EDIT 11.26.17 : re-uploading after fixing embarrassing errors. sorry.

title: objet d'art

rating: T for curse words and suggestive themes

genre: Drama, Romance

disclaimer: I own nothing. I earn nothing, not even with the product placements in the story.

inspiration: Pygmalion and Galatea + the Song of the Doll + that one line from my other fic + model!AUs from other fandoms

credits: Pretty Things by SaturnXK (a must-read if you're a Jelsa fan) + that one ShikaTema model!AU that I've read in high school but could no longer find today + Nude by BlueBerryToasterTart (the closest thing to a Hiccstrid model!AU that I can find, also a must-read), which all have influences in the story

background music on loop while writing this fic: hollow by Belle Mt.

warnings: the usual + hints and mentions of sexy times + OOC Astrid (sorry, it was my crude, pathetic attempt at writing aesthetic) + grammatical, typographical and factual errors (because I got too lazy to thoroughly research) + lame jokes + exaggerations of the model life + shamelessly long-arse fic + it's weird

Pre-story notes: Sorry. I'll upload the next chapter of On Rings the next time I update, I swear. I feel like such an arse not updating it soon enough. X( Just. Let me get this out of my system. I had planned to make a model!AU for Hiccstrid next year, but I was re-reading the chapters in On Rings, and the line "I am a doll to decorate my House" popped out and then BAM. Plot bunny happened. But don't expect too much. You might be disappointed that it's not as beautiful as Murphy's Law.

On with it!

Pygmalion, the king of Cyprus, had many problems when dating women. He always seemed to accept dates from the wrong sort: some were rude, others were selfish. So, he eventually decided he would never marry any maiden. For comfort and solace, he turned to the arts, finding his talent in sculpture.

.

.

.

A photographic mosaic is not exactly his forte, but he'd still want to try to make it.

He wanted to do something for her, and he figured before that with his love for photography and with his assortment of her pictures, he could make something that would fit nicely into a puzzle figure that was forming in his head. The puzzle was to be composed of a whole bunch of tiny pictures—his collection of photographs of her when they were together—which would then create a larger image when seen from the distance—her smiling face that he had extracted from his memory.

He squints his eyes as he arranges the pictures by major color grouping, placing all the predominantly bright photos with the folder with white spaces, the dark ones with the black, and the rest of the photos with similarly-hued pictures.

Resizing the photos into tiny ones, he painstakingly configures them in a grid pattern, positioning the tiny photos one by one until they formed the shape of her face.

.

.

.

Using exquisite skills, he carved a statue out of ivory that was so resplendent and delicate that no maiden could compare with its beauty. Pygmalion fell in love with his creation and often laid his hand upon the ivory statute as if to reassure himself it was not living.

.

.

.

He tries to recall that one time when they were having dinner together with her family. That was the first time that he had seen her smile, and by Odin, she was beautiful.

He has tried to place everything in his memory: the tilt of her head, the intricacy of her coiffure, the brightness of her smile. His collage of her is slowly materializing after he positions the pictures one by one, the figure of her in a photomosaic now closely resembling the breathing version of her.

He wants it to be stunning, like she is. He wants it to be perfect.

.

.

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He named the ivory maiden Galatea and adorned her lovely figure with women's robes and placed rings on her fingers and jewels about her neck. This statue was far more astounding and delicate than any human, and whenever a human walked by, they would stop and stare at her magnificent beauty. Indeed, there were no proper words to describe her; it was easy to understand why men wanted to embrace her and have her by their side.

.

.

.

He almost groans in exasperation as he re-does the angle of her jawline.

He doesn't know why he continues to do it, why he continues to finish this photomosaic.

She had broken his heart, and yet he still yearns for her. He knows that he was never going to see her again—except perhaps in magazines and entertainment shows—but he still wants to make something that would last longer to remind him of their time together, sweet and painful as they were. She's the best—and the worst—thing that's ever happened to him, but he wants to remember her in a tribute. And a collage of her seems to be the best way to cement their memories.

He finally finishes his work, and he saves his file in the best format possible to prepare it for printing. He stares at the photomosaic one last time when he saves it, and his heart sinks the longer he stares at it.

It's stunning and it's made in her likeness, but it's not her.

.

.

.

.

.

(still, there was one thing the statue lacked—

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"You forget: I'm a doll. A doll cannot do, but can only be done by. A doll cannot choose, but can only be chosen. And even if I want everything to change, the truth is that you don't have the privilege to choose me, and I don't have the right to love you."

.

.

.

.

.

—a beating heart)

objet d'art

/ ȯb-zhā-'där /

(n.) plural objets d'art | Fr. "object of art" | 1. work of art: an article of some artistic value or art that is a product of one of the fine arts (especially a painting or sculpture of artistic merit)

He swears that his eyes were cheating him the first time he sees her.

He's visited the Château de Versailles once before, back when he was a kid who accompanied his mother on her travels around the world. This time, though, he's back in the vicinity again for business, filling in for a fashion photographer friend who was injured on their mutual trip to the Alps. Although it's not his first time doing a fashion photoshoot, and although he's been complimented a couple of times on his work for glamor shots, he does not deny that he prefers landscape and aerial photography to some fancy luxury photo session. And it also does not help that he's doing it for a fashion spread for Vanity Fair.

According to the brief, the theme of the photoshoot is all about fairy tales: of the magical and the whimsical, with a strong emphasis on the endearing beauty of pastel pinks and the enchanting refinement of muted blues. Today, it is about the silks of Valentino and the tulles of Marchesa. The photos are to be set against the backdrop of the gardens of the Palace of Versailles to add to the theme's ethereal charm.

He carefully whips out his Hasselblad H5D-50 from his bag as soon as he meets the creative director—Anna, who he recognizes as the sister of the supermodel Elsa Winters—and he is immediately ushered to the venue of the photoshoot. Almost everything has been set in place, from the lighting equipment to the reflectors and the diffuser fabrics. Everyone is finalizing the position of the equipment, and he's about the assist them when she catches his attention.

And it seems as if the world somehow stops moving around him, and he can't believe his eyes as they land on her frame.

She looked like a life-sized doll.

She's dressed in a pastel pink Marchesa tulle ballgown, paired with Ralph & Russo Eden pumps in vintage rose gold. Her hair is a wave of blonde locks that delicately cascade down her waist, shiny and sleek and finished with a flower crown. Her unblemished face is hauntingly fair and expressionless, with puffed pink lips and rosy cheeks, slightly tilted to one side on a long, long neck. Lush eyelashes frame her large eyes, which were of a color so blue it was almost mesmerizing, if not for the glassy and lifeless look that they showed.

She looked so enchantingly unreal, and if she hadn't moved her head to face him, he would have thought of her a porcelain doll on display—a true work of art.

"Astrid!" Anna shouts in glee, waving her over, and she promptly approaches them with the practiced grace of a lady. "Astrid, this is your photographer for today, Hiccup. Hiccup, Astrid."

Divine beauty. A fitting name for someone who looked like she had just walked out from one of the paintings of Jean-Honoré Fragonard.

