Yubin as Usual, Ch. 1: Nothing a little retail therapy won't fix.

“Peet-uhh,” Yubin wails as she teeters into Cottontail Couture, nearly trampling some poor bun that’s on the way out. “My love. My light. I’m lost without you!”

Predicting (accurately) that Yubin will throw a tantrum right there on the floor if he doesn’t pay attention to her, Peter gently concludes the conversation he was having with a window shopper about the latest trends. Seems like sheer knee socks are back in style. Usually it would take another few years, but Velveteen’s latest photoshoot–theme: prep school chic–has kicked the craze off early. 

“Hello to you too, Yu–oh!” Peter chuckles as Yubin swoons into his chest like a damsel in distress. He wraps his burly arms around her with a little too much strength. In other words, just enough. Yubin breathes in the scent of cotton blossom, sandalwood. Peter gives the best hugs in all of Burrowgatory.

Peter sniffs as well, then wrinkles his nose. He draws her back by the shoulders. “You’ve been drinking, huh?”

“Nothin’ like a couple’a Hopscotches on a weekday morning.” And by a couple she means three. Three and a half? She vaguely recalls swilling a glass left unattended at The Rabbit Hole before stumbling out the door.

“Speaking of weekdays, shouldn’t you be at work right now?”

“Nope,” Yubin says, popping the P. Not that kind, you perv. “Dishonorably discharged. Critic, champagne, you know how it is.” She breaks free from his grasp to sag against a mannequin draped in bold red tulle. “I thought you were always supposed to shake the bottle. I mean, that’s what they do at New Year’s parties!”

Peter shakes his head. “You poor thing.” Waitressing had been Yubin’s fourth job in as many months. He’d offer her a gig here, but as a sympathetic ear to her workplace horror-comedy stories and a fellow sloth, he knows it wouldn’t last long. Or end well.

“Poor is right. I feel low, Petey. Real low. And not just because we’re next door to Hell.”

“Hm. Well, nothing a little retail therapy won’t fix, right?”

Yubin’s heart-shaped pupils quiver. “Oh, Petes,” she whispers, “I love the way you enable my expensive coping mechanisms.”

“Just doing my job,” Peter says modestly, leading her to the other side of the store.

Yubin has seen the inside of just about every high-end boutique in Burrowgatory. Some are sleek, with polished brimstone floors and blank white walls and mirrored tables she dares not look upon lest her reflection leaves a smudge. Some are as fancy as five-star hotels, complete with doormen that take your coat and spoon kelp caviar directly into your mouth. And that’s only slightly an exaggeration. 

Cottontail Couture is special because it feels like home. Not just any old home, like the kind of sensible set dressing you’d find splashed across the glossy pages of an interior design magazine, but Peter’s home. He’s poured all his love into this place, out in the open where everyone can see. There’s love in every stitch of the clothing on display, of course, but it’s also in every plank of the scuffed wooden floors and every mote of the warm sunset lighting. It’s in the shelves stocked with vintage books alongside accessories, the fireplace in the corner, and the candid photos on the wall of Velveteen flashing a rare smile. Sometimes Yubin suspects it’s meant to lull her into a false sense of security, as if she’s buying from a mom-and-pop thrift store rather than a couture fashion label with jaw-dropping price tags, but in the end she believes there’s more sincerity at work here than guile. If that makes her a sucker, so be it.

Peter picks out a minidress from a rack and holds it out in front of Yubin. It’s so black it sucks in all the light around it, with silver-edged, hand-shaped appliqués cupping the boobs and butt. Waggling it, he says, “How’s this for outfit of the day? I know it isn’t your usual style, but you can never go wrong with a little black dress.”

“A staple and a statement,” Yubin says, running her fingers reverently over the velvet. “It’s perf–” She stops short, adopting a pained expression as if she had to bite her tongue to do so, and then whispers to herself, “Stay focused, soldier. You’re on a mission.”

“Oh, right, you must be here for the sale!” Peter whisks Yubin over to the clearance section. She’s about to get offended that he thinks she’s broke until she remembers that she is. Waitresses aren’t known for their wealth, especially not freshly unemployed ones.

Yubin gasps as Peter spins a mannequin in her direction, revealing a off-the-shoulder dress unspooled from silk so sheer she thinks it might dissolve like sugar under her touch. Gold filigree circles the torso and sprouts in a laurel wreath set above the mannequin’s plush ears. The color washes down from lavender to turquoise, while a thigh slit opens from a pinned pair of luna moth wings.

