Chapter Text
Despite public assumptions, Type’s job isn’t exactly easy.
The 5 AM wakeup calls, the strict workout regimes and the hours sitting around on shoots earning nothing but a numb ass. It’s not as glamorous as social stereotypes suggest, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
Type loves it though, and if he’s honest, he’s pretty good at it too. He’s good looking, he moves well in front of the camera, and he’s mastered the art of knowing what the photographer wants before they even ask for it. He’s made quite a name for himself since signing with his agency two years ago and has garnered an extensive collection of editorials and campaigns in his relatively short career. He’s the hot new thing, his manager proclaimed. Everyone wants him, designers, directors, photographer's. Everyone but the guy who stood ten feet in front of him.
Tall, dark, and infuriating.
He’s meant to be some hot-shot prodigy from America who flew in especially. He did introduce himself but Type is terrible at remembering names irrelevant to his life. What he does know is that America must be deluded to call this guy big news. All he’s done so far is take barely any pictures, waste over an hour of Type’s life and get on his last nerve.
He hears the photographer sigh for the third time in as many minutes and resists the increasing urge to snarl at the asshole. He learned to rein in his temper a long time ago. But the need to punch someone in the face, or at the very least break their stupidly expensive camera lens, occasionally flares up. Especially when he’s dressed like a complete idiot in cropped pants, a turtleneck and a cartoon style dress shirt in the height of summer. He’s lucky they have about ten fans set up around him.
Type counts to five in his head, takes a long deep breath and unclenches his fists. He should try a different pose, something more masculine and assertive. Maybe throw in a classic ‘murder’ look too, so the photographer knows his place.
Before he can switch to any new position, the photographer pulls away from his camera and shakes is head. “This isn’t working,” he proclaims, folding his arms. He chews on his thumb nail and sucks on his lip as he looks Type up and down like he’s a piece of meat. Silence falls around the set for several long minutes of scrutiny until the photographer sighs once again. “Can I get the hairstylist on set?” he asks.
If Type weren’t so used to being stared at, it is how he makes a living after all, he’d be well within his rights to break the guy's nose.
Barely ten seconds pass before the petite blonde who styled and primped Type’s hair earlier that morning rushes on set towards the photographer with a utility belt of brushes and products.
“I think the hair needs something,” the photographer tilts his head, sucks on his bottom lip again, the smacking sound making the hairs on the back of Type’s neck stand on end. “A little more lived in, maybe.”
“Sure, sure,” the hairstylist smiles and marches towards the model.
She runs the tail of her tiny comb delicately through his waved fringe, smooths down a few strays over his forehead and sprays half a can of hairspray over the already immovable block on his head making his throat constrict and his lungs seize into a coughing fit.
“Perfect,” the hairstylist beams through his barking, skipping away behind the scenes as fast as she came in.
Someone in the distance mumbles something and a moment later a PA rushes on with a bottle of water which Type sips gratefully. He’d love to empty the whole bottle but he knows his bladder will be pleading for mercy sooner rather than later if does so. Bathroom breaks are a luxury he’ll have to sacrifice today if he wants to be home before midnight.
Type finally stops choking when the gas leaves his immediate vicinity and glances up at the photographer who looks even less happy than he did five minutes ago.
“Everyone ready?” he asks despite his apparent displeasure.
Type doesn’t answer, just hands the water bottle back to the PA and waves him off. He rolls his shoulders and puts his hands in the pockets of the pants. He stares straight ahead down the lense, lips slightly parted, eyes focused. He’s ready. Ready to get this shoot over with.
They go for another forty minutes. The photographer calls on the makeup artist to apply more eyeliner, the stylist to adjust his clothes, and the hairdresser once again who luckily doesn’t have her hairspray with her this time. Type exhausts his pose catalog and even tries some positions he’s never done before. Nothing seems to make the photographer satisfied and each passing second makes Type want to scream.
“Your shoulders are rising again,” the photographer points out.
“It’s the shirt,” Type says, teeth grinding.
“It’s not the shirt.”
“So it’s me?”
“You’re tensing.”
“I’m not tensing.” Type is most definitely tensing.
“You’re shoulders are practically up by your neck.”
Type can’t hold himself back any longer. “Do you know who I am?”
This guy might be an up and coming star from America but Type owns the industry on this side of the globe. One phone call to his agent and he’ll have this dick out on his ass. He also plans to sue him for a year's worth of manicures to fix the crescent nail indents in the palms of his hands.
“I know who you are.” The photographer shrugs, a faint smile on his lips. That’s the worst part about him, what gets under Type’s skin the most. His complete and utter calmness while Type gets more and more infuriated the longer they’re forced to share the same air. “You’re the pretty boy on all the beauty commercials. It was hard to miss you going through Duty-Free. You’re practically the poster boy for Thai beauty,” he says.
Something tells Type it’s not a compliment.
“So what the fuck is your problem?”
“I don’t want pretty,” the man tells him plainly. “I want real.”
Type can’t help but laugh. “Nothing about this is real.” Not these clothes, not the makeup on his face, not this photoshoot, not this life. It's all false and forced. Even Type's personality. To the casting agents, the designers, and the public, he's the perfect charming gentleman. In reality, he's obnoxious, rude, and wrought with personal issues.
“That's exactly my point.” The photographer tips his head as though the penny has finally dropped.
Type snarls. “And why does your point matter? Who the fuck are you?"
“I’m the one who called for this shoot,” the photographer explains.
"Get over yourself," Type scoffs. "Photographers don't call for photoshoots. Especially not with me. You're just a finger on a button."
“It's true. I saw you at the airport and I wanted you. The real you.” The photographer folds his arms over his chest. “I thought he would have shown up by now, guess I was wrong.”
“Fuck you,” Type spits, shaking his head making some of his hair fall over his eyes.
All this time he stuck around assuming pissing off the designer would damage his career. If he knew this was nothing but a game to make him look like an absolute fool he’d never have turned up. He pushes his fringe back and starts to storm off set.
A hand on his arm stops him and makes him flinch. No one touches him without his say so. No one. It’s in his contract.
“I think you’ve misunderstood me.”
The model angrily pulls his arm from the gentle grasp. “Don’t misunderstand me, asshole. I’m leaving.” Type continues walking, unbuttoning his shirt so he can get out of this stuffy outfit as soon as possible and go home.
“Wait!” he hears a voice call. “How did you get here?”
What the fuck?
“What?” Type looks over his shoulder, baffled and still fuming.
The photographer raises his voice to make up for the space between them. “How did you get here, to the shoot?”
“My bike. What the fuck are you-”
“Go get it,” the photographer says, cutting the model off mid insult. “Bring it in here.”
Type doesn’t know what he’s being paid for today. But no way is it worth this. “I’m leaving,” he mutters, exhausted. He can feel a headache building behind his eyes.
The photographer and his ridiculously long legs stride over to Type before he can make it much further out of the door. His hand is on his arm once again. It’s not okay. It shouldn’t be. But he’s not shaking. He doesn’t feel fear building.
“I want to know the real you. Show me. Prove to me you’re not just a pretty boy like the guys I learned to loathe in LA.”
Type doesn’t have to prove a thing, not to anyone. Least of all this photographer who seems to have a screw loose. Something niggles at him though. Something itchy in the back of his skull. Something that doesn’t want to be just a nameless pretty moron.
The photographer leans in closer, so close Type can feel his warm skin and his breath next to his ear. “I’ll make it worth your while,” the photographer whispers, and Type feels a burning at the back of his neck.
He flares his nostrils, yanking his arm back for a second time, but doesn’t move. They share a gaze for what feels like days, neither of them blinking, both breathing heavier as the time ticks by.
Eventually, Type pulls away, “What’s your name again?”
The photographer grins, wide and unapologetic. Like a cat whos got the mother fucking cream. “Tharn. My name is Tharn. Now, go get the bike. I’ll be waiting,” the photographer -Tharn- winks then walks away.
Type doesn’t know what possesses him when he does exactly as commanded.
The on set staff lose their collective minds. All of them gasping in unison as if they had rehearsed it.
“What is he doing?” the makeup artist whispers not to quietly to his left.
“Who does he think he is bringing that monstrosity to our set?” the PA grumbles on his right.
“What is going on?” some lighting guy mutters from somewhere he doesn’t care to take note of. All Type can think is, what is going on ?
The photographer however, looks completely unfazed as Type wheels in his motorbike that weighs a fucking ton but like hell he’s letting anyone else near his baby.
“Don’t worry, I’ll cover the cleaning bill,” Tharn reassures everyone as they look on horrified at the tire trail of dirt Type is leaving behind.
He reaches his mark in front of the camera and turns his bike in a circle so it's facing the right way. She’s beautiful. Breathtaking. Black and chrome. Dark and sleek in equal measure. He never tires of admiring her. Cleaning her, polishing her, adoring her. She’s his greatest achievement, his pride and joy. The thing he slaved, starved and exhausted himself for the first nine months of his career. Type kicks the leg out to stand her up and sighs as he glares at literally everyone. Especially Tharn. Especially that jerk.
