a/n one: wow! this story has a lot fo pre-prepped chapters, but despite that, is still not finished. i'd like to thank my artist partner-in-crime, megan, for putting up with my dumb antics! this story was written for the 2015 Resbang, and will be updated on a weekly basis.
one: saw a picture of you, hanging in an empty hallway
Soul Evans, head of Fashion and Layout in world-renown fashion magazine, Vogue, cannot remember the last time he has been enamored with a model. Or noticed one in a way other than taking measurements, as a matter of fact.
Black*Star, his best friend, and head of Photography, wastes no time in pointing that fact out to a majority of the magazine staff present in the monthly meeting, when Soul casually asks about the emerald-eyed model girl. It's a typical Black*Star styled jest, and Soul has little patience for it.
"Kid, stop harping on me about model - designer relationships. Do you know who she is?" Soul slams his hands palm down onto the wooden surface of Kid's desk, sharp red eyes annoyed. He'd like to meet this model in person, realize that, like all other models he's met aside from Tsubaki, she's a snobby bitch. Then he can get back on track, and stop checking the magazine he first saw her in.
Kid stares back at Soul, meeting his glare with one in piercing amber. "Soul, you have to think about model - designer relationships. There are always disasters when we allow this sort of breach in code. That, and trying to track that model down is a breach in her privacy."
Soul rolls his eyes at Kid again, as the brunet examines a stack of paperwork on his desk, straightening them at a ninety degree angle. "If you can find out who this mystery model is, I will create a whole line - both male and female - for the first issue for the Fall/Winter season this year, Kid. And I will design a suit and gown duo if you still need one." He's not in the mood for Kid's uptight manner today. He wants to get over this model. Fast.
Kid leans forward, resting his elbows onto the desk, golden eyes full of satisfaction. Soul wants to curse - Kid wins again, and he played right into his skull-ringed hands. Fuck that guy, seriously.
"But of course, Soul. I'll send Liz and Patty out to find some information on the girl. Get started on the line, alright? I can leave Jacqueline in charge of base Layout so you have some more time." His voice softens just a little, and Soul is reminded of the days when he was deep in hell, drowning a little, and Kid pulled him, up, and told him that he didn't have to design full time anymore. He had other options, and Kid had just the one for him.
"I want the suit and gown set too, Soul!"
He's since become a manipulative asshole. More so than he was before, anyways.
Maka Albarn hasn't had a day off since god knows when. Freelancing with small, random fashion sites and magazines in order to pay off the part of her tuition that the scholarship doesn't cover takes up so much time, and studying does too. But Shibusen University is worth it, no matter what hours Maka has to clock in to make ends meet.
She was never really able to get into modeling earlier in her life, and instead focused on getting good grades - modeling was rarely lucrative, for so few ever made it big - but her dream of modeling never really died.
Of course, her major isn't fashion arts, but English, but her minor is.
"Just a few more pictures, Miss Albarn. Then you'll be free to go." The blonde woman behind the Canon camera smiles sweetly at her, and motions for the hair and makeup team to take her offstage to change.
Maka smiles back at her, his cheeks aching slightly from all the smiling she's done in today's shoot. "Alright, thank you ma'am." And she lets herself get swept away by the hustle and bustle of the hair and makeup team.
They shove her into a pair of black skinny jeans, and a faint powder-blue blouse-like shirt, with the shoulders and cuffs made of a white lace, and reach for the container of hairspray to style her already sprayed hair again. Maka tentatively rubs a stiff, ash-blonde strand between her fingers. She's never done a shoot where she'd been allowed to keep her natural, stick straight ash-blonde hair in pigtails. It isn't "fashion-forward," despite what magazines like Cosmopolitan might claim.
So she submits to the smooth hands bearing choking spritz of hairspray, and lets them comb and re-style her hair into a stiff wave.
But when it's all done, Maka can go home, lounge around in her sweats and a baggy shirt, and stay up until one to finish her homework, study, and still get in a workout.
"Can you give me a huge smile, Miss Albarn?"
Maka smiles, lets herself become a marionette for the camera, until all she sees are bright spots floating in her line of vision. This is her element. This is what she truly loves, despite being that nerdy girl with barely any chest, and a Spartan attitude towards studying.
"Alright, and that's that!" The camera woman begins to take her large camera apart as the director of EAT, a small magazine that features local designer's lines, comes forward, twins with blonde hair trailing behind her.
Maybe they're relatives of the director, or some of her co-workers.
"That was great! We'd definitely love to try and shoot with you again, Maka." Marie smiles, then gestures to the blonde girls. "These girls are Liz and Patty, and they work under a larger fashion magazine. They'd like a word with you, Maka."
Liz smiles cooly, her arms crossed beneath her bust, and Patty grins sweetly. A shiver, a crackle of cold electricity slides down Maka's spine. These girls are deadly - they could seriously damage her, some instinct tells her.
"Hello, Maka. Can we have a word?"
Maka follows Liz outside of the studio after changing, and Patty ounces after them, singing a nursery rhyme underneath her breath. They sit shoulder to shoulder with her on the stone steps. Cars rush by the busy streets of New York, and a light breeze tries but fails to ruffle the hairsprayed lump Maka's hair has become.
"So, we'd like to offer you a contract, Maka." Liz starts, smiling softly at Maka once more.
"With the EAT?" She asks, raking her hands through her stiff hair, trying to get her locks to fall straight so she can bind it in her twin tails again. Without them, she feels exposed, and Maka hates the feeling.
The February weather is half winter, half spring, and Maka shivers slightly in her black overcoat, and tight red jeans.
"You really don't recognize Liz and I, huh?" Patty chimes in as Liz flounders a little, and she giggles a little.
Her face goes slightly ruddy. "No. Sorry, should I?"
Liz waves her concerns off. "It doesn't quite matter, but let us re-introduce ourselves then." She gestures to her sister and herself. "My name is Elizabeth Thompson, and this is my sister, Patty." Disbelief begins to bubble in the pit of Maka's stomach. It couldn't be. "We're the heads of Makeup in-"
A rock settles in Maka's stomach. Her throat feels unusually dry, and she cuts Liz off. "-Vogue. I know."
Liz looks pleasantly surprised, as she smiles genially this time, and the rock in her stomach begins to erode. "Oh, so you do know who we are?"
Maka smiles a little. "Yes. I'm sorry, it slipped my mind for a little. It's nice to meet you."
"And you too," Liz replies, and Patty echoes her, bouncing like a child.
"I'm sorry if this sounds a little rude, but what does Vogue want with me?" She interjects, folding her hands over her drawn up knees, peering over at Liz and Patty, who share glances.
"Well," Liz confesses, flipping a loose strand of her golden blonde hair back. "One of our designers has taken notice of you, and wants you to be one of the models for his upcoming collection. He's pretty high profile, and well, Kid - our boss - sees no harm in it."
Patty cuts her sister off cheerily. "Well, you're super pretty, so I can see why Soul would want you to model for him! Even if your boobs are kinda tiny!"
Maka splutters at the comment made about her cup size, and her hand twitches around the space where her book would normally be. She continues to splutter out indignated replies as Patty giggles madly around her, and Liz shakes her head, scrolling through her iPhone. Then it registers in mind. "W-wait. Do-do you mean Soul Evans?" She's in shock. Soul Evans was a designer that came out of nowhere, the youngest son of the musically-renown Evans family. He had won Project Runway, and debuted in New York Fashion Week. He'd been featured in Vogue not long after that, and his designs had become wildly popular.
But three years afterwards, he'd become the Head of Layout and Fashion in Vogue, and only released exclusive lines once a year. He'd done the Spring/Summer season this year, and if he was also designing a Fall/Winter line...then something special had to be cooking. Maka almost couldn't believe it.
Liz smiled again, and nodded. "Yes, Maka. He wants you to be one of his models. And when Soul really wants something," she sighed, tilting her head backwards. "Oh, Soul gets it. The guy's persistent. I am not kidding." Then she grins, wide, sparkling teeth, and even brighter blue eyes. "But, I am super excited. I can't wait to do your makeup, Maka! Your eyes are perfect contrast for a Fall/Winter line, I swear." The girl gushes excitedly, clapping her hands together.
"Hold up a second," Maka holds up a hand. "Don't you not do makeup anymore?"
Liz shrugs. "Eh. Soul's lines are always cause for huge attention, so I generally do the makeup for the models in his lines. And his own."
"His own?" She's confused. "Why would you need to do his own-"
Liz nods slowly. "Yep. Soul sometimes models his own collections. Since the Fall/Winter collection he's releasing isn't the normal, run-of-the-mill, once a year bull he does, Soul's decided to model a few himself." The makeup artist grins impishly. "I forced my hand, and kept pressuring him. He didn't really decide himself."
"Oh. But, um, how long is this contract standing for?" She asks, finally combing her hair back to a semi-normalcy.
Liz types a few things into her phone. "Actually, a car should be coming now. If you come with us, we can have Kid explain everything to you."
"Alright," Maka agrees, and true to Liz's word, five minutes later, a sleek Mercedes-Benz pulls up by the curb, and Liz files them all in. Patty's cheerful chatter with the driver fills the air as Liz and Maka bond, talking in hushed tones.
Soul tips a drink back, and the burning sensation of the alcohol trickling down his throat is soothing. The slightly sweet tang of the brandy isn't nearly enough to set off a buzz in the back of his mind, but Soul is certain that when he gets down the rest of the bottle - which is currently resting in ice on his kitchen counter - that there'll be a nice buzz of static in his mind.
The designer can't remember when drinking started to become a sort of pleasure to him, but he sure as hell isn't going to become an alcoholic. That's just not cool. But if he really had to guess, he really started drinking towards the end of his full-time designing career. When his parents began to get on his case, and he just knew that they would try and control one of the only things he really enjoyed.
Soul sighs, and places his glass of brandy down on the side table next to his drawing table, and stares down at the dress designs he has penciled out. The gown itself is made of a silk underbody, with a chiffon petticoat, and the heart-shaped bodice fades into a silvery, snowflake patterned lace that trails down into sleeves that fit like a second skin. If he can remember correctly, the Fall/Winter season this year is surprisingly prime time for pastels, and more muted colors, amongst the other, normal, harsher colors. But nothing very punk. Or too extreme, if he wants to stand out this season. Crap.
It's not quite his forte, but Soul is certain that with that lavender cowl turtleneck he has sketched out, he can squeeze in a white leather jacket and maybe dark slacks. And heeled ankle boots if he can find a material that they'll work with. And the male side of the line will come easy enough. He doesn't have to go all out with intricate details and the like - he can darken the color hues a little, but not so much that they'll conflict with the female color scheme.
His red eyes are weary in the lamplight, and Soul reaches over for his glasses case, and thin black headband. He slouches over to the bathroom branching off from his drawing room, and pops his contacts off into the restorative fluid, sliding the light gray frames of his glasses on over his bright red eyes. The albino rubs his face, before wetting his palms, and rubbing the water over his tired face, and pushing his unruly white locks back with the thin black headband.
Back to the drawing board.
After four hours of sketching and throwing away ideas, and cringing at the bags underneath his eyes that he knows are going to form - jesus fuck, he'll probably have to wear concealer to work tomorrow - Soul finally has what he thinks is a good solid beginning for the partner to the woman's dress he has. The main centerpieces, the two sides of the coin, the yang to the dresses yin. All that.
The thing that Liz was making him model.
Jesus fuck, when was the last time Soul actually modeled? He'd actually been a model for Teen Vogue, going by the alias Eater, back when he was fifteen, and sort of neurotic. The designer could partially remember it - the hands bearing smooth globs of gel, the soft blush brushes against his cheekbones, the feeling of new clothing against his shaved arms. It had been fun, but Soul had eventually wanted to create the clothing those models wore.
Sighing - he'd done that a lot those past four hours - Soul pinned the design up on the corkboard with the swatches of fabric he'd dug up from the backroom of his penthouse apartment. The men's side of the design consisted of a clean cut suit jacket, stark black, with a pale, sea green lining on the inside, and a lining on the lapels, a high collared - almost brushing the jawline - button down with small, almost invisibly stitched white dot patterns, meant to emulate snowflakes, and a thin, dark tie. He had no exact idea as to what color the slacks would be, but he was leaning towards darker slacks, or tighter jean-like pants in the same shade as the inner coat of the blazer. Personally, he was leaning more towards the former, but most likely, he'd make both, and decide when the models were ready.
In the background, through the sound of darker classical music, his phone went off with a piano cover of Panic! At the Disco's This is Gospel.
"Hello?"
"Ah, Soul. You're still awake?" Kid's smooth baritone poured through his speakers, and Soul groaned, and rolled his eyes.
"Obviously, Kid. I fucking stay up all night and design the gown and suit duo first," he groaned, thumbing through a stack of fabric swatches, searching for a denim-like fabric that would work for the slacks of the suit/blazer outfit, and possibly some business casual ones. "You know that."
The editor laughed hoarsely, evidence of all-nighters showing through as well. "I thought I should tell you that Liz and Patty both came in ten minutes ago with your requested model, Soul. Mind coming down so she can see first hand what a nightmare you are?"
Soul snorted. "Alright, fine. Do you want me to measure her so I can tweak my designs to fit her?"
He could practically hear Kid sighing in relief. "Yes, that would be favorable, Soul. Do you still have your bike with you?"
"Of course, what you think I'd sell her?" Soul scoffed, "I'll be down in half an hour. Sure hope traffic isn't too bad at -" He squinted towards his analog clock. "Four am. Holy fuck."
There was a ruslting through the line, and Soul knew that Kid was probably sighing and rubbing his forehead. "Yes. Liz and Patty went through some detours to pick up Miss Albarn's things. She lives all the way in the Heights, and traffic is horrible from there to here. She lives a little too far away to commute reasonably, seeing she only uses the subway, so we'll have to discuss living arrangements."
"Alright, I'll see you soon, Kid."
"Right." And with a click, his boss hung up.
Groaning, Soul stooped over to his room to change.
Goddamnit, he liked wearing his sweats.
Vogue had beautiful offices. Wide windows, and blown up magazine covers, and sketches of famous designs by even more famous designers.
But sitting in the office of the senior editor and chief, and son of the owner of the Conde Nast Magazines, Maka was a little more than nervous. Not to mention it was four in the morning, and she was really, really tired.
Thank God, she didn't have classes today.
The editor and chief strode in, pocketing a black and white covered iPhone six in his suit jacket, and smiled genially at Maka. "Death the Kid. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Albarn." He stuck out a gloved hand.
Maka smiled back at him, shaking his proffered hand firmly. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well. You can call me Maka though. Miss Albarn was my mother's name."
Kid smiled this time, and moved to take a seat at his desk, which was perfectly symmetrical. As was his office. "Then you can call me Kid. I'm looking forward to working with you, Maka. I'm sorry for calling you here at such a late hour."
The blonde shrugged nonchalantly, and smoothed down one of her low-hanging ponytails. "No, it's alright, I don't really mind." She grinned. "It's an honor to be here, honestly."
Kid let out a low laugh, and lent back a little in his leather chair. "Alright." He reached over to grab a manilla file resting on his desk. Printed in neat, bright red block letters, was Maka's name. "So, from the file I have here, it says you're a scholarship student at Shibusen University?"
"Uh, partial scholarship. I model in my spare time to pay for the rest of my tuition, and extra costs. I also work part-time at a local bookstore," Maka offered, shrugging.
The bicolor-haired man looked further down the list. "It also says that your major is English? Why not your minor? Although," he added, tapping a finger on the file, "I do see that your minor is Fashion Arts?"
"My mother wouldn't let me just take Fashion Arts. And she was right in telling me that fashion is generally a very mercurial business. At least with an English degree underneath my belt, along with experience in fashion, I could apply for a job with a fashion magazine."
Kid set the file down, and stared at Maka for a little, his head cocked to the side, just so. "Your mother seems like a smart woman, Maka. I thought you said she was dead, though."
The blonde laughed into her palm. "No, my mother isn't dead. She and my father got divorced when I was a kid. She legally changed her last name back to Tanaka."
"Ah."
"Yeah..."
"Hey Kid?" Liz piped up, placing down two cups of coffee down onto the desk. "Soul just arrived at the front desk."
Kid nodded up at the elder Thompson. "Great. Tell him to come up."
a/n two: how was it?
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all errors are mine. please consider them nicely.