Title:
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Characters: various.
Rating: PG-R
Warnings: AU, possibly OOCness, crack pairings.
Word Count: varies
Summary: It's a small world, the fashion industry.
Notes: A series of drabbles/ficlets inspired by a simple drabble that turned into much more. Currently 21 ficlets (one of which won't be posted here since it's a PWP), featuring model!Yukimura, model!Fuji, designer!Tezuka, designer!Echizen, designer!Niou, CEO!Atobe, fashion editor!Sanada, photographer!Marui, PA!Yanagi, PA!Inui, and many more, I'm sure.
------
"He's going to bring black in style," are the first words Fuji hears about Tezuka, passing by a small group of people at one of the parties on his calendar; which one it was didn't matter, the same people were always present. Very rarely did anyone new come along.
"They speak of him in nothing but awe," another voice says, and Fuji realizes he doesn't know many of the people in the group; one of them he knows thanks to work; two others he knows by sight. The last one is unfamiliar to him, and it's interesting enough that he stops close enough to the group for all of them to see him.
The socializing ladder does the rest.
"Fuji, darling," the designer he's worked with exclaims. "How have you been? Looking as wonderful as always, when are you going to come back to me?" Niou's drunk enough that it shows, but not disgracefully; he leans in to brush a kiss across Fuji's cheek, and can manage to stay upright, but his arm snakes around Fuji's waist to keep steady. "You know Kirihara and Kajimoto, I am sure. This gentleman-" and he waves to the remaining member of the group, the one Fuji was unfamiliar with- "is Atobe Keigo."
"You're in the business?" Fuji asks Atobe, inclining his head toward Kirihara, who frowns and glares - Fuji predicts more wrinkles there - and to Kajimoto.
"Not yet," is Atobe's response.
"But you wish to be."
"In order to help a friend," Atobe tells him, and Fuji thinks he's going to say more, but Niou interrupts them.
"You should see the friend, darling. Gorgeous man. I told 'Tobe here it's a pity he's a designer and not a model. Think you can convince him to model?"
"I've already tried." Atobe snaps his fingers, and there's a waiter at his elbow in moments, drinks passed around. Fuji declines anything. He thinks for a moment about taking Niou's drink away, but something in Atobe's eyes says that would be a bad move.
He lets it go because he wants to know why Atobe's eyes are saying that.
-
"Give me your card and I'll pass it on, darling," Niou says, and Fuji has to keep his arm about the slim figure to keep him upright; but Atobe hands Niou his card and Fuji realizes: this is why. He's going to get this new designer, this friend of his, into the business any which way he possible can, underhanded or not.
"He must be quite a friend," Fuji murmurs, and properly tucks the card into Niou's pocket. He knows Niou; he'll remember all of this in the morning, and do exactly what he says. It just takes getting him drunk for him to agree to something like this. "Or quite a designer."
"The best," Atobe replies; mission accomplished, he turns and walks away, leaving a drunken Niou with a sober Fuji.
At least, Fuji reflects, he likes Niou.
-
Niou's got a splitting headache the next morning but it's not enough to distract him from anything. He's got appointments to keep, clothes to make, and most importantly, a meeting with the man himself, Sanada.
"You have to see my new line," he says, speaking before he's even thrown himself into the chair across from Sanada. "All muted colors in wild cuts, it'll be the new rage."
Sanada grunts.
"It might not be suitable for you, though." Niou narrows his eyes and looks at Sanada closely, shifting in the chair to see different angles, as if he doesn't know Sanada intimately. "You're too staid for them. But I have just the thing for you!" Atobe's arrangement works perfectly, and Niou suspects that's why Atobe approached him. He's been Sanada's favorite designer for a year and a half now, long enough that everyone's aware of it. But Niou's sharp; favorites don't last long in the industry - he's been the petted darling for a while now, and things are going to change.
Might as well be the one to shepherd that change.
"I'm not sure of the designer's name, but his clothes - and he - are heavenly. Beautiful. He likes black. You'll like him." Niou digs out the card, slides it across to Sanada. "He's like you, with that strong and silent thing."
"I'll keep him in mind," Sanada says, and picks up the card. He reads it, and Niou thinks he's just going to toss it over his shoulder, an action typical of Sanada. But instead of that, the muscles in Sanada's jaw spasm and his fingers clench the card tighter. "Who'd you get this card from?"
"Atobe Keigo. The financial backer of the designer." Niou shifts in the chair, this time to get comfortable. "You know him."
