Chapter 4: Overhead
A curiously small number of stylists arrived, all in one wave like a small pack of chittery lip-stick bearing squirrels. They descended on Miku quickly, pulling her into a corner of the room and beginning to strip her down before she could argue her modesty and shelter herself behind a discarded sofa. Fitting herself into a tight pair of scarlet jeans and a ruffled white blouse she peers over the top of the cushions, catching the eye of a young lady who bounces over.
"Shoes!" is all she says and points crossly at Miku's shabby black flats. Removing them quickly she watches as the lady dashes over to a trunk in the corner of the room, strangely reminiscing a child playing dress up. Miku feels herself being steered away from the scene and plopped into a chair where the usual critiquing and color-coordinating begins. Palettes of rosy shades and hushed greys are held up to her skin, dabs of color slapped on her face and hastily wiped away.
Settling into the usual numb tedium of her day to day life, Miku lets her eyes wander around the large room and gaze down dark hallways leading off of it. She wonders how large of a place this suite is and what it used to be. Observing the isolated table in the center of an empty kitchen, a stiletto is slipped onto her left foot, but a chorus of dissatisfaction arises and the shoe is yanked off, replaced by knee high black boots, and then nothing at all. Staring blankly at the opaque curtains, Miku tries to ignore the rubbing of a filer along her toes and the fingers smearing creamy coloring across her skin, hiding the tiny imperfections there. The tiny bit of light at the edge of the fabric at the window seems to mock her, showing her just a bit of what she knows is a lovely day but hiding the rest greedily.
A man yells at her to keep her eyelids up and she obeys, feeling the coolness of an eyeliner stick swoop along her waterline and shadow being dusted atop the delicate skin. Eyes occupied, she listens to her surroundings, hearing the pop of bottles being opened and the rhythmic strokes of a brush through her hair. A familiar clicking echoes from further away and she raises her eyebrows, the only part of her face not being worked on. The sound of a laptop screen snapping shut reaches her ears, followed by the dull scraping of an object across the floor.
Her eyes flutter open on command and she stands, following the designers to where two others are moving the table in front of a covered window, sliding a wooden chair beside it. Nearby the photographer readjusts his moved equipment, setting the lighting low as the curtains are pulled back behind her to create a stunning cityscape background. With a nod to the designers he dismisses them, the stylists obeying obediently to Miku's surprise. The shutterbug continues messing with the lighting, moving around lanterns and changing filters to create an ambient and sleepy effect.
She stands there somewhat expectantly, hoping for some kind of direction so that she doesn't have to assert herself again. It quickly becomes clear that nothing of the sort of going to occur and she sighs heavily, his gaze ghosting up to her with a hint of exasperation.
"The chair." His voice is terse as he jerks his head to the set-up of the table. She sits down briskly, silently watching him stretch to set a light diffuser and glance back at her, eyes surveying every molecule of matter in view. Turning around to get a better picture, one hand reaches up to adjust a lamp, shining its beam directly into her eyes. She squints and holds herself from leaning back, raising an eyebrow at him through the glare.
"It will create a sparkle in your eyes," he replies indifferently. She frowns, feeling her vision distort with the onslaught of light and having his outline become hazy. There's silence for a moment before the tiniest of breaths reaches her ears and he stoops over, picking up something and attaching it to what she assumes is the camera; it's hard to tell with the black spots in her vision. "Just one shot," he says somewhat softly and his figure moves, standing perpendicular to her and the window. "Strike a pose."
She blinks, leaning against the table at random and crossing one leg over the other. It isn't often that someone tells her to 'strike a pose' or anything as ambiguous as that. There's usually a very clear image in her photographer's mind and she just has to listen so they can impress it upon her, mold her like piece of clay into whatever they want her to be. This doesn't seem to be this man's intent though; in the short time she's spent with him he's never given a definite order or demanded a specific stance. He doesn't seem to care what she does as long as it looks good and Miku can't decide whether she likes that or not.
The brighter flash of light leaves her completely blind, her vision swimming with green and strange blinking patches. She holds up a finger, gesturing for him to wait a moment, while her sight clears and the room comes back into focus, seeming darker than she remembers. In front of her the man watches impassively, lowering the lens from his face only now and tilting his lips very slightly upwards. A smile doesn't seem to be quite the right word to Miku - it's too small and hesitant – but it's different from his normal expression and it catches her attention all the same.
His gaze flickers back to hers, quiet and analyzing. With a yell over his shoulder someone comes running, placing a shiny new laptop on the table, its browser open to some kind of shopping page. The photographer gives the man a few more words before turning back to the lights, shifting them out of Miku's eyes.