He’s still waiting for a reaction, so Yubin says, “Gwuh.” That’s about as intelligible as she can get right now.

Satisfied, Peter turns the mannequin this way and that so she can admire every angle. “I designed it for the Gossamer Gala last season. It’s some of my proudest work. I thought I’d sold all my stock, but a few days ago I found this piece gathering dust in my inventory. Don’t you think you’d look just like a fairy princess in it?” 

The purity of his intentions scalds Yubin like holy water. She shields her eyes from his radiant smile as he rambles on, “It’s thirty-three percent off and I’m not bringing it back until the next gala, so now’s your chance! The jewelry and underthings are included, and for a little extra I can dye it pink and–”

“Peter!” Yubin cries out. 

He blinks. “Oh! I was babbling again, wasn’t I?”

“I… I…”

“Yes?”

Yubin looks at the shimmering gossamer gown. She looks at the price tag, marked down from a couple thousand carats to a thousand plus a few hundred. Still leaps and bounds outside her budget, but that silly little number is just a suggestion, isn’t it? As Peter absently continues to twirl the dress, its rustling begins to sound like whispering: Yubin, it’s time to admit that your frilly little frocks aren’t doing the trick. The dommy mommy of your dreams doesn’t want a bun that dresses like a mildly haunted porcelain doll. She wants class. Ele-GANCE. Pronounced like renaissance. If you want to date rich, you need to look rich. You need me.

Through gritted teeth, Yubin says, “I want a swimsuit.”

“I see,” Peter says, nodding thoughtfully as he meanders to the front of the store. “It has been awfully hot lately, hasn’t it? I heard we hit record temperatures the other day. Velveteen’s doing a shoot at the beach soon. They don’t really need me there, but I might tag along just to take a dip.”

Yubin plods behind Peter with her tail between her legs, casting sorrowful glances over her shoulder at the gossamer gown. Is she making the right decision? Now that she’s out of work, her plan is to lounge around on the shores of the Forneus Sea for the rest of the summer in hopes that some bougie bun will invite her back to their ultra-luxurious vacation villa, after which she’ll worm her way into the rest of their life somehow. The last few times she put herself out there, though, no one took the bait. Maybe she should switch up her style after all. Desperate times, desperate measures.

“I think you’d like this one,” Peter says, picking up a swimsuit. 

The gears of fate click into place. Yubin snatches the hanger out of Peter’s hands and books it to the fitting room, pulling her dress over her head with each step. As soon as she slides the brocade curtains shut, she wrestles the swimsuit over her body with the desperation of a submarine sailor struggling into an atmospheric diving suit moments before the airlock opens. Fortunately the nylon is rather stretchy, or she would’ve ended up tearing it to pieces. And then breaking the bathroom window and fleeing the scene, never to be seen again.

The door to the fitting room opens, closes. Peter’s worried voice floats towards her. “Yubin? Everything okay in there?”

“More than okay,” Yubin breathes, sliding the last strap over her shoulder. She bursts through the curtains and strikes a pose, one hand on her hip and the other on the side of her head. “Behold!”

It’s a simple white one-piece with straps criss-crossing the back and neck, cutified by several additions in baby blue: short ruffled sleeves and hems, an enormous bow affixed to the neckline, and corset-like lace-ups that run up the sides. Yubin twirls, causing the organza sarong she’s wearing over her waist to float around her like the bell of a Jellsi. 

“Peter, it’s like you made this just for me.”

“It was meant for you,” Peter agrees, holding his hands to his heart. “Shall I ring it up?”

“Yes! But after that, could you make a few changes?”

“Let me guess. Pink instead of blue?”

“How did you know?”

Peter eyes the pink ribbons festooning Yubin’s dress, which is lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. “Just a hunch.”

Yubin changes back into her dress and skips over to the counter with Peter in tow, clutching the swimsuit to her chest. Once he begins to tap away at the old-fashioned cash register, though, her dreamy smile fades. Unease takes hold of her heart, same as when her manager called her into the office for "a little chat" earlier today. As she pulls her credit card out of her pocket with shaking fingers, she prays to the high heavens, despite being the brood of demons, that it won’t decline. She’s been through enough, hasn’t she? The universe owes her a miracle right about now.