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The Case of Estilo’s Magnificent Moustache

Eva

Eva was in front of her mirror, cross-eyed, trying to glue a moustache on without also gluing her lip shut.

“This,” she muttered, “is for science. Also, for flirting. Mostly for survival.” The moustache, a miniature chevron that looked like it belonged to a 14-year-old dictator, was matched with a goatee she’d fashioned out of dark theater hair.

She tilted her chin. In the flickering lamplight of her little flat, she did not look like Eva—the sharp-eyed girl who liked to argue about everything under the sun. She looked like Estilo.

Estilo was a creation of necessity. Eva had, in a moment of dangerous curiosity, accepted an invitation to Lord Beckenham’s annual garden-and-ballroom fête, but women were supposed to have escorts, and she had none. So: Estilo.

Her chest bound, her hair tucked under a brimmed hat, and her voice practiced into something low and dashing, she gave the mirror a finger-gun salute. “Señor Estilo,” she intoned, “you are a menace.”

~~~

Noé

Noé had been looking forward to this party for weeks. The Beckenham estate always smelled faintly of roses and scandal, and she thrived on both. Her dress was a shimmer of teal silk with a neckline that her aunt would have fainted over.

She practiced a smile—tilted just so, dimples out, teeth in check. Not too wide, not too modest. Perfect.

This year, she had promised herself, would be different. No dancing with bore after bore. No hiding behind the punch table pretending to admire the citrus slices. She wanted something—no, someone—interesting.

And if the universe didn’t provide, she would at least flirt recklessly until the universe looked up from its newspaper and paid attention.

~~~

Eva

Estilo strolled into the Beckenham ballroom with all the swagger of a man who had just grown facial hair that morning and was determined no one would notice.

The chandeliers glittered. A string quartet sawed earnestly. Ladies laughed behind their fans, and gentlemen compared watch chains.

Eva, in her disguise, caught her first problem: walking in stiff men’s shoes she’d borrowed from a cousin.

They squeaked. Loudly.

Every step sounded like a mouse being trodden on. She tried to disguise it with dramatic coughs, which only made a passing dowager peer at her suspiciously.

“Stylish entrance,” Eva muttered under her breath. “Truly, Estilo, you are grace incarnate.”

Then she saw Noé. The girl in teal, glowing under the chandelier light like a mischievous mermaid dragged ashore. She was laughing at something—probably a joke that wasn’t even funny. But the laugh… it made Eva’s moustache sweat.

~~~

Noé

The moment she spotted him, she knew.

Tall, a bit clumsy, with a moustache that belonged in a telenova. He was trying far too hard not to look nervous, which was immediately endearing. His shoes squeaked with every step, as though announcing: Attention, ladies and gentlemen, this is Estilo, he has arrived, clap accordingly. Noé felt the fizz of attraction—instant, ridiculous. Finally, she thought, the universe delivers.

~~~

Eva

“Estilo,” she introduced herself with a bow that nearly threw her hat off. “Of… abroad.”

“Abroad?” Noé’s eyes sparkled. “That sounds terribly exotic. Where exactly?”

Eva blinked. She had not thought this far ahead.

“Uh… The Abroad,” she said gravely. “It’s west of Here and somewhat south of There.”

Noé burst into delighted laughter. Eva’s moustache quivered dangerously.

~~~

Noé

She adored him instantly. Who else could say something so absurd with such earnest gravity? The Abroad! He wasn’t boring. He wasn’t safe. He was strange in exactly the right way.

“I must know everything about The Abroad,” she teased. “Do they have dancing there?”

“Constantly,” Estilo replied, puffing his chest. “Even breakfast is danced.”

His attempt at seriousness was ruined by his shoe squeaking. She leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, “Well then, you must prove it. Dance with me.”

~~~

Eva

Dancing as Estilo was a problem.

One: her chest bindings pinched every time she moved.

Two: her hat slipped at a treacherous angle.

Three: she forgot men were supposed to lead.

So she tried to lead.

So did Noé.