Sanada snorts and glares at him, which is Niou's signal to leave, but he doesn't listen.
"Were you dating him and he had some bitch fit about your tastes and you two parted ways?" he asks, instead.
"I'm not telling you how we know each other."
"You break my heart."
"And your new line will fix it. Go."
"He was your arch rival in design school?"
"Never went. Go."
"Ah, he tarnished your good name by saying you have the eye of an idiot and he deserves your job."
"Niou." Sanada's tone is dangerously low, and Niou respects that enough. He pushes himself from the chair, waving his hand.
"Fine, fine. But you can't keep secrets in this business for long."
-
"So good of you to call, Genichirou," Atobe drawls into the phone, not hiding the smirk in his voice.
"I heard about your designer, Atobe." Sanada chooses to ignore the smirk, the comment, Atobe himself, which is the easiest thing to do in the situation.
"Oh yes, my designer. Niou told you about him."
"Said something about black."
"I knew you'd like that. You've always been fonder of black than a fashionista has the right to be."
"Atobe," Sanada says, and his warning is in his voice: I can hang up and not call you back and leave your designer to languish in the pits of hell - amidst the commoners, away from the salons - if you don't shut the fuck up and get back to business.
"It's true, you are. But this one makes black fashionable. You'd like it."
"How soon can I see a line?"
Atobe glances at the clock and pauses to think. Tezuka's going to kill him, he knows, but clothes like Tezuka's deserve to be shown to the world. There are enough clothes in the small shop Tezuka works at to compose a line.
"This afternoon. One."
"Busy at one. Three."
That's going to cut it close, because Tezuka leaves at four; but Atobe hopes he can convince the designer to stay for longer, if necessary. "Fine."
-
"I told you, I don't want to do this," Tezuka tells him; he's frowning, in that way of his; Atobe's been around him long enough to learn the different facial expressions he's got.
"Sanada can make you rich."
"Money is unimportant."
"The world will see your clothes." It's probably the only thing that will work, and Atobe's taking a chance on it. He knows Tezuka doesn't do it for the fame, but because he loves clothes, loves designing, loves the material he works with. "You won't have to work with people who don't understand your visions or design clothes for simpletons who only care about being able to show off, not the clothes."
Tezuka's still wary, but his features soften a bit and he nods. "We'll see how it goes."
The clothes always do it.
-
"So wonderful to see you again, Sanada," Atobe greets, his face and voice perfectly sincere, almost too sincere, and Sanada rolls his eyes.
There's an empty back room, probably a fitting room, Sanada thinks, because that's all it could be in the tiny shop. He finds he's uncomfortable in it, thanks to the size. It's been years since he's been in some small shop; the designers he works with anymore have studios that take up much more space than necessary.
"We only have one model for now." Atobe's nervous, but trying hard not to let it show, and Sanada only grunts. It's a good thing Sanada is the way he is, Atobe thinks; anyone else would just make him more nervous. But Sanada's very nature reassures Atobe. "And I believe Tezuka's going to stay in the other room for now, to help him dress."
Sanada's answer is a quick nod, and he settles back in his chair, trying to block out Atobe's voice. He's often thought Atobe only talks to hear his voice. But then none of it matters, because the model is finally entering the room.
Sanada's seen thousands of good looking people, works with the people who define fashion and beauty for the rest of the world, has slept with some of the people the world only fantasies about, but he still feels shock when he sees the model.
"Walk the length of the room and turn, Yukimura," Atobe instructs, and Sanada watches as the model's eyes flash, before a bored look drops into place.
"I'm a model, Atobe. I know what to do." And he does, Sanada can tell from his walk, which seems innate to him; he knows how to turn and pivot and put in the right amount of sway into his hips.
Sanada stares, says nothing, and feels Atobe's eyes on him. It makes him happy he's the type who can hide his emotions and expressions easily.
Yukimura goes out and comes back in and leaves once again. Sanada never notices the clothes. It takes three trips, three times of seeing Yukimura for Sanada to actually notice what he's wearing. It's not easy to not stare at the model, and concentrate on the clothes, but at least the clothes are worthy of being on the model's figure.
In the end, it's the clothes that motivate him; extending an invitation to the fashion shows just for a model would be stupid and Sanada's not stupid. He could easily find Yukimura, help him find another designer to model for.
"There's a thirty minute segment left open in the afternoon, during Fashion Week," Sanada tells Atobe. They're waiting for Tezuka to join them, and once again, Atobe is nervous. "Not long, you'll need more models, and it's not a good time."
But it's something.