"Nice to meet you," he finally chokes out after a few seconds of speechlessness, and he extends his hand for her to shake. He gives her an awkward smile which she does not return. "I'm filling in for Fishle—I mean, Justin. He's had an accident while we were trekking the Alps, and he has not yet recovered, so I'm covering his next few shoots."

She only stares at him, giving no comment on her supposed photographer's misfortune, or on the absurdity of his name. He is not sure if he's relieved that she has not brought up the silliness of his moniker, or if he's alarmed at her lack of expression. She shakes his outstretched hand, nevertheless, and he can't help but notice the coldness of her grip.

She lifts her chin and turns on her heel, offering no other acknowledgment or greeting. Anna brushes off her indifference as a normal thing, and the photoshoot starts.

She takes her place in the gardens, and he's hypnotized by the elegance of her poses. Like a fairy princess, she's able to display beautiful body shapes that highlighted the intricate delicateness of the dresses she wore, perfectly on brief with the theme of the photoshoot. Delivering pose after pose, he exerts extra effort to catch up with her. He's happy to find out, though, that she was surprisingly easy to give instructions to. When he says "twirl," she spins elegantly, and when he says "jump," she follows, even in heels.

The only drawback that he can find with her is her impassive visage, which almost mars an otherwise impressive set of photos. But he supposes, for the theme of the photoshoot, her inexpressiveness practically works as it adds to her otherworldly allure, which matched the fairy story theme.

(Exquisite in beauty. Easy to direct. Lifeless.)

(He realizes that he had just mentally described a puppet. Or a doll. Or a marionette doll, then, if that existed.)

The photoshoot wraps up late in the afternoon, and they part ways without as much as another word.

The next time he sees her, it's in a studio in Milan for the cover of the beauty issue of Vogue Italia.

Today's photoshoot is about the shining beauty of the inner goddess—of poreless perfection, flawless elegance and effortless glamor. And now she's swathed in Estée Lauder foundation and Laura Mercier concealer, with shimmering copper for her eyeshadow and blinding strobes for her highlighter. The hollows of her cheekbones have been harshly carved out by the darkness of her bronzer, but she still looks glowing and radiant even though her facial features have been distorted by the heaviness of her makeup, just like the doll that she is.

(He still doesn't understand why it was themed as the 'inner goddess,' though, when it hints on unrealistic beauty standards that relied on the magic of makeup. But he supposes that it's not any of his business.)

He settles himself in front of her and positions the camera to capture her face. The lighting done by the creative crew is superb, and she immediately falls into the routine of the quintessential model, giving her best angles and poses, and he almost likens her to one of Lorenzo Bernini's exquisite bust sculptures.

"More neck," he urges, and she immediately complies, tilting her head to elongate it. "More angles—try showing me your profile—there—good. Now try another one. More."

(More, more, more.)

He knows she's unconventionally gorgeous and that she's a fantastic model, but he's looking for something else, and somehow, she's not able to provide it despite her natural blessedness. Perhaps it is the odd mix of the porcelain of her face and the plastic of her skin (of how unreal she seems), when he wants something genuine and relatable.

(He's not sure if that's what he's looking for, but he wants something more.)

The photoshoot continues on anyway, and she delivers exceptionally well, for the brief at least.

"There's something wrong," she declares suddenly when he lingers too long on the camera's screen to study the shots, and he's startled to hear her voice for the first time. He tears his gaze away from the screen to look at her, but she's still wearing her usual doll-like poker face. "You're not satisfied with the photos."

It's not a question, so he doesn't say anything in reply.

"Don't mind Hiccup, babe," one of the crew members behind him—his cousin, Snotlout—comforts her. "He's had a weird taste in girls since he was young, so if there's anything wrong, it's not you; it's him!" A few of the others laugh with his cousin, and he doesn't blame them.

The doll still looks at him expectantly, though, ignoring them.

"You're too—" he struggles with the right adjective to place on her, so he looks back at her pictures—unblemished face, flawless poise, unrivalled angles—and it finally hits him and he finishes with—

"—perfect."

She blinks at his reply and cocks her head to the side. "I don't understand," she drawls out carefully, as if she, too, was looking for the right words, "because perfect is great. Perfect is perfect."

He shrugs and offers her a small smile. Shaking his head, he mutters, "Please don't mind me. It's a personal preference, really. I just find perfect to be—"

He raises his camera one last time to take a shot of her, and she immediately accommodates it, showing off her best assets: long neck, angled cheekbones, puffed up lips and pretty blue eyes, and he can't help himself as he thinks that she's perfectly—

"—boring."

The photoshoot finally finishes, and everyone hurries to clean up the studio and put away the equipment. She still continues to look at him after the wrap up, though, expressionless orbs surreptitiously following his every move even when he is about to leave the premises.

He notices it, and he lets her.

They're both in Macau to shoot another fashion spread, this time for Harper's Bazaar Hong Kong.

Now it was about the rich and the wealthy, stressing on elegance and refinement, on luxurious indulgence and endless parties. Thus, the color palette is a mixture of opulent gold and sophisticated black, and she's dressed in Dior gowns, with Prada bags and Louis Vuitton shoes. She's bedecked in Harry Winston diamonds as well, and she looks like a mannequin posing against the backdrop of the Great Hall of the Venetian Macao Casino Resort.

He's a decent photographer and she's an exceptional model as far as dolls go, so they wrap up the shoot earlier than expected when the creative director, Cass, announces that she's more than satisfied with the photos. The crew puts away the equipment after the completion of the shoot, and he assists them clean up after the mess while she goes away to remove her makeup.

Just right after they clean up the venue, she goes up to the crew in a Gucci getup. "My family's staying in the Resort. Have dinner with us."

It's not exactly a demand, but it's not a request either; her voice is almost expressionless, but there's a sort of authoritative lilt in her tone that compels him to grant her heed. Besides, who doesn't want free dinner anyway?

She leads them to one of the fancy restaurants in the resort, and she introduces her family to them and vice versa, before they settle in one of the tables. Her father is a big man with dark locks and blue eyes in a crisp business suit, and her mother is a beautiful blue-eyed blonde in an elegant gown. Her brother is the spitting image of their father, as Astrid is also the spitting image of their mother (only less human, more ornament).

He soon realizes that in contrast to her coldness, her father loved to talk. Her father shares that their family had originally come from Norway, but had settled further West for business. Her mother is a distant relative of the Royal Family of Norway, and her brother is set to inherit almost everything in their family's estate. He realizes, too, that her family is as perfect as she is.

The discussion shifts from the Hofferson family to the crew, and Hiccup awkwardly introduces himself.

"Haddock?" her father repeats. "Of Haddock Industries?"

"Uh—yes," Hiccup replies.

"So you're the heir to the Company, then?"

Hiccup shakes his head. "No. I mean, my dad offered, but I refused. At least for now. I'm trying my hand at photography for a few years, but I'm going to study again for engineering sometime soon, right after our photo exhibit. Once I finish my degree, my dad and I will talk about the future of the Company."

He nods his head in understanding, but Hiccup doesn't miss the fleeting look of disappointment in his face. The conversation then shifts to Cass and her crew, and Hiccup discovers more about them, like how GoGo is very interested in electromagnetics even though she works as a production assistant, and how Honey Lemon has a passion for Chemistry.

