men in Toronto and taught them to walk in formation.
They were not merely handsome. They were Himbolicious himbos: smiling, sculpted and entirely comfortable being admired.
One stopped at the end of the runway directly in front of Trey. He planted his feet, subtly tightened his body beneath a fitted pink tank and gave Trey a slow, cheerful wink.
Trey removed his sunglasses completely.
“I saw a model reach his mark,” Wells said.
The next model arrived wearing pink compression shorts and an open white jacket. He looked toward Trey, smiled and gave the slightest respectful dip of his head.
Then a third model turned at the end of the runway and sent a playful kiss in Trey’s direction.
Wells finally looked over.
“You appear to have been identified.”
“Perfect recognizes perfect.”
“Or Zane told them to engage the front row.”
“No, Wells. This is natural chemistry.”
Backstage, Zane had indeed noticed Trey.
He had also noticed the effect Trey was having on his models. Each time one returned behind the curtain, another volunteered to take the position nearest the gold-clad athlete.
“He looked at everybody.”
“He looked at me longer.”
“I’m wearing the cropped jacket next. I’ll make him look.”
Zane shook his head, amused. His himbos were disciplined professionals, but they were also openhearted creatures who responded enthusiastically to praise, attention and exceptional bone structure.
By the middle of the show, Trey had stopped pretending to evaluate the clothing objectively.
“That jacket would look good on me.”
“It is pink,” Wells reminded him.
“Gold and pink could work.”
“You said pink was competition.”
“I have reconsidered the relationship.”
A model appeared wearing a minimal rose compression top that exposed most of his abdomen. Trey followed him with his eyes all the way down the runway and back again.
“That one would also look good on me.”
Wells gave a quiet laugh, but his attention had shifted elsewhere.
Between the models’ exits, he had caught brief glimpses of Zane directing the show from backstage. Pink-haired, composed and dressed in a white suit with bold pink lapels, Zane moved through the controlled chaos with complete confidence. He adjusted a collar, redirected a stylist and reassured a nervous model without ever appearing rushed.
Trey was admiring Zane’s collection.
Wells was beginning to admire Zane.
The final sequence opened with every model returning to the runway together. They filled the stage in coordinated pink and white, a smiling wall of sculpted bodies beneath the glowing HIMBOLICIOUS sign.
Trey studied them as though confronted with an especially generous menu.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I support this designer’s vision.”
“I’m sure he will be relieved.”
“These men understand presentation. Confidence. Physical excellence. Service to the audience.”
One of the models heard him and grinned.
“Anything for you, Gold,” he called before turning back into formation.
Trey froze for half a second, then settled deeper into his seat with immense satisfaction.
Zane stepped onto the runway for the finale.
He had not changed out of the white-and-pink suit. Instead, he appeared in the same sharply tailored look that had already marked him as the mind behind the spectacle: white jacket, bold pink lapels, fitted white shirt and trousers, his pink hair catching the glow of the runway lights. The choice felt deliberate. After a full show of sculpted bodies, cropped athletic pieces and playful provocation, Zane arrived not as just another model, but as the designer himself—clean, confident and unmistakably in command of the entire pink empire around him.
Behind him, his models broke into cheers and applause, grinning with obvious pride as they gave him the runway. Dressed in coordinated pink looks, they framed him like a living celebration of his vision before letting him walk forward alone toward the end of the catwalk.
Trey applauded, genuinely impressed.
Trey applauded, impressed.
Wells did not move at first.
His powerful forearms rested against his thighs as he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Zane. The fitted black shirt pulled tightly across his shoulders as his posture changed, making his interest difficult to miss.
“Oh, this is interesting.”
“You have barely looked at the models for the last ten minutes.”
“I have looked at the collection.”
“You have looked at the man who made the collection.”
Zane reached the end of the runway and smiled into the applause. His eyes swept across the front row, pausing briefly on Wells.
The contrast between them was striking: Zane glowing in vivid pink beneath the lights, Wells seated in fitted black, broad and still, looking at him with quiet intensity.
Zane’s smile changed almost imperceptibly.
Wells’s normally unreadable face softened.
Trey grinned. “He saw you.”
“So did several hundred other people.”
The show ended in a blaze of pink light. Guests rose, reporters moved toward the backstage entrance and the models disappeared behind the curtains amid laughter and celebration.
Trey stood and adjusted his jacket.
“To investigate whether ‘anything for you, Gold’ represents official company policy.”
Wells rose beside him. Standing at his full height, dressed in the close-fitting black shirt and dark jeans, he looked more like someone who had been hired to control the backstage area than a guest hoping to enter it.
“Try not to recruit the entire runway,” Wells said.
They passed through the curtain together.
Backstage remained packed with stylists, clothing racks, press and models in various stages of changing. Pink garments and sequined jackets hung along both sides of the aisle. Beneath the glowing HIMBOLICIOUS sign, Wells’s black clothing made him stand apart from everything around him.
Several models immediately noticed Trey.
One held up a cropped pink jacket.
Another approached with matching compression shorts draped over one hand.
A third smiled and asked, “Which one do you want to try first?”
“Gentlemen,” he said, opening his arms, “let’s not limit ourselves.”
The himbos closed around him eagerly. One removed Trey’s jacket while another held the pink replacement ready. A third offered opinions about which cut would best display Trey’s legs. Their attention was enthusiastic, unquestioning and entirely focused on making him look as spectacular as possible.
Wells watched for a moment.
“I am conducting a fitting.”
“You have not tried on anything yet.”
“Greatness requires consultation.”
Wells shook his head and continued deeper backstage.
He moved between the clothing racks with an easy, confident stride. Models and stylists instinctively made room for him. His fitted shirt stretched across his chest and arms, while the dark jeans gave him a grounded, deliberately masculine presence amid all the bright theatrical color.
Then he saw Zane near the illuminated mirrors.
Still dressed in the white suit with the vivid pink lapels he had worn for the finale, the designer was speaking with two members of the press while assistants moved around him, gathering accessories and organizing the remaining garments.
From behind him, Trey called, “Go congratulate the designer.”
Trey now wore the cropped pink jacket over his black-and-gold clothing while models debated whether he needed matching shorts. He lowered his sunglasses and gave Wells a knowing smile.
“Tell Pink I approve of the collection.”
“I’ll be certain to mention it.”
“And ask whether the models come with the clothes.”
Wells turned away before Trey could add anything else.
Zane finished with the reporters and finally allowed himself to breathe. He was still riding the high of the successful show when a tall, strikingly handsome man approached him.
The man wore a fitted black short-sleeved button-down, dark jeans and polished black shoes. He was broad through the chest and shoulders, his muscular arms exposed beneath the close sleeves. Surrounded by Zane’s bright pink world, he looked like a deliberate shadow moving through it.
The story continues: https://www.tumblr.com/zanethehimbo/821512242544689152/himbolisious-part-1-stuck-on-you?source=share
With @wells-gold58, @zanethehimbo
Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
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