An Inferno on a Stormy Sea (PerfectWorldShipping)

1. Beauty and Imperfection

It's August 7th, 2013.

The blinding sun blazes over Kalos and bathes everything in a white-hot, golden glow. The stage in Lumiose City is set. Advanced displays of technology are up on the platform, and people swarm below, marveling at the feats of genius they admire.

Backstage, directors and technicians run about, conferring with each other and then moving onto another task like insects. The day's importance is all that seems to run through everyone's mind; it must go flawlessly.

There, standing tall and strong like a monolith, is Lysandre Fleur-De-Lis. At thirty-eight years old, he is still incredibly fit. His shoulders are broad, abdomen lean, chest prominent.

His hair, long and a brilliant copper tone, is neatly slicked back from his forehead in three widows' peaks; one at the peak, one at each of his temples. His beard is neatly groomed, one neat spike from his chin and two others combed upward towards his jaw.

He's dressed in a suit of the finest of black satin, lined with red fabric across his lapels, shoulders, and arms, with one directly down his middle. Tied and tucked immaculately into his suit is a maroon-red cravat, tying the outfit together in a way that could be described as the 'modern nobleman'. His eyes, a brilliant and chilling blue, accent the warmth of his clothing perfectly.

To be this beautiful, and with this much wealth as a result of his iron grip on the modern tech industry since 2008, Lysandre is noted as a highly desirable man. He'd been featured in magazines, had been interviewed for each of his newest product launches, been regarded as an extremely prestigious guest at any gala or ball in Kalos.

He remembers the boy he once was, silent and unsure of his worth. A flower in a dark room, reaching toward the sun yet unable to bloom.

He'd like to think that he's made that boy proud.

Confident and aroused, Lysandre rolls his shoulders back and leans his body outward, stretching out the muscles along his spine. He stops for a moment for an attendant to bounce over to him and present a small microphone. Lysandre bends down for a moment to allow the attendant to lean in and pin it to his collar. When the attendant parts, he notes their beet-red cheeks, and flashes a small grin before they depart, hurried and flustered.

A few feet away is Professor Augustine Sycamore, paused in front of a mirror, running his fingers through his hair and fluffing out his curls. Each delicate adjustment to one of his curls is carefully placed, so that when Augustine departs from the looking glass, he looks perfect.

In Lysandre's mind, his form is that of a God's sculpting. Perfection is innate. Augustine is small compared to him; 5'8, while Lysandre himself is just above 7'. Regardless, he appears tall and lean, perfectly proportioned from his head to toes.

In the fourteen years Lysandre had known Augustine, he'd started testosterone, had his voice drop and beard come in, and had underwent mastectomy surgery- which relieved much physical discomfort- towards the end of his studies four years previously. It has been a long road, not without its highs and lows, but everything was worth the wait. To see Augustine dressed so finely, with the (scandalously half-unbuttoned) indigo dress shirt, and the tight pants with the circular belt was a treat. His confidence has soared.

Lysandre approaches. For a man of his stature, his steps are light. His heels click on the floorboards, but not enough to alert Sycamore of his presence in-between tossing his curls this way and that, until Lysandre's hand meets the smaller man's shoulder.

Augustine jumps halfway out of his shoes, Lysandre almost flinching as well, before he whips around to face the redhead and immediately melts with a sigh of relief. Augustine smiles wearily up at him, right hand over his racing heart.