He also discovers that Hiro, Cass's nephew and a temporary part of the crew, is an engineering enthusiast. Hiro manages to coax him to tell a Physics joke, and although he knows it's lame, and that the Hoffersons may not like it given their inclination for business and culture, he gives it a shot anyway.

"So, get this," Hiccup starts as he looks at Hiro, smiling as he recalls that one joke he got from the internet, "A Higgs Boson walks into a Church, and the priest says, 'We don't allow Higgs Bosons in here.' The particle responds by saying: 'But without me, how can you have Mass?'"

He expects Hiro to scold him for sharing a weak joke, for the rest of the crew to tease at his attempt, and for the Hoffersons to offer polite smiles at it. Of all the things that he expects, he does not anticipate what happens next.

Because Astrid laughs.

Laughs.

Her mask slips just this once, and her laugh is a mellifluous yet rambunctious tune that envelops the table. She's laughing so hard that her eyes close in joy, and her mouth parts in unreserved fervor. He realizes that this is the first time he's actually seen any emotion from her, and his stomach flips at the sight because she's just so so beautiful that he wants to commit everything to memory: her skin creasing from the laugh, her uncontrolled smile, the sound of her chuckle.

The rest of the table shares his surprise.

"While it's technically true," she manages to say in the middle of her laughter, and Hiccup is more than surprised to know that not only had she understood the joke, but that she also had some comments, "most of our mass is due to binding energy and only a fraction of a percent is due to the Higgs field. And while the Higgs Boson is a particle that comes from the said field, it doesn't—"

She stops in the middle of her sentence as soon as she catches her father's disapproving glare, and she immediately sobers down, her smile disappearing and her face resting to a neutral position. Her doll-like expression returns, and she politely murmurs, "Forgive me for the unrestrained reaction, father. It will not happen again."

"It should not," her father confirms, returning to his food. Everyone follows suit, not wanting to be part of the conversation. "Remember, being a model or an actress brings more exposure to our family, so you have to play that part for a while. And for that, we're postponing university until you reach twenty-five. You understand that, don't you? Baby doll, you're staying as a model for now."

"Of course, father," she replies in a monotone, her face and her voice never betraying anything.

(But he notices. He sees the way her arms stiffen at her father's remarks, sees the way her hand grips her spoon a bit more tightly, and how her body forces itself to stay unmoving.)

She gives her father a smile. "I'll be a model as long as you want me to be."

(Her smile is rehearsed, he realizes. It's plastic.)

(Just like the rest of her.)

They don't mention anything relating to Physics and fields and laughter anymore, and the dinner ends on a more awkward note.

Later that night, he stumbles into the supposedly restricted rooftop of the Resort. He had heard a bit of an odd noise earlier, something akin to the sound of a dying whale or the singing of an off-tuned angel. He's surprised to find her on the rooftop, her back to him, facing the city lights below them. He silently laughs to himself when he finds out that it was indeed an angel singing off-key. He proceeds to approach her cautiously.

He realizes that she's hollering—she's shouting at nothing and everything at the same time, closing her eyes as if she's letting everything out of her, and gripping the ledge of the rooftop until her knuckles turn white with force. The deck is so far from the people below that he almost doesn't recognize it, not with the howling wind that rivals her yells, and with the disco music that's blaring below.

And he's left to stare at her in wonder.

Because in one night, he's able to see two expressions from her, both from opposite sides of the spectrum. His heart beats faster at this sight—it's not every day when a doll shows her vulnerability. And he wants to memorize them, wants to place all of her angles in his head before they disappear.

(And he regrets that he hasn't taken a picture of her earlier because he realizes that—)

.

.

.

.

.

(—beneath her plastic smiles

were endless screams)

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.

"What are you doing?"

Her expressionless voice pulls him out of his stupor, and he vaguely realizes that he has just taken a picture of her with his camera. She's looking at him with her glassy eyes, yet she stands expectantly, as if she's waiting for him to do something. He looks at the screen of his camera, the raw feeling that she had displayed earlier captured in a shot.

"Delete the picture," she says. Her voice is almost devoid of any feeling, except for the hint of a demand mixed in with the dullness of her tone.

"I don't really see the reason why I should," he replies, much to his mild astonishment. He doesn't know why he's grouchy all of a sudden; he's usually more subdued and compliant than this.

(He wants to see her feelings, he tells himself. Just to remind him that she's human, too.)

"I look ugly in that picture," she retorts in the same monotone.

"What makes you think that?" he asks, genuinely curious. "You haven't even seen the shot yourself."

Instead of answering him, she snatches his camera from him in one fast move. He tries to retrieve the gadget back from her, but she's surprisingly more agile than he had anticipated; she maneuvers to avoid his attempts and eventually deletes the picture on his camera. She hands it back to him with a stare that could almost be mistaken as a heated glare. He glowers back at her as he takes back his camera, and promptly heads to the entrance so that he could get out of the rooftop. She returns to brooding on the ledge.

"For the record," he says before leaving, hands on the handle of the door and turning around to face her one last time. "You looked beautiful earlier."

Her head snaps in his direction. She still gives him her usual emotionless doll-like stare, but she's unusually stiff and tense, her hand gripping the ledge tightly.

"You looked alive."

Then he disappears into the entrance to the resort, leaving her.

He doesn't remember how many weeks has passed since he has last seen her.

Now, they're both shooting for an ad campaign for Victoria's Secret to be set in one of the biggest suites of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in New York City. It's about blood and desire for this photoshoot, of the seductive vampire and her penchant for decadence and ichor. The hotel room is decorated in passionate red and erotic black, and everything looks like it's been made for the lair of a vampire noble.

She's in a bathrobe, sitting in a chair on the other side of the suite when he enters the room, her hair and makeup being done by the crew. She looks up at him when he arrives, glassy blue eyes sweeping over his form. The moment their eyes meet, his stomach does an impossible backflip in his abdomen, and his heart pounds twice as much in his ribcage.

"It's been a while."

"Uh—yeah," he murmurs uncertainly, and he excuses himself to assist the others before the conversation becomes any more awkward.

(And before his heart makes any crazy ideas, like jumping out of his body.)

The photoshoot is about to start, and she stands up from her chair to enter the other room of the suite where the photoshoot is to take place. Her hair is a heap of slightly wet and messy waves that give her visage an extra sexy look. Her lips are coated in a deep, bloody red, and her eyeliner today is thicker than normal. As usual, she looks perfect and doll-like, so alluring and effortlessly coquettish that he doesn't think anyone else would fit the theme other than her.

Then she removes her bathrobe, and his jaw drops at the sight of her because fuck—

She looks absolutely delectable in lingerie.

Her skimpy outfit is a matching set of black lace undergarments with exquisite crimson detailing. The balconette-styled top accentuates the fullness of her bosom, and the lacy briefs cling tightly to her firmness. A suspender belt connects it to black silk stockings, highlighting the length of her legs that could go on for miles and miles, until they end on a pair of four-inch strappy stilettos.

He suddenly feels excruciatingly tight, this vision of her sending his senses into hyper mode. He's very grateful for the huge coat that he's wearing right now, hiding whatever excitement that may unintentionally arise. She settles herself in the middle of the bed for the photoshoot, and it takes all ounce of his willpower not to do anything drastic.

(Like accidentally jumping on her.)

(Not that he's thinking about it.)

The lights shine and the camera snaps, and he finds himself standing on a stool above her to get a better angle of her body. She's responsive to all of his instructions, her body pliant to his every request, twisting and turning until she achieves the desired body shapes.

"Throw your head back as if you're in ecstasy—there—arch your back more—yes, like that—"

He's impressed that she's able to pull off sexy and sophisticated at the same time, looking sensual and glamorous, seductive yet elegant, and never venturing a touch into the world of trashy poses that bordered on softcore porn for lingerie fetish. And then he remembers—

She's a doll—a robot wrapped in porcelain flesh and draped in fancy dresses, with the programmed movements of an automaton and the emotional intelligence of a marble statue. She's beautiful beyond words, but she's also colder than the glass figurines displayed in the foyer downstairs. He's never worked with a doll before her, and he's mentally cursing his racing heart as he takes her picture—because everyone knows you're not supposed to fall in love with an inanimate object—most especially one that was a walking work of art.

(Because what chance did he have with a doll with no heart?)

They wrap up the photoshoot early in the evening, and he wastes no time in packing everything up as fast as he can, bidding everyone a good day and dashing to the nearest restroom outside of the suite that they had used for the photoshoot. He finally relieves himself of his problem, and he leaves the restroom to exit the hotel.

But her form, dressed in Ralph Lauren, greets him outside the restroom; she's so lifeless and stiff she might as well be a decoration on the wall. He almost curses at the sight of her—because he had just recently relieved himself, thank you—and he really does not need to see her again right now, not when his last mental image of her is her in fancy undergarments that would make his blood rush to body parts he'd rather not identify.

His stomach makes another backflip when she looks at him. "Astrid. Hey! Hi Astrid. Hi Astrid," he stutters, trying to rearrange the placement of his bags to his advantage. "Hi Astrid."

"I don't normally care what people do, but you're acting weird," she says nonchalantly, and he's hoping that she's unsuspecting like the inanimate object that she is.

"Shouldn't you go home?" he asks, trying to change the topic. "What are you doing here?"

"There's a night club twenty-six minutes from here," she says, approaching him. "Come with me."

He knows it's an invitation, but there's a lilt of a demand in her tone just like that time when they were in Macau.

"You really should ask one of the creative crew for that," he replies, thinking of ways on how to escape. It's not that he didn't want to be with her—he does—but with the unstable, easily excitable state that he's in right now, he's not sure if he's the most appropriate person to accompany her. He never really liked parties, anyway. "I think they'd be more inclined to accompany you, especially Eret. I think he's got quite the crush on you, you know."

"They already went. You took too long in the restroom while they packed up and left." She continues to close in on him, and he backs up a bit at her advancing figure, heart pounding loudly.

"I…" he trails off as she continues invading his personal space, her body now a few centimeters from his own. "I—I really should go home. I have a self-imposed curfew that I'd like to follow and I'm afraid I'd have to sleep out if—if I don't come home by ten."

It's bullshit, he knows, but he's panicking so much that his head has become incapable of making up reasonable excuses. A ghost of a smile curls up on her lips, and he's startled to see a hint of indecorum and excitement twinkling in her usually dull eyes.

"It's not a problem, then," she whispers as she completely corners him, standing on her toes to meet the difference in height. His heart stops at the sight of her plump lips so close to his, and his eyes flutter shut as she continues, "Now you have an excuse to spend the night with me."

She kisses him.

And later into the night, they fall into the same bed of the suite that they had used earlier, and he's delighted to find, as he peels off her clothes one by one, that she's wearing the same lingerie as she did in the photoshoot.

There is no label to their relationship, not really. But he knows that the arrangement was temporary.

"We're not going to be exclusive," she warns during the first night that they were together.

(And he knows that she means it. And he knows that he's going to regret this sooner or later.)

They keep contact, nevertheless, even after they no longer had photoshoots or projects together, and even when they were in different time zones. There were times in which he'd be in Toronto or São Paulo, shooting an ad campaign for Calvin Klein and Tommy Hilfiger, and she'd be in Barcelona or Paris, walking the runway for Balmain and Givenchy. She'd always be the first one to ask ("Where are you?" in a text written without shortcuts), and he'd reply in a heartbeat. She usually doesn't text back.

(But sometimes, she'd appear outside of the venue of his photoshoot, like that one time he was in Seoul for True Religion and she was supposed to be in Tokyo for Evisu. It had surprised him to see that she was waiting for him in the studio's lobby, small suitcase standing beside her.)

During the times when they were in the same city, they would usually see each other using what little time they had in a nearby Starbucks or any available coffeeshop. One time, though, they meet in a McDonald's branch, and he orders a Big Mac for both of them. He's surprised to find that she only stares at it.

"It's a burger," he points out tersely before taking a big chunk of the food in mock demonstration of how it should be eaten. "You should taste it, it's better than any of your fancy restaurant shit."

She eyes him, and finally takes the burger out of the wrapper and lets her teeth sink in, taking a small bite. She nods her head in agreement, but she takes no more of it. When he asks why, she only responds with, "It's going to go beyond my calorie count for the day."

Perhaps it explains why, in his observation of her, she only takes fruit yogurt for breakfast and protein shakes for lunch. Anything other than that is retched from her throat after a few hours.

Sometimes, he forgets that dolls and walking art don't need to feed on anything, except for lip paint and face powder.

He has grown accustomed to her preferences in hotels; it doesn't need to be first class, but it should always be near some sort of noisy club or near the ocean. He has also observed that she had an odd partiality to sleep on the side of the bed nearest the bathroom. It doesn't take long for him to figure out why: while he's usually the first to sleep, he'd sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and find that she would go missing from her side of the bed, and he'd hear a faint scream in the distance or a heaving sound in the bathroom.

(And he knows that she's been screaming her feelings away with the waves, or vomiting her humanity down the drain.)

On the rare occasion that he catches her sleeping, he observes that she really is like a doll even when asleep—stiff and rigid to a point of lifelessness. And when she wakes up before him in the morning—which she always does—she's back to being the unfeeling decoration that he had first met, all shared feelings of pleasure from the previous night seemingly gone.

"Do you know what people call you?" he asks one night when they're under the covers, both spent after their session. "They call you a doll. Do you know that?"

"So I'm reminded," she answers easily, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "My parents call me that every day and every night."

"Don't you ever get tired?" he continues, curious. "You sleep later than me and wake up earlier than most. And you bounce from one city to another like these places are in your backyard. Not to mention your terribly restricting diet. It gets tiring, doesn't it?"

She shrugs. "I don't really think about it. It's been this way ever since I was young, and this is how I've been taught by my parents."

"Do you ever disobey your parents? Do you ever tell them that you don't want to do something that they want you to do?"

She's silent for a moment. "You said it yourself: I am a doll," she finally says carefully. "I am a model. Only my face is needed, and not my opinion."

"Well, that's depressing," he comments offhandedly, and she stiffens beside him. "What if they want you to do a life-shattering thing, like murdering someone? Are you just going to sit down and cry?"

