Disclaimer: I don't own.
Summary: Why George won't stand for just plain vanilla.
George isn't the type to stand for just plain vanilla. His whole life has been built on the foundation of style, originality, and flair. Vanilla is none of those things. He needs sequins, glitter, rhinestones, satin, silk, lush, feral fabrics to drown in. His world is a jungle of satiny, shimmering limbs clothed in glittering gauze. To him, vanilla is nothing but a clean canvas that he can shape and turn into one of his dazzling, almost illusory creations.
I epitomized vanilla, with my messy, long, lank hair and plain clothes. My face was never made up, my complexion a matte cream. So when George saw me, all he saw was something to change. I was something he created. Sometimes I wonder if I would be here right now if he hadn't changed me into something that was more to his taste. Did he really create me? Would I have existed without him?
George isn't the type that's content with just being others' dreams. People fantasize about his talent, about the clothes he creates, and I know they fantasize about taking him to bed as well. But George isn't the type to stand for that. He has to be the dreamer not the dream. But then, there I was, basically a mannequin, but better. I was a mannequin made of flesh and blood with the ability to come to life and create the illusion of life sparkling behind my obsidian eyes. I wasn't like him. Could he comprehend life without drive or passion or longing? I don't think he could. That's why I confused him. He wondered how I could live life chosen by others, driven by others. I didn't live for myself, I didn't know how to. But he was thankful to have me, his beloved canvas where he could create the ultimate fantasy for his clamoring audience.
He was just another pair of hands to mold me and shape me and put me into a life they chose for me. My robotic body obeyed his every command and here I am, standing in the glitz and glamour of his world now, nothing but a marionette. My strings are held by George and I will only stand as long as he wants me. The minute he cuts the strings, I will be nothing but a limp pile of bones and wood and then where will I be? I worry sometimes. Could I learn to live for myself and create a world for myself? I doubt my creation would be as glamorous or original as Georges but it would be my own.
I let myself daydream about it for a little while. I would cut my own strings and leave my mother, George, even Miwako and Isabella, all behind to hold a needle, a paintbrush, a pencil in my hand and make something of my own.
"Oh strawberry!" Miwako squeals. She spoons herself strawberry ice cream into her baby-blue porcelain bowl. Isabella, more sedate, carves a perfect circle out of her green tea flavored ice cream as Arashi inhales his pistachio. I give a sidelong glance to George. He holds my eyes with his own piercing blue ones as he reaches, plainly, for the rainbow swirl. He spoons out the perfect portion into his bowl and the hard candy glitters like diamonds inside the creamy sweetness. I sigh, inwardly, as I reach for the vanilla.