Said jerk isn’t paying attention though, he’s busy fiddling with his camera. It’s the most work he’s done all day.
“Oh dear,” a high pitched squeak makes the model flinch. “Look at your hair, it’s a disaster,” the hairstylist giggles, half joking, half pissed.
She’s about to pull out her hairbrush and lethal hairspray again when a voice shouts, “Don’t!” Making everyone jump. “Don’t touch a thing.”
After a pause, the hairstylist laughs, baffled. Type is glad he’s not the only one who finds Tharn’s approach to photoshoots more than a little insane. “I’m just going to neaten it up.”
The photographer waves at her. “It’s fine. Leave it.”
“It looks like he just rolled out of bed.”
“Precisely,” Tharn nods.
Another high pitch laugh, “But...but it’s practically sex hair,” she exclaims, the S word said under her breath like it's taboo making Type roll his eyes as he leans into his baby.
“Yep.” The asshole grins.
“It’s completely inappropriate,” the hairstylist has almost reached a level only dogs can hear. Type has to admit it’s pretty funny someone else is just as pissed off as he is... was . He’s not entirely sure at this moment.
“Hm, not quite inappropriate enough,” Tharn chews on his bottom lip. Type’s dick flinches he’s so irritated by it.
He jerks back when the photographer strides over to him, determination in his eyes. Without even asking, he runs his fingers through Type’s hair, digging in deep to shake it from the roots. His hair is still stiff with product that it pulls painfully on his scalp and he grumbles deep in his throat.
He really needs to stop touching. You don’t touch. You don’t.
“Mind my bike, asshole,” the model cusses instead, low so that only Tharn can hear.
Tharn continues unbothered, hands still in the model's hair, ruffling and twisting pieces here and there, tugging the waves loose, pulling some strands over his forehead. He leans increasingly closer that their noses almost touch. He smooths the shorter hairs at the nape of Type’s neck down and Type feels as if every fiber of his being is frayed and tingling. His skin buzzing. His heart pounding in his ears.
“You seem warm. You’re not getting sick are you?”
No, asshole. Type tries to answer. He really does. His lips part, but nothing comes out. His throat clammy and constricted.
Tharn smiles, satisfied with Type’s flapping mouth. “There. Perfect.” He steps away and nods, happy with his handy work.
“I cannot put my name to that. It’s a mess!” the hairstylist screams, stamping her foot.
“It’s sexy.”
Type rolls his eyes, directly at the photographer this time.
“Okay!” Tharn claps his hands together to gather everyone's attention. “Lights are perfect, bike is positioned good, our superstar model is looking fan-fucking-tastic. Let’s make something amazing!”
That’s it. Type needs a new career.
Whether it’s the bike, the hair, or the crumpled half undone shirt, Tharn is a completely different person than he was that morning as he shoots Type. Occasionally he’ll run over and ruffle the model's hair, something Type hates less and less, but for the most part, it's praises, compliments and even whooping.
Type doesn’t quite understand it. He feels the same. He poses the same. His outfit still looks dumb. But Tharn seems to see something. Something real, apparently.
“Chin just a tiny bit lower, eyes up, fingers relaxed. Beautiful.”
Type does everything he’s told. His muscles are starting to ache, the lights are making him nauseous and his headache is at the forefront of his skull. Despite the discomfort, he pushes through.
Tharn calls lunch at around 1:30 PM but Type declines. He never eats on shoots. He doesn’t want the salt to rush to his face and make him puffy. He made that mistake on his first ever job and they had to photoshop his cheeks to make them match the previous photos. He’s been traumatised since.
He doesn’t explain this to Tharn. He just grumbles and says he’s not hungry before heading to the toilet. When he comes out, the photographer is waiting with a bar of chocolate and a smug smile on his face.
“You should keep your blood sugar up, I’ll never forgive myself if you faint on my watch.”
“I don’t faint. And I can buy my own candy.” He pushes it back into Tharn’s hand and walks away back to set to wait for everyone else to come back from the coffee shop. He doesn’t miss the two chocolate bars sat on the end of the desk by the monitor or the fact that Tharn also doesn’t eat anything offered to him when the PA comes back with an array of drinks and sandwiches.
It’s past sunset by the time Tharn announces, “We got it!”
Type sighs, leaning heavily against his bike. It