"I don't cry," she says instantly, her voice startlingly strong. "I never cry. Not even when I have to pretend to be someone else for my family's reputation. If I have to murder someone, then so be it."

He pauses for a second, and eventually recites a line shared before by his mother, "People were created to be loved and things were created to be used. The reason why the world is suffering is because things are being loved, and people are being used. Don't you think that sometimes, you have to do what's best for you and not for everyone else?"

She doesn't say anything more, and he falls asleep as soon as the silence takes over them.

Perhaps she is more doll than human after all. Perhaps her likeness to an art decoration has allowed her to cross a cosmic and ethereal plane in which human notions such as feelings and imperfection have become foreign and insignificant.

(But there are times when he'd feel her arms around him, when she would rest her head on his shoulders and settle her body closer to his like a grieving lover. And he doesn't stir, only pretends to be asleep.)

(Because he's afraid that once he wakes up, he'd find out that it was all just a dream.)

He's surprised that she agrees that they go to his hometown of Berk on her two-week vacation from modelling.

His parents greet them as soon as they arrive, and he prays to the Heavens that they won't embarrass him like they usually do. They're thankfully more easygoing at their arrival, and Astrid is more civil than he has expected; she affords his parents with as little as she can with the doll bullshit that has been going on with her, and he does not know if she's shedding her doll mask, or if she's putting on a normal human façade. His thoughts do not linger on it, however, when his mom starts to almost cry at how he's able to bring a girl back home for the first time in his life—and a very beautiful one at that.

Astrid gives him a small smirk, and he's surprised to see such an unruly look from her. He wants to take a picture of it, to stock it in his almost inexistent photo collection of her expressions, but his father joins in his mother's drama, and he has to pray to the Heavens again to swallow him whole so that he would no longer endure another second of embarrassment. She giggles at him, and he's too stunned yet again to react.

(From that time on, he carried his camera around his neck, just in case she'd show any more emotions.)

His parents, thankfully, mostly leave them alone in the house, and he's grateful for the time he can spend with her alone.

Astrid meets his green-eyed black cat, affectionately named Toothless—that adorable little shit—and he manages to capture a photo of her delighted face as she picks him up, cradling and stroking him like it's the first time she's studied a cat up close. He's also fascinated by the concentration that she shows when they play video games, and it almost costs him a win when he sneaks to take a photo of her. Her exasperation at his winning streak is equally as amusing, if not more, and he copes to snap another picture of her while she's distracted. She's frustrated at her first attempt at frying eggs, and he takes another photo of her in an apron, trying to battle it out with an egg in the frying pan. He's also delighted with her reactions to his jokes, and he supplies her with a daily dose of them just to hear her laugh.

"A photon checks into a hotel and is asked if he needs any help with his luggage, and he says 'No, I'm travelling light,'" he tells her one time, to which she counters with, "A neutron walked into a bar and asked, 'How much for a drink?' and the bartender replies, 'for you, no charge.'"

She had laughed so hard at their banter that he manages to take several pictures of her without her noticing. She eventually confides in him that she had liked Physics even before, and if given the chance, she would love to study a course related to it if she could study in a university.

There would also be times when they'd share a few of their literary inclinations, and he points her to the story of Psyche and Cupid, and of Pygmalion and Galatea, but she brushes them off, confessing, "I honestly prefer Norse mythology. Sif is more badass." He can't agree with her more.

He'd try to stifle a laugh when she tries to eat his mother's kitchen experiments, and he wonders just how much of her plastic stomach can handle an inedible meal. Surprisingly—or not—she survives a lot of the meals, and his mother is delighted at her tenacity, and his father marvels at her strength.

And he's happy.

He's happy that she's showing a side of her that he's never seen before.

But then she catches his eye, and then—

.

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.

(sometimes she's lost, sometimes she's broken

most of the time she's closed,

but there are times when she's open)

.

.

.

(like now)

.

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(and he no longer knows if she's

a human pretending to be a doll—)

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—she'd catch herself as well, and she slowly withdraws.

She lets go of Toothless eventually, even though the feline would rub itself on her legs, and her expression turns blank as she mechanically pats his head. She calms herself down when she's pissed at him when he wins, and she lifts her chin up when she excuses herself to go outside. She eventually leaves the eggs on the frying pan, turning on her heel when it was about to burn, and Hiccup is left to clean up the mess she has made. She gradually sobers down from the laughter and changes the topic from jokes and literature to the news and some random things like entertainment, and he's left hanging at her sudden change.

And at night, she'd go to the bathroom, and he knows she'll be vomiting the food and the memories and the laughter down the drain. So that when she goes back to bed, she'll be an inanimate object once again.

.

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(—or a doll pretending to be human)

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.

(because she had almost let him in

but he realizes that she couldn't bear

digging up the heart that she's been burying)

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He waits.

He waits until she settles herself in his arms at night, when he's sure that she's asleep. Then he'd allow himself to move his arms and try to shift her frame even closer to his. He'd allow the luxury to let his fingers wander through her tresses, to caress the skin that's bare to him, and to kiss her head like what a proper lover would do.

He'd review the pictures that he has taken for the day, and his heart sinks as he realizes that he's already fucked.

Because whether he liked it or not, he had now fallen in love with an inanimate object.

.

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.

(sometimes she's stone cold, at times she's on fire

but mostly she's everything he desired)

Fishlegs finally recovers from his leg injury, and Hiccup finally has time to focus on their joint photo exhibit as Fishlegs takes over the fashion photoshoots. This meant that he and Astrid had lesser time than they already had, for he would be travelling around the world—from Mt. St. Helens in Washington to the Rainbow Mountains in Zhangye—for three months to take landscape and aerial pictures, and until the end of winter, he won't be in New York to accompany her. They still exchange text messages every now and then, though.

He notices that she's more demanding and aggressive recently.

She'd try to meet him even though they only had one hour to see each other, when before she'd dismiss him even when they could spend time together in one afternoon. She'd also travel great lengths to find him, even if he was in the middle of the wilderness—his eyes almost popped out of his sockets when she had appeared beside him in the Sahara Desert. There would also be times when she'd arrive in his hotel room unannounced, even at the most unholy of hours, and she'd jump on him the moment he opens the door. He knows that she's insatiable in bed most of the time, but this development was something he does not expect.

(But he's not complaining about it. He never can.)

And the most surprising development of all was her sudden tolerance for small, almost insignificant public displays of affection. Holding his hands while walking. Grabbing his arm when shopping for clothes. Kissing him lightly on the cheek before they part.

She doesn't say anything, just slips her hand in his or takes his arm in her hands. It occurs so naturally he almost mistakes them as a couple.

And it is in these moments that he decides to make a picture compilation of her. While he is focused on developing landscape and aerial photos, he finds time to collect all of the pictures that he had of her. He progressively and intricately arranges them to form the shape of her face when he first saw her smile. Photographic mosaics were never his forte, but he was willing to go to lengths to make an art piece that was worthy of her. This project had taken more time than he liked to admit, so his time with her gradually lessened.

She suddenly calls him at two in the morning one time, and he languidly pushes his phone against his ear to hear her.

"It's LA Fashion Week next Monday for the fall-winter collection," she says in her usual monotone. "Come with me."

The phone call ends even before he can respond.

The predominant theme for the fall/winter collection for LA Fashion Week is apparently about departure, with clothes and accessories in harsh blacks, stark grays and lonely whites. This was coupled with the avant-garde pieces of Alexander McQueen and Vivienne Westwood, with emphasis on structure and de-construction, of innovation and uniqueness at the same time.

Astrid is the closing walk for one of the designers, and she floats down the runway in a somber ensemble of black tights and an asymmetric gray coat. She looks flawless as she always does, like a doll in her dollhouse, or like an abstract painting of Picasso suddenly come to life. He's not an official photographer for the event, but he's there, anyway, taking out his camera and snapping pictures of her.

The event ends with an after-party to which she's invited. He's not, but she drags him with her and he lets her, even though he knows that both of them don't dance and they'll only be stuck in one of the tables. To his surprise, she drags him all the way to the dance floor, music blaring around them and bodies pressing everywhere. She embraces him as soon as they reach one part of the dance floor.

"Hug me," she says, and he's surprised to identify the desperation in her voice, almost blurred by the loudness of the music. "Just—hug me."

He doesn't say anything, but embraces her frame, pressing her soft body against his own gently. She nuzzles her head into his neck, her soft breath tickling his flesh. He hasn't realized before just how small she could be, and in embracing her right now, a sense of protectiveness hits him, and he brings her closer. She returns it in equal fervor, thin fingers digging into the softness of his skin.

They stay like that for a few minutes, a hugging couple a stark contrast against the hundreds of dancing, pressed bodies.

"I meant to tell you," he starts after a few moments, speaking into her ear so that she could hear him, "it's my photo exhibit two months from now. I've put much effort in this project, and it's my last one before I go back to school, and I would really love it if you could—"

"—Is that you, Hiccy?"

Hiccup lets go of Astrid, and whips his head around to see the source of the voice.

"I told you never to call me that, Jackson!" Hiccup hisses at a tall, thin figure, almost as lanky as he was, with a handsome boyish face and hair dyed in white. He recognizes him as an old photographer friend who became a model and was now the new face for Guess.

"Nice to meet you again, Hiccy," he teases and gives Hiccup a short hug, one which Hiccup does not entirely return as a form of friendly banter. "Haven't seen you for weeks. Where have you been?"

"Fishlegs came back, so I'm focusing on doing our shared photo exhibit," he explains. "Which reminds me, it's opening soon and I'd like to invite you."

Hiccup passes on the details of the exhibit, but Jack, for the life of him, can't hear the date of the event clearly, so Hiccup ends up typing it on his phone so that Jack could see it.

"Oh," Jack says as soon as he sees the date. "I'd like to go to your exhibit, but I have a wedding to attend on that day."

Jack turns to Astrid and offers a grin, shaking her hand with much enthusiasm. "Congratulations, by the way, Astrid."

Hiccup sends both of them a questioning look.

"Didn't you know?" Jack asks, almost amusingly. "It's Astrid's wedding on that day."

.

.

.

"When were you planning to tell me?"

His voice is sharp and strained, so piercing it almost cut through the tension in the air. They're back in their hotel room after a rather awkward parting with Jack, and he lashes out at her as soon as they enter it.

"Or were you planning to tell me at all?"

She spares him a fleeting glance, before she averts her eyes to stare at the floor. "I told you we were not going to be exclusive."

"So that's it, then?" he replies in exasperation. "It's great to know that I mean so much in your life that you failed to tell me that you have been in a relationship for four months now."

"I am not in a relationship with anyone."

"So being engaged doesn't count as being in a relationship now?" he retorts, eyes almost rolling. "I know that we're just temporary, but good Odin, Astrid. I have been fucking you in the past four months! How do you think that would make me feel?"

She blinks and takes in a deep breath, wringing her hands together in front of her in an attempt to keep the rest of her body unmoving. "It was my father who set up the engagement," she says cautiously, as if that explained everything. "I have nothing to do it."

"That's not the point," he snaps. "You were engaged and I have been fucking you when you should have already been with your fiancé. Do you see how messed up that is, fucking with someone else's betrothed? I feel awful just thinking about it, and letting you sleep with me when you should be sleeping with him. Unless—were you fucking him, too?"

"NO!" she shouts in reply, her mask falling and her face contorting in mortification. "No. I can't—You were the only—I've never been with anyone intimately ever since I have been with you."

"Been with me?" Hiccup repeats disbelievingly. "Thor. What are we even, really? Friends with benefits? Fuck buddies? What am I to you, Astrid?" He sends her a piercing glare, and she flinches at the intensity of it.

"You—" she whispers in uncertainty, breaking eye contact. "I don't know."

"See?" Hiccup fumes. "You should have told me sooner. I would have left you in peace with your fiancé."

She doesn't say anything in reply and they both fall into a tension-filled silence for a moment, their bodies rigid with emotional turmoil. Finally, Hiccup sighs and continues, "Why didn't you tell me?"

She gulps, eyes making contact with his, and he's surprised at the mixture of emotions that swirled in her blue orbs. "Because I don't want you to leave me," she says in great effort, as if every word she said inflicted pain upon her.

"Why?" he whispers.

She closes her eyes and breathes in, wringing her hands even more harshly now, and he briefly wonders how her fingers have not yet bled. Finally, she parts her lips and whispers in the same agonizing tone, "Because I love you."

He laughs bitterly. "Bullshit. You don't know that. You don't know what I am to you, you don't know what we are. You don't even know what you want!"

"But I do!" she shouts, closing in on him, rivalling his piercing glare with her own heated ones, and he almost backs down at the sudden fire in her actions. Her doll façade finally breaks. "I want you."

Both of her hands reach out for his face, gently caressing the faint stubble that littered his jawline. Her gaze turns softer as she looks into his eyes, fondness and affection shining in her stare, and he wants nothing more than to get lost in the beauty of them.

"Don't you see?" she breathes. "I'm supposed to be this perfect doll who always obeys her family, a decoration for my house. But you make me forget that. You make me want to be someone else, to do things I never thought of doing. I'm supposed to be well-behaved, refined and perfect, but when I see you—you—you make me smile, you make me laugh, you make me so frustrated at times. When I see you, my heart just stops and my stomach flips, and I want to forget everything that I am and just kiss your jawline and ravage you. And I don't know why, I don't get what's happening, I don't understand what you're doing to me, and I just—I just want to be with you. I don't know if that's love. But it's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Then she closes her eyes again and swallows hard, thinking of the next words that she had to say. When she opens them, her eyes change to reflect a different set of emotions now, of dread and sorrow and regret. "If I can be with you, I would. But I can't."

"Why is that?" he asks, almost afraid.

She smiles mirthlessly. "You forget: I'm a doll. A doll cannot do, but can only be done by. A doll cannot choose, but can only be chosen. And even if I want everything to change, the truth is that you don't have the privilege to choose me, and I don't have the right to love you."

She lets go of him and steps back, her back straightening and her chin lifting. Her doll mask slips back on, and she says her next words with pained conviction. "I have to do it. My family is crumbling. Our family business is failing. My father is with his mistresses, and my mother is drunk every night. My brother doesn't care, and he wastes his life away in drugs and gambling. I'm the only redemption my family has. So I have to be perfect. I must be the doll to be married off to some lame-ass businessman to save our own business. And if I must shut down all my emotions and pretend to be the perfect daughter and wife, then I will."

He's silent for a moment, taking in all that she had said. He finally bites his lip in frustration, and resentfully mutters, "That's bullshit. Fuck that doll mentality shit."

He laughs bitterly again, and he advances in on her now, cornering her to the wall until there's almost nothing left between them except a centimeter of space. Her eyes widen as his arms raise to rest on the wall on either side of her head, trapping her. "No, you forget: you're human. You feel, you give, you take, you love, you lust. You fall, you crash, you bleed, you have flaws. And that's the beauty of it, isn't it? You're alive."

He stares into her eyes deeply, and he notices that tears have begun to form in her eyes. She's alarmed at the sudden formation of them, trying to blink them away. "There was once a time when I was seriously considering making you a permanent part of my life. I was so ready then, to catch you when you fall, to collect the pieces of you if you break. I was ready to stand by your side no matter what. I thought we'd end up together despite our differences."

He exhales and continues, "You should know that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me as well. I've loved you more than I've loved anyone else in the world. But I can't hold on to someone who pretends to be a doll." Then he releases her, but his gaze lingers on her frame, somber and tired and equally as regretful. Her tears finally fall, but he makes no move to comfort her.

"I can't hold on to someone who wants to let go."

He gives her one last kiss on the lips, and then he leaves the hotel to take the first plane back to New York.

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.

(but look, isn't it true

that beautiful things

have dents and scratches, too?)

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It's the day of their photo exhibit.

(And it's also the day of her wedding.)

(But he's not thinking about that. Of course not. Not at all.)

The theme of their photo exhibit is 'Beauty around the world,' and he and his friends showcased the theme with their own respective fortes. The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, who were both candid and wildlife photographers, showed pictures of people and animals from all walks of life at their most natural and beautiful state, from a smiling child to a contented old man, from a newly birthed calf to an alligator battling a snake. Fishlegs, who was a fashion photographer, exposed the different epitomes of beauty of men and women around the world, from a Latina beauty queen to a Chinese model. And Hiccup, who was an aerial and landscape photographer, exhibited photos of the most beautiful places from across the globe.

All of them had designated areas in the gallery to correspond to the different tastes of the photographers despite the uniformity in theme. So, Hiccup looks in amusement when a man walks up to him to inquire of a photo that was clearly placed in Fishlegs' area.

"Mr. Ingerman says it's your work, despite the fact that it's placed in his area," he explains as he points at the photo.

Hiccup almost freezes as he recognized it: it was the photographic mosaic that he had made from his collection of Astrid's photos, intricately arranged to resemble her smiling face that he had first seen. He hadn't meant to include it at the last minute, but since it was placed together with his other works, which mostly contained landscape shots, the arrangers must have assumed that it belonged to Fishlegs' area.

"It's exquisite!" the stranger exclaims. "Is this not the supermodel Astrid Hofferson? The one they call the living doll?"

Doll.

He despised that word. If this stranger was going to mention that word again, then he'd be forced to strangle him until he left the gallery.

With the most indifferent voice that he could muster, he replies, "Yes, that's her."

"I assume you're one of her admirers, then?"

One of her fucks. "One of her photographers."

"Now that explains a lot," the stranger chuckles. "So, how much for this print?"

Hiccup blinks, and his face contorts in mild irritation. "It's not for sale."

"Come now," the stranger insists. "Surely there is a price for everything?"

"My other displays are for sale, but this one isn't. It's strictly for show."

"Name a price. I can double or triple it, if you wi—"

"—I'm sorry, but it's not for sale," Hiccup asserts again, cutting him off. He quickly adds an "excuse me" and leaves the area, ignoring the stranger's prattles.

Escaping the stranger, he seeks for Fishlegs, and upon seeing him, quickly gives a half-assed excuse to leave the exhibit, something along the lines of "I have to pack for home" and "not feeling well," but he knows that Fishlegs would know that it was code for I have to fucking go and nurse my broken heart now, so Fishlegs releases him and assures him that he'd tell the rest of the gang.

Hiccup leaves the venue and immediately downs another bottle of gin as soon as he gets home.

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It's eleven in the evening when he wakes up from his bed.

He still feels horrible even after drinking alcohol, and he's seriously considering taking drastic measures—like fucking a random blue-eyed blonde from the nearby nightclub—just so that his ache for her would lessen. But he eventually dismissed the notion; he did not want to believe that he was so desperate that he would do something that he would later regret. And his mother would surely disapprove of his actions.

(But he's desperate. He knows that.)

(And the regret is starting to sink in now. He should have done something stupid. He should have done something crazy. He should have done something, anything. Like going to her wedding and punching her fiancé in the face before kidnapping her. Even though that would surely land him in a Wanted list.)

(That would have been better than drowning in his sorrows.)

He looks for another drink, but the bottle falls as he tries to make purchase of it. The shards hit his skin and he soon bleeds, and it's as if the sting from his wound had slapped him from his stupor.

He comes to his senses eventually, and it finally dawns on him that he needs to go back to the venue and burn that collage. Yes, that's what he'll do. He can't wallow in his sorrow forever, he has to forget her. He knows he can't, but there's no harm in trying anyway. So he's going to throw away everything, anything that reminded him of her. Starting with that photomosaic print.

Getting up from his bed, he groggily dresses up to go back to the exhibit.

He's surprised to find that the gallery has not yet been entirely closed; although the signs and the lights are out, the backdoor leading to the displays was open. Perhaps a burglar had come in? It was possible, but unlikely—only prints are available inside, and he doubts that most of them were sellable. Inside the gallery, the main lights have gone out, but the display lights have not, and the light from the strip lighting fixtures illuminates the area in a soft, almost otherworldly glow, playing with the shadows that formed in the semi-darkness of the venue.

He navigates through the corridors in search for that one display, and he almost reaches it until she catches his attention.

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Pygmalion, the king of Cyprus, decided he would never marry any maiden. For comfort and solace, he turned to the arts, finding his talent in sculpture. Using exquisite skills, he carved a statue out of ivory that was so resplendent and delicate that no maiden could compare with its beauty.

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It seems as if the world somehow stops moving around him, and he swears that his eyes were cheating him the moment they land on her frame.

Her profile is facing him, and she stands in front of the photomosaic that he had created, glassy eyes studying the exhibit, taking in every single detail that composed it. She's so transfixed on the display that she looks almost frozen and rooted on the spot, and he almost mistakes her for a sculpture lost in display in their photo exhibit.

He feels like he's back in the gardens of the Château de Versailles, on that one day the first time he met her.

But somehow, it's different.

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He named the ivory maiden Galatea.

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(She looked like a life-sized doll.)

She still looks like a life-sized doll.

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He adorned her lovely figure with women's robes and placed rings on her fingers and jewels about her neck.

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.