"Get ready," he murmurs, raising the lens again. Miku sees herself reflected in it, prim looking, but with a hint of messiness to her hair and casualness to her bare feet that give off a distinctly 'just out of bed' feel. In her position with the laptop she looks like a stylish socialite waking up to check their email.
All the same she frowns at him. "What am I supposed to be doing?" He stares at her blankly.
"Posing." He says it almost curiously, as if she is a small child that needs educating.
"In what way?" She knits her eyebrows, not exactly angry but confronted with a new kind of feeling of freedom that she is not used to.
He shrugs heavily. "I don't know." His hand falls to his side, swinging the camera at a dangerous speed. "You're the model. Do something...eye-catching." He seems almost confused at the last word, a hint of anxiety working its way into his tone as he lifts the lens back up. She shifts her seat, too perturbed by this new outlook to continue questioning, and leans forward, her torso tilting up and hands folded neatly in her lap. He snaps a few shots before halting, his eyes meeting hers wordlessly, and she moves into a new position. They fall into a rhythm and Miku finds herself lost in the flash of the light, the feeling of keys against her hand, and smiling almost truly at it all. It's not exactly enjoyable – she's not sure anything could make modeling such - but it's curious, new, not having someone telling her what to do makes her think.
She shifts and he clicks, someone occasionally dropping in to add or take a prop, until the lighting changes and her face casts into shadow, the sun now almost overhead. They then move to a wall, a balcony, even the hallway. A stylist pulls her aside every now and again to switch out her outfit and afflict her with more cosmetics but she is soon pushed back in front of the lens, snapped at again and again as she takes stances on the fly, posing as the first thing that comes to her mind.
By the time the photographer stalks over to his computer to unload the images Miku's legs feel like jelly, her muscles shaking from standing in weird positions for so long. With a glance at the hair-stylist she tugs out her stylish up-do and pulls all the hair away from her face, tying it into a long ponytail. She sheds the high-heels she had been stuffed in and ducks behind the couch again to switch back into her jeans and button-down blouse. Her feet fit comfortably into her worn-in flats and she swings her legs over the back of the loveseat, sliding down the cushions to rest against its arm.
With the slamming of a door a young boy appears in the room, blowing gum and looking bored with his job. He holds out a stack of pizza boxes to the nearest person and grabs their money, walking away without even counting it. The worker lays out the boxes - slipping a slice of pepperoni out of one -across any flat surface available and the other designers swarm, darting in to grab a slice and retreating back to their respective areas with a vicious kind of contentment.
Miku watches almost enviously. The stylists seem to be their own kind of team – they probably are hired as one and work together all the time. She sees them joking together and elbowing each other, the grease of junk food and oil of lip-gloss accidently dripping on their neighbors clothing. Turning her gaze away, she eyes the boxes curiously, her stomach giving a weak growl. That plate of eggs seems like a long time ago and the smell of melted cheese is just a little too tempting.
Her hand stops inches away from a large slice of Hawaiian as another figure comes into her line of vision. She glances to the side to see the photographer, not looking at her but past her, towards the chatting stylists, while one finger toys aimlessly with the lid of a box. She glances back, noting the noise and life over there and the quiet and still over here and feels slightly subdued. At least she's not the only outsider.
After a moment he looks away, reaching down to take a portion and then resting his eyes on her. "You're eating pizza." It's more a question than a statement. She glances down at the greasy food her fingers hover over.
"Technically I'm not yet." He doesn't give a visible response, just narrows his eyes a bit, seeming impatient. She frowns and picks up a slice, bringing it to her lips and taking a delicate bite. He watches with unusual interest as she chews, his own slice laying limp in his grip. She swallows, closing her eyes and opening them with a glare, a strange need to prove herself in some way to this man overpowering her; although, she's not exactly sure how eating pizza is supposed to prove anything.
Apparently it does. He blinks, eyebrows rising marginally. Glancing away his gaze is thoughtful and he takes an experimental bite of his food as well. Now she watches him, confusion bubbling in disorderly words under her lips. "That's…different." She leans forward ever so slightly, wondering if he really had whispered those soft words, and if so what is was that he was referring to.
"What?" The word comes out before she can stop it. He turns to her, features suddenly hardening in a strange way before he shrugs, masking the coldness of his previous expression with an uncaring gesture. Without another word he walks away, back to his computer, and Miku is left alone, glancing back and forth between the close-knit group of friends and the indifferent photographer, not really knowing which is worse.
A/N: NO! NOT THAT ANYTHING BUT THAT! AHHHH! IT'S GOT ME! IT'S PULLING ME IN! NO! IT'S A DEMON! IT'S A DISEASE! IT'S WRITER'S BLOCK!
Sorry it took me a while to update. I'd sit down at my computer everyday and practically claw my eyes out trying to write but failing. I finally pushed out the next chapter but gosh...I hope this goes away soon. :^: