His thoroughly un-nobleman-like behaviour flustered the clerk, and only then did Eugene realise his blunder. Since waking up, the habit he’d displayed of dressing and undressing himself — entirely natural to a modern person — had once moved the Primrose household’s attendants to tears. The moment he’d shrugged off his dressing gown before anyone could assist him, the attendant had looked at him with an expression that seemed to say, “So I no longer have any reason to exist, then.”
The etiquette lessons had their effect, but that expression was not something Eugene could easily forget. Thanks to it, he’d always kept himself tense and alert whenever putting on or removing clothes — but in his fluster just now, he’d moved on pure reflex.
Watching Eugene fidget awkwardly over his mistake and the clerk stare as though he’d witnessed something inexplicable, Ivan was reminded once again that despite appearances, his younger brother was still not quite himself.
That brief moment of Eugene fumbling under Ivan and the clerk’s watchful gazes passed quickly, however, as his attention was almost immediately stolen by the interior of the shop.
The outside had been nothing to speak of, but the inside of the tailor’s was extraordinarily splendid. It was hard to believe this was the same space one entered by passing through that narrow, dim entryway. It was as though crossing the threshold had triggered some kind of magic.
Deep blue silk wallpaper and carpet covered the interior. Rich, dark mahogany display cases lined the walls, packed full of fabrics in every colour, glittering gold-toned notions, and garments draped over mannequins — all of it seized Eugene’s eyes completely. It didn’t fall short in the slightest even compared to the Primrose townhouse, which he’d already thought was quite extravagant.
Though the era was different, it unavoidably called to mind the tailor’s shop from that famous film about how manners make the man. Regardless of personal taste, it was a sight that would tempt anyone with even a passing interest in fashion and fine things. Ivan leaned his head toward Eugene’s ear as he stood there half-dazed, his earlier mistake forgotten entirely.
“This is, in a manner of speaking, where Primo Street begins. It was quite a nuisance getting a reservation.”
The moment Ivan’s murmur faded, a man of clean-cut appearance came forward to greet them both.
“It is an honour to have you with us at Atrian. Sir Ivan, Sir Eugene.”
His hair was pulled back without a single strand out of place, and he was dressed in muted, achromatic tones — the most neatly and simply turned-out person Eugene had seen since arriving in this world. He gave a measured, respectful bow at the waist to both Ivan and Eugene.
“The master is currently attending to a guest who arrived earlier, so I, Bates, will be seeing to you today.”
“Very well.”
“Thank you. I shall attend to you with the utmost care, sir.”
Atrian — the tailor’s shop. More precisely, it was a tailor’s establishment centred on menswear. And this was precisely why Primo Street, the shopping district for gentlemen, had formed around this location. Atrian was a cutter who dealt exclusively with the uppermost tier of society — those below an Earl simply weren’t worth his time, and he wouldn’t entertain them. His sons were now preparing to carry on that reputation.
If master tailor Atrian could not attend to Ivan personally, it could only mean one thing — that the client he was currently with came from an even more distinguished background.
“My apologies that we cannot show you directly to the private room.”
“Think nothing of it. Whoever it is must certainly be someone remarkable.”
Ivan’s reply sounded entirely unbothered, but it was a pointed remark dressed up as courtesy — as if to say, whoever had taken the private room and master Atrian’s undivided attention had better be someone truly worth it, or there would be a problem.
“His Highness has graced us with a visit after quite some time….”
“The Prince is here?”
“Yes. It is our great honour that he has not forgotten us — the master is attending to him with all his heart.”
“Of course he should be.”
Even catching only fragments of it, it was clear that someone of considerable standing was present. They were shown not to the private room with its door, but to a room whose entrance was screened by a dark navy curtain — and yet Ivan said nothing more about it. If anything, he nodded as though this were only natural. He even went so far as to ask Bates to quietly let him know which fabrics the occupant of the private room had chosen for this season.
While the two of them were absorbed in whispering about the distinguished guest, Eugene openly craned his neck and looked around the room. Ivan noticed his younger brother’s conduct — entirely lacking in aristocratic propriety — and cleared his throat, but Eugene didn’t register it. Regardless of whether this era’s fashion suited his personal taste, his heart was hammering.
He’d heard where they were headed from Ivan and felt nothing in particular about it. Truth be told, taking one look at what Ivan and he himself were wearing, he’d more or less abandoned any hope for this era’s fashion. But actually laying eyes on Atrian — seeing it in person — made his heart race like a child who’d just been given the toy he wanted most.
Unlike his former life, he now had an extraordinary frame to dress. A face that would shine even in rags — how much brighter would it shine dressed well? The instinct that had always wanted to be impeccably, stylishly dressed flickered to life inside Eugene. He was confident he could make an already fine body look even finer. Having his measurements taken, choosing the fabrics and trimmings that would suit him best — just imagining it made him giddy.
That excitement deflated almost immediately, however — like air rushing out of a punctured balloon. The cause was Ivan’s attire as he stepped up onto the platform to be measured first. What good was a magnificent setting and extraordinary materials? He’d still have to conform to the aesthetic standards this era demanded. Eugene averted his eyes from Ivan’s lower half, where the prominently padded breeches left little to the imagination.
Bates had Ivan stripped down to his shirt and proceeded to take his measurements with careful thoroughness. As he drew out the tape measure, he asked about small personal habits — whether Ivan preferred his buttons fastened or open, which hand he used to fasten them, whether he frequently used his inside pocket, whether he smoked.
It was, naturally enough, not altogether different from being fitted for a bespoke suit in the modern era. Eugene leaned back against the sofa and watched Ivan. With that dreadful coat off him and left in just his light cream-toned shirt, he looked considerably brighter. Eugene propped his chin in his hand and began to properly study his second-eldest brother at his leisure.
Unlike Eugene’s straight hair, Ivan had curly locks and sideburns puffed out with the same wave, topped off with a moustache whose ends were twisted into neat little rolls — at this point, one had to wonder if the man had some kind of obsession with curly hair.
The beard, sideburns, and voluminous hair could all be used to one’s advantage in concealing certain flaws, depending on how they were managed — but not on Ivan. Unlike Eugene’s fine-lined features, Ivan had a pleasantly solid, masculine face with a clean jawline that was genuinely attractive. Those were precisely the features that ought to be shown off — yet the abundant sideburns and beard didn’t merely obscure them, they made the shape of his face look like something else entirely.
While Eugene quietly processed his rather unfavourable impressions of Ivan’s facial hair, the clerks entered carrying fabrics of various types and colours. The moment a bright canary-yellow cloth was draped beneath Ivan’s chin, Eugene uncrossed his legs and shifted his posture as though he might spring to his feet at any second.
Compared to that heavy, dark violet waistcoat Ivan had been wearing before, yellow wasn’t actually a bad colour on him. But the moment Eugene considered it paired with Ivan’s gleaming golden hair, his moustache, his fair complexion, and then whatever gold accessories would inevitably be added on top — his crossed legs came undone on their own, and even the hand propping his chin straightened into something almost reverent.
This was no giant chick or oversized bumblebee — this was far too much. The fabric in particular had an almost grotesque sheen that made it look heavy on top of everything else.
No matter how well a colour suited someone, it had to be used in moderation and in harmony with everything else. And fabric texture, he was realising, could bring out the less flattering aspects of a figure more than one might expect.
Eugene watched Ivan with an anxious eye. In the mirror, Ivan’s face shone back — broad, beaming grin and all. Eugene gave a small, deliberate shake of his head, sending the clearest signal he could: please, for the love of all things, do not choose this fabric.
Next one. Look at several more before you decide, at the very least.
Eugene glared at the back of Ivan’s head with ferocious intensity and sent the strongest telepathic message he could muster. But perhaps because the person inhabiting this body wasn’t the real Eugene — the brotherly connection simply failed to materialise.
“This seems fine.”
Ivan wiped the smile from his face and nodded with an air of solemn deliberation. Eugene, confronted with a decision made without a single moment’s consideration, lost all control of his expression and grimaced openly. But this was all a misunderstanding. Unbeknownst to Eugene, Ivan had actually been watching him in the mirror the entire time.
The expression reflected back at him in the mirror was far too troubled. Ivan had made his own private assumption — that Eugene was displeased not about the fabric specifically, but about the whole affair: the fact that he had to attend the party at all, that he had to spend a small fortune to put on the appearance of being a proper nobleman, that they had to go through this tedious process. It was a misreading entirely of Ivan’s own making.
Even if the current Eugene had lost his memories and was effectively a new person, the accumulated knowledge of a lifetime spent beside one’s younger brother wasn’t the kind of thing that could be immediately revised and overwritten the moment new information appeared. With Eugene’s expression growing increasingly like he was about to eat him alive, Ivan nodded without looking at any other options.
He was also mildly worried that pushing Eugene too hard — when he hadn’t even fully recovered physically — might cause him to simply keel over again, just like before. Resolved to finish things as quickly as possible and get home, Ivan made up his mind to decide swiftly without dwelling on it too long. And to be fair, by the standards of this era, it wasn’t even a bad choice.
“Wait!”
Just as Bates was about to cut a small swatch of the fabric and affix it to the paper with the measurements, Eugene could no longer hold himself back and shot to his feet. Had he been too loud in his urgency? Every eye in the room swung toward him at once.
In his other life, being the centre of attention was something he was used to. More accurately, he’d worked tirelessly to court that attention. But not here. Here, with so little understanding of this world, drawing people’s eyes meant he had done something that didn’t make sense — something out of place.
Back at the Primrose estate, it didn’t much matter if he drew the staff’s attention with some bewildering behaviour. The servants knew that the youngest son of the household had suffered a serious head injury — whether he was out of his mind, had gone dim, or lost his memories entirely — so it didn’t cause any real trouble.
They might be startled for a moment, but they’d quickly compose themselves again, and could gently steer him away from making the same mistake twice with a quiet word. But outside — it was different.
Eugene cleared his throat twice to mask the embarrassment at finding himself the sudden object of everyone’s gaze. Staring directly at a nobleman could itself be considered impertinent, so the clerk hastily averted his eyes at the sound. The clerk was one thing, but even Ivan was staring at him with eyes gone perfectly round — and so Eugene shuffled back and lowered himself onto the sofa.
After clearing his throat and composing himself, Eugene did his best to return to something resembling nobility — ensuring all those lessons hadn’t gone entirely to waste. He rested one hand gracefully on the armrest and, as though the person who had just leapt up and cried out had never existed, addressed his brother with elegant calm.
“Ivan, since we’re here on a rare occasion, wouldn’t it be better to choose more carefully? There’s no rush, is there.”
“That’s… quite alright? Ha.”
Unable to bring himself to say outright that it was gaudy, Eugene kept his words indirect and accompanied them with a pointed look. Ivan caught the subtle signal and laughed awkwardly. Regardless of what Eugene actually intended, the way Ivan read it was that his younger brother was telling him not to be extravagant with his eyes while simultaneously criticising him for being extravagant himself. The fabric from a moment ago had admittedly been excessively lavish.
“Mm…. Let’s have a look at something a little less ornate, shall we.”
At Ivan’s word, Bates clapped his hands. The clerks filed in as though they’d been waiting for precisely this cue, each carrying new bolts of fabric. In this era, “less ornate” was more or less synonymous with “less expensive” — and so the fabrics brought out for Ivan to consider were all in quieter, more subdued tones, with considerably less embroidery. Still excessive by Eugene’s eye, but at least somewhat better.
It wasn’t that he objected to something being extravagant in itself — it was simply that both Ivan and Eugene already had features that were far too striking on their own, so adding yet more flamboyance in the fabric made everything feel visually suffocating. One bolt after another was held up against Ivan. Eugene sat back with his arms folded, watching Ivan’s reflection in the mirror, and shook his head at each one in turn.
As Eugene’s silent vetoes continued, Bates and Ivan eventually stopped pretending otherwise and simply looked directly at Eugene. They held each length of cloth against Ivan and waited for the tilt of Eugene’s head — as though seeking his approval. The simple matter of choosing a fabric was stretching on interminably. Ivan, sensing that at this rate the day would be over before Eugene’s turn even came, finally said:
“Why don’t you just choose it yourself, Eugene.”
He’d suffered a blow to the head and lost his memories, yes — but this was Eugene, who had once possessed a genuine appreciation for the arts, however it might have manifested. Surely he had an eye for these things. Half that reasoning, and half the realisation that if Eugene chose it himself there’d be no further need to gauge what was and wasn’t acceptable — Ivan made what turned out to be quite a sensible suggestion. And as far as Eugene was concerned, it was more than welcome.