They twirled in opposite directions, nearly colliding with a tray of champagne. A waiter yelped, glasses cascaded, and Eva lunged to save one—only to catch the fizzing liquid square in her moustache.

“Stylish,” she coughed. Noé was doubled over with laughter, clutching his arm. “You’re dreadful! Dance with me again.”

And Eva, despite drowning in embarrassment, found she desperately wanted to.

~~~

Noé

He was a disaster. A glorious disaster. Most men tried to impress her with perfect steps, whispered compliments, carefully practiced lines. Estilo tripped over his own feet, winked too often, and looked like he was hiding a thousand secrets. Which only made him more magnetic.

As they whirled again—somehow managing not to break more glassware, Noé thought: This is it. This is the trouble I’ve been waiting for.

~~~

Eva

They slipped outside to the garden, air cooler, stars pricking through the night. Eva tugged at her moustache—it was itching like a colony of ants. But Noé was there, close enough that Eva forgot every ounce of discomfort.

“You’re not like other men,” Noé said softly.

“You… have no idea,” Eva muttered.

“What was that?”

“I said, uh, I strive for uniqueness. Comes with… Abroad culture.” Her heart was hammering. Her disguise was unraveling with every second, and Noé’s gaze made her wish she didn’t need it at all.

~~~

Noé

There was something odd about him. Not wrong—just odd. His voice wobbled sometimes, as though slipping into another register. His jaw seemed… less firm than most. His eyes—good heavens, those eyes—were alive with mischief, too alive for any dull man.

And she liked it. Too much.

Before she could stop herself, she leaned a fraction closer. “You’re terribly mysterious, Estilo.”

He swallowed audibly. “Mysterious is my middle name. Well, one of them. My full name is very long.” She laughed again, but her heart was fluttering.

~~~

Eva

It happened like this: a strong gust of wind swept the garden, caught the edges of her hat, and ripped it clean off.

Her hair tumbled free. The moustache, already weakened by champagne, peeled halfway down her top lip like a caterpillar on holiday.

Noé gasped.

Eva froze. “I can explain,” she blurted. “I—this—Estilo is more of a… performance piece?”

~~~

Noé

Her eyes widened. Estilo was—Estilo wasn’t—Estilo was a she.

For one wild moment, Noé’s brain clattered like a dropped tray of silverware. She’d been swooning over a girl in a fake moustache.

But the absurdity hit her almost instantly, and she started to laugh. Not cruelly—helplessly, joyfully. “You—you absolute menace!” she wheezed. “You’ve been prancing around with that thing on your face and I—”

Eva, red as roses, stammered, “I didn’t mean to fool you, I just—wanted to come, and then—and then you smiled at me and I didn’t want to stop—” Noé pressed a hand over her mouth, still giggling. “You ridiculous, wonderful fraud.”

And then, because laughter had carried her right up to the edge of tenderness, she kissed her.

~~~

Eva

Eva was taken by surprise. The kiss short-circuited her brain, made the remnants of moustache glue utterly irrelevant.

When they pulled apart, Noé whispered, “You owe me a proper introduction.”

Eva bowed low, moustache dangling absurdly. “Eva. Not Estilo. Of… here.”

(Not mine but it was cute and funny <3)

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This is how the comics should’ve gone.

[idkww12345]

thinking about what zuko means to azula and weeping. he's a traitor but he's your brother. he held you when you were born. he's banished for being too weak to hurt your father and you learn to hate his goodness. he is somewhere in the world carrying your eyes. he misses your absent mother more than he loves you but that is the price you pay for being the one who stayed. he never grants you this same kindness. you are faster and deadlier and better but it doesn't change the fact that your brave big brother used to tell you stories of dragons every time it stormed because you were so afraid of the thunder. he is the only one who understands what it means to bear the brunt of your bloody inheritance. he crumbled under the weight of it, but you stayed. you always stay. he is half of you. you hate being betrayed.you don't love him. he's your big brother. who could you possibly love more?

(Found this somewhere 😅😭)