Dearest
It was him, Chicken, D, and the crew, and they were just messin' around in the back, taking videos, touching all the clothes, and the models…
Fashion Week in New York was almost feeling a little like Christmas.
Hakeem was never into girls. That didn't mean he was like 'Mal, but it was almost like he was looking for something more, something dignified and terrifying and beautiful all at the same time. That was what it was like, when he looked up in her eyes for the first time, that cold and detached stare, looking at him like he was the most inconvenient spot on the hem of her gorgeously embroidered gown that she just couldn't wash out.
He grins because he must look pretty stupid right now, and warmth fills her eyes in the form of a cruel smirk.
Goddamn, she's exquisite.
"Get Drip Drop here a suit and a tie. I want him out on the runway tout suite."
Toot who?
"Of course, Ms. Marks.
So he finds himself behind the curtain at this show, which he later finds out was her show, and her assistant is there, getting him fitted and wrapping a tie around his neck in an elegant knot that looks really complicated to do. He's gotta admit that the threads look good, and breathe, and he's not one for wearing suits often like 'Dre, but he would wear this all the time if he could.
"Yo… so, why she tryin' to get me out there? I ain't a model," Hakeem shrugs. Not that he minds the attention, but.
She tightens it a little too tight to his jugular, probably in retaliation for the extra work she now has to complete. "You embarrassed her. You spilled an entire display of pieces she insisted must never touch the floor, and now guess who has to clean up your mess?"
"Heh. Sorry," He mumbles.
She shakes her head ruefully, adjusting her glasses. "You should consider yourself lucky she didn't have her cell phone on her."
Hakeem tilts his head, twisting his lips in confusion. "Why?"
The assistant opens her mouth, and then closes it. "Never mind, just focus on walking in a straight line, and not falling, okay?"
Hakeem chuckles, "Aiight."
They put on some tribal makeup on him at her insistence, yellows and golds, making him appear really wild, and he can't really say that he hates it. He growls at his reflection in the mirror and kinda digs the effect.
Before all the models head out, they step in the lineup for her last check of approval, tapped on the shoulder when she deems them ready to head out, and tapped on the cheek to indicate that they need to go back from whence they came and report back when they look appropriately flawless.
He steps up, and can hear all of the camera shutters just a few feet away, sees a glimpse of all the flashing lights peeking through the curtain.
A curl of her full lips. "Nervous, darling?"
Hakeem snaps back to her in front of him. "Huh? Nah, I'm good."
"Sure?" She tilts her head, as she touches the Van Wijk knot adorning his neck. He's kinda in love with her accent, so eloquent and careless and exotic.
"Yea', I do this type of thing all the time, when I perform."
"Really?" She purrs, catlike eyes narrowed and amused as she looks down at him. "Perhaps I should come to one of your shows, then."
"Perhaps you should," He nods up to her.
She smirks, gives him a tap on the shoulder, and a tap on the cheek.
"Ooooh, look at 'chu! Mr. Rico Suave." Chicken croons in his ear later on in a booth at Chic, which is this premiere club on the Upper East Side.
Hakeem ordered a few bottles for the table, a few girls who were at the show were giggling in his ear, telling him how fly he looked at the show, and with a promise of them hearing some of his new material, here they were.
"You looked so good up there tonight, all those lion marks on your face," Selina, or Sabrina, or Stella, said. Her name began with an 'S', alright?
"Yeah, made me want to get ahold of your claws," Her friend on his other side laced her fingers in his. He growls playfully and they smile and laugh.
Girls.
So easily impressed.
And he's not trying to lie, he likes that about them, but even that wears off after a while.
And even in the dark with the flashing array of different coloured lights and pounding bass, he notices her stalking through the place with chocolate legs that go on forever.
He watches her for a really long time, until she heads up out of view into one of the VIP enclosures on the other side.
Damn.
"Ay, yo 'Keem, check it out," D holds his phone up to his face, and Hakeem smirks at the article on the screen.
Apparently he made quite the impression at the show, looking at the headline: The Lyon King.
A waitress drops off a bottle at the table in front of him; special edition, exclusive, with gold flecks floating in the liquid, and a note folded in front of it.
He reaches over and opens it.
When you're done with those little girls, come meet me on the other side.
He heads over a while later, more curious than anything else.
The room is shrouded in mesh, ablaze in blue light, and she's settled comfortably in the center with her legs crossed, an adoring entourage surrounding her, dressed in black and gold clinging enticingly to her skin.
Hakeem stuffs his hands in his pockets, and she regards him coolly.
"Can everyone please leave? I would like to speak to my friend for a moment."
Hakeem almost opens his mouth, says they don't gotta go just because he walked in, but just as immediately, everyone begins vacating their seats and moving past him into the better lit portion of the club. They leave quickly and quietly, and before he realizes it, he's left alone with her, her hazel irises shining and focused solely on him.
"So we friends now?" Hakeem says, shifting his weight to the ball of his heel. "Listen, I didn't mean to mess up and drop your clothes or nothin', we was just looking at stuff and got out of control, you know? So, I'm sorry, alright?" He shifts again, feeling a little out of place under her scrutiny.
She slides her open palm across the right hand side of the booth. "Come, sit here."
For whatever reason, he obeys and sits by her side.
"Now, Drip Drop, I think we can both agree that you were a bit…impulsive. But we can put that behind us as I've already forgiven you."
Legit, it took him a minute before he could respond to that because he was so damn distracted by her voice and lips. But when it registers, "Why you keep calling me that? You know I got a name, right?"
Her smile is pretty and disarming. "Yes, I'm aware of your name. Are you aware of mine?"
Actually…
He scratches briefly at his temple. "…I didn't catch it earlier."
She extends her hand out to him. "Camilla."
And the way she says her own name, almost like an expletive and caress at the same time. He takes her hand and bends it, kissing the bottom of her delicate knuckles. "Hakeem."
She tilts her head in contemplation.
"I would very much like to be your friend, Hakeem." Camilla says, answering his first question.
"Just friends?"
Her smile grows wider.
Months later, he lays down the track in the studio and has an all-black and gold theme in his music video.
His album drops the same day as the IPO launch, and in the credits, he dedicates it to her.
I really don't know why I wrote this. There's something fascinating and unsettling about this relationship, IDK. And those internet memes though, I totally blame them. Everyone is starting to refer to Yazz as...you know...so what if Camilla was the inspiration to that song? This show simply begs for origin fic, and why not?
DAC