Films brought in the most money, it was true, but Dylans passion projects had always been the live stage costumes ze made. It was different, building a costume that would be put on night after night, worn in front of people and made for quick changes, instead of something worn for a few days while scenes were filmed, before being relegated back into a closet while the film moved on. But zir favorite times, for either kind of project, is when the creators wanted something that ze hadn’t made before. And this time, the costume the theater troupe wanted was supposed to be entirely authentic, which lead to Dylans current position, cross legged on a chair in the public library, buried in a vintage pattern book, with another dozen or so scattered across the table in front of zem. Ze had found a corner of the library that was unoccupied for the majority of the time, allowing zem to take over the entire table with no complaints, or disruptions. Absorbed in the work, fingers trailing over the fading marks that delineated the old seams and cuts. So when a hand touched zir shoulder, Dylan shrieked briefly, before swinging around, eyes wide as ze stared at the person who had approached them, speaking automatically. “Please dont hurt the books if you’re going to murder me”
