-Chapter One-
How Does a Bastard, Orphan…Pay Off His Student Loans?
Alex can't help but stare. The Elias-Clarke building is magnificent, its glass and steel façade rising endlessly up towards the New York skyline, like it can pierce the clouds. He sucks in a breath, rakes a hand through the tangled mess that is his hair and ascends the steps. He's fine. He's ridiculously overqualified, and he's seen buildings like this before. It's New York for fuck's sake. He straightens his tie and steps into the building.
He needs this job.
The inside of the building is almost as impressive as the outside. The enormous lobby is a masterwork in white-marble and gold- eighties, but in the best way, like if Trump tower was designed by people with taste. Runway is a fashion magazine after all. Alex glances around, shuffles his feet, and not for the first time wonders what he's gotten himself into. He's not a fashion person- he's a writer, he covers hard-hitting political issues.
He needs this job.
He scans the lobby, searching for some clue as to where he's supposed to go- a sign or a map, but finds nothing. Alex is lost in a sea of beautiful people, and now he's late. This is a joke. This is-
"Oh my God! Where have you been?" Alex turns around and almost jumps out of his skin. Standing behind him is the thinnest, most fashionable man he thinks he's ever seen. Before he can open his mouth to introduce himself, the other man grabs his hand and starts hauling him towards the elevator, practically running, his polished leather shoes clicking frantically on the tiles.
"Pierre was supposed to send you up an hour ago, I don't know why you don't know that, Alexander!"
"Alex, actually." The recent grad clutches his briefcase to his chest as the elevator launches them skyward.
"And I'm late," his companion mutters miserably, staring at one of the mirrored panels like it's done him a personal offense. When the elevator stops at the eighth floor, to let on a paunchy man wearing a Rolex, and a tall blond with a fur coat and a miniature poodle.
"Good morning, Aaron," the more traditional of the two says, barely glancing in their direction. Alex's companion- Aaron looks like the wants to melt into the floor.
"Good morning, Mr. Schuyler." His voice is choked, panicked, but Alex highly doubts that Schuyler's noticed. He's already turned away, all his attention focused on the other man-the flamboyant one.
"So, Steuben I hear George's decided to scrap the leather jacket story and move up the Portland shoot. What's that costing me?"
The other man grins, no hesitation at all. "Five-hundred-thousand dollars."
Schuyler grimaces. "Must've been some lousy jackets."
"That's George."
By the time they reach the 66th floor, Aaron is practically hyperventilating and Alex is still in shock. The money these people spend on this useless, consumeristic garbage. He barely has time to catch his breath; by the time the elevator doors open, Aaron is already dragging him bodily past rows and rows of cubicles. Even on the verge of a panic attack, he's perfectly put together, bearing closer resemblance to a model or an actor than an actual human. The whole time that they're crossing the floor, Aaron continues berating Alex.
"I hope you understand how important this is. Washington is very, very particular- he only ever hires a certain kind of person. I used to be the second assistant, but now that his first assistant's been promoted to features, I'm the first."
Alex jogs to keep up. "You're replacing yourself, then."
Aaron sighs, like Alex is the stupidest person who ever lived. "I've been trying, but so far everyone's been useless." He walks past another row of desks, until they reach an impressive set of frosted glass doors.
Alex is panting. Briefly, he wonders if he shouldn't have kept in better shape after college, but between the paper, and all his political science classes, and frequent nights at their campus dive… well…. he supposed it wasn't a priority. He bites his lip, suddenly self-conscious.
"Hey Aaron," he asks, "who's George?"
The other man looks at him like he's covered in pond scum. "Ohmygod I am going to pretend you did not just say that. George Washington is the editor-in-chief of Runway- not to mention, a legend. Work a year for him and you can get a job at any magazine you like. It's the job that a million girls would kill for."
Alex smooths his tie. "It sounds like a great opportunity. I'd love to be considered."
The other man laughs, slowly scanning Alex's entire outfit. "This is a fashion magazine, Alexander- so an interest in fashion is crucial."
"What makes you think I'm not interested in fashion?"
The other man's face says it all.
"Aaron…" a voice calls from the other room, so faint Alex would almost think he'd imagined it if it wasn't for the way that the color drains from the other man's face.
"Aaaaaaronnnn…"
"Stay. Here." Aaron hisses at Alex and steps into the room.
From where he's standing, Alex can catch snippets of conversation- none of it flattering.
"Well?"
"He's a complete waste of your time- totally unqualified, I mean- look at him!"
"Well the last two boys you sent me were completely inadequate, so send him in."
Aaron returns looking like he's swallowed a lemon. "George," he snarls, "wants to see you."
"Great!" When Alex makes to follow him, Aaron snatches the briefcase out of his hands and tosses it behind a desk.
"This is foul- don't let him see it!"
"Hey!"
"Move." Alex barely has time to protest before he's shoved through the doorway. The person he lands before is the most imposing human he's ever seen.
George Washington is leaning against his desk, easily over six feet tall without standing up. He's wearing a frown and an impeccably tailored suit that's probably worth more than Alex's yearly student loan payment- and Alex owes a lot. He's…. a legend. That's what Aaron said, and now Alex can see why. He takes a step forward, smoothing his shirt (wrinkled), his pants (coffee-stained), and his hair (a lesson in why one should not take the subway to job interviews) as he goes.
"Al-ex-an-derrrrrrr." Washington stares at Alex, expression unchanging, dragging out his name like an exotic word he's unsure how to pronounce, like he wants to taste each syllable. His eyes rake up and down the young man's body, taking in every millimeter of his disheveled appearance. It's uncomfortable. It's rude. It makes Alex feel like a bug under a microscope, like he's trapped and can't get away. His fingers twitch but his body doesn't move.
Alex really needs this job.
Washington blinks. For a split-second, his neutral expression yields to a tiny smirk, and maybe, maybe Alex has passed some kind of test. That hope bubbles up and dies as soon as the other man opens his mouth.
"What are you doing here?" His voice is flat. His expression, unchanging.
"I-" Alex is taken aback. He thought it would be obvious. He takes a shuddering breath and launches into an explanation- what the useless, self-congratulatory bureaucrats at his school's career center would have called his elevator speech. "Well I- I graduated from Northwestern this spring with a degree in investigative journalism and political science. I applied everywhere, but well… the market is… well… and um... then I got a call from Seabury in Human Resources who said that there was a position open for an assistant and he read my piece on the janitor's union, which I think you'll see is very…"
Washington frowns, and Alex wilts under the weight of his expression. He's blown it- ruined his last chance at any sort of success with his pointless word-vomit, stupid, stupid- good luck getting a job now. He winces and stares at the floor.
"Basically it's this or Auto Universe…" He might as well show himself the door. Fuck.
Washington stands up. "So you don't read Runway?"
Alex knows it won't do him any good to lie. "No."
"…and until today you had never heard of me…"
"No?" Alex's voice is a pitiful squeak.
"And you have no style or sense of fashion."
Alex bristles. "Well I think that depends on-"
Washington cuts him off. "No, no. That wasn't a question."
"I-"
"That's all…"
Alex was on his way out, he was on his way out, but this interview has been the most miserable, humiliating five minutes of his life and he may be twenty-two and shabbily dressed, and woefully unprepared for this interview, but that doesn't mean that Washington gets to treat him like shit. He whirls around, looks the other man in the eye, and launches into one of the tirades that he was (in)famous for in his polysci classes.
"You know what? You're right. I don't fit in here. I am not thin, or stylish, and I don't know anything about clothes or designers, but I'm smart, and I know how to work harder than anyone you've ever met, and I learn fast, so I think if you give me a chance, I can-"
Alex would continue, but Washington is ignoring him- staring over his shoulder to the doorway where Steuben has swept in, carrying several bolts of fabric. He stares at his feet.
"Thank you for your…time?" Alex gets himself out of that office as fast as his legs can carry him. Over his shoulder, he can hear the terrifying fashion people talking.
"Who is that sad little creature?"
He grabs his briefcase and makes a beeline for the elevator. Might as well prepare his application for Auto Universe. Alex is almost outside when he's stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
Aaron is standing behind him, sweat glistening on his perfect cheekbones. His dark eyes are full of resentment. "George wants to hire you."
Alex nearly starts jumping up and down. "Really!? I mean, that's great."
Aaron rolls his eyes. "Be here tomorrow. 8-AM. Don't be late."