(She's dressed in a pastel pink Marchesa tulle ballgown, paired with Ralph & Russo Eden pumps in vintage rose gold.)

She's wearing a plain white T-shirt right now, paired with jeans and an old pair of sneakers, all unbranded. A suitcase sits beside her, and she's bringing a duffel bag in one hand while the other holds an ice cream cone that she's leisurely devouring.

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This statue was far more astounding and delicate than any human, and whenever a human walked by, they would stop and stare at her magnificent beauty. Indeed, there were no proper words to describe her.

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(Her hair is a wave of blonde locks that delicately cascade down her waist, shiny and sleek and finished with a flower crown. Her unblemished face is hauntingly fair and expressionless, with puffed pink lips and rosy cheeks, slightly tilted to one side on a long, long neck.)

Her hair is tied in a messy braid over her shoulders, and a baseball cap finishes her look. He's surprised to see that there's actually a pimple on her forehead and on her chin, and bags under her eyes, fresh and uncovered, for she wore no trace of makeup. She's also sporting a bruise on her cheek, coupled with scratch marks on her arms and a purple discoloration on her right knuckles.

(Lush eyelashes frame her large eyes, which were of a color so blue it was almost mesmerizing, if not for the glassy and lifeless look that they showed.)

She turns her head to find him in the premises, and her beautiful blue eyes light up in equal parts hesitation and relief—and he couldn't help but notice the small fire in her eyes that made her orbs look like molten sapphires that shone bright against the dimness of the venue.

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Pygmalion fell in love with his creation and often laid his hand upon the ivory statue as if to reassure himself it was not living.

.

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(If she hadn't moved her head to face him, he would have thought of her a porcelain doll on display.)

If she hadn't moved her head to face him, he would have thought of her a figment of his imagination.

So he cautiously approaches her, one leg after another, holding his breath and willing his heart to calm down at the sight of her. His gaze is magically transfixed on her, and the world around him does not matter anymore.

His phone suddenly rings, snapping him out of his stupor, and he stops in his tracks to answer the call.

"Hiccy!" Jack's voice screams from the other end of the line. He would have berated him if this was a normal situation, but he's too stunned to say anything, so he lets his friend babble about. "Did you see? Have you heard? Astrid—Astrid, man! She ran away from her wedding!"

His eyes widen, and he stares at her, jaw dropping at the news. She remains motionless, gripping her ice cream cone tightly as she observes him back.

"You should have seen it! When she was asked if she took him to be her husband, she shouted a resounding no! Then the crowd went wild, and her fiancé almost hit her, but she punched him right in the gut even before he could reach her. You should have seen him rolling on the ground, it was hilarious! But her family confronted her, and her mom was so angry that she slapped her. Astrid fought back, though, and then she left the church, but not before announcing that she's disowning them as her family! And then it became total chaos, there was—"

He doesn't want to hear anything else anymore, so he drops the phone without breaking the call, and he stares at her in amazement and awe and an overwhelming sense of pride—

And in one swift motion, after hastily crossing the floor to close the distance between them, he grabs her waist—fuck the fallen ice cream and the discarded bag—and dips his head so that he can capture her lips with his own in a heated kiss.

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After the day's festivities, Pygmalion returned home and kissed Galatea. At the warmth of her kiss, he started as if stung by a hornet. The arms that were ivory now felt soft to his touch and when he softly pressed her neck, the veins throbbed with life.

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Humbly raising her eyes, the maiden saw Pygmalion and the light of day simultaneously.

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It clicks.

He breaks the kiss to look at her, to make sure that she was real.

She looked different, she felt different.

She looks flawed and imperfect now, with lesser luxury items adorning her frame. There's lesser powder on her face, lesser designer brands in her clothes. But there's also more—there's more fire in her eyes, more emotions on her face. Her hair appears less conditioned and more tangled, and her skin feels less like synthetic resin and more like soft flesh.

She has lesser belongings right now, but she has gained more. More life.

(He realizes that she looks more human.)

"So what's the plan now?" he finally breathes, smiling after a few moments of stunned silence.

"I was thinking of taking up a Physics-related course at the MIT," she answers, and he's mesmerized by how animated she has become, how her answers were no longer terse, and how her voice is no longer a monotone. "I'm also thinking of getting another agent. I mean, after severing my ties with my family, I know my mother would no longer want to see me. I want to try skydiving, too, and we need a Mario Kart rematch. But we have to get a Big Mac before all that. I'm starving."

He laughs and hugs her. "What about your father, though?"

"Well, he has a trophy for a wife and a puppet for a son. I don't think he'd miss playing with dolls."

He laughs again, and she looks up at him. He sends her a questioning look at the hesitance in her eyes, and she mutters, "Look, I'm sorry about what had happened before. I'm new to this rebellious phase of late emotional development, so I'm warning you ahead of time: I may break your heart again because I'm still trying to understand my feelings and how to act upon them, so if you don't want to get together with me because of my emotional instability, I totally understand—"

He shuts her up with another kiss, hoping that it would be enough to make her understand that he was more than willing to risk it.

"I'd love to get together with you again," he tells her, and she lights up again in immense gratitude and fondness and just pure happiness that her radiant visage makes his heart melt at the mere sight of it. "For as long as that's also all right with you, M'lady."

"Just don't give me any more lame Physics jokes," she teases.

He snorts. "Why? I know you love them! Is it because the frequency of my bad Physics jokes… Hertz?"

She lightly punches his chest and laughs, and he would have complained about it if he was not so captivated by the sight of her laughing, the tinkling sound of it hypnotizing him.

She looks so real and unreal at the same time; until just a few minutes ago, he had thought of her an emotionless doll, but here she was, openly laughing and teasing with him. Her golden hair glows under the artificial light, and her blue eyes shine brightly in liveliness. Her lips have become dry and flaky but no less kissable, and her skin has been marred and scratched, but she still looks no less attractive. She just looks so animated and so alive and so divine yet also so human.

And now he's certain.

He's travelled around the world and he's seen them all—paintings and sculptures, figurines and decorations, dolls and puppets, models and actresses—but now he's absolutely certain.

.

.

.

.

.

(She was the most beautiful work of art of them all.)

END

TL;DR: It's a retelling of Pygmalion and Galatea.

There's a subreddit called r/catsnamedtoothless, which has prompted me to make Toothless as a cat in the story. And I have always imagined him as a cat in the real world. Oh. And if you're interested in landscape photography, there's also a subreddit named r/EarthPorn, so you might want to check it out. X)

(Also, personal opinion, but: I think Hiccup would make a better model than Astrid, I mean. He's tall, thin, and exceptionally good-looking. I just didn't think he'd be fit to play the 'doll' in the story, so I strongly decided against it. But if a fic pops out in which he's a model, please let me know!)

I'm still really busy right now, so the next chapter of On Rings might take a bit more while. Sorry.

Thank you very much for reaching the end of this long-arse oneshot. And thank you for those who have read my other works; I'd like to thank you one by one, but it's getting late. Nevertheless, I'd find time to identify you in one of my next works.

If you enjoyed this oneshot, I'd like to know what you think. If I may ask, I'd like any form of feedback, whether it be in a review (please be gentle with flames), a fave or a follow. Thank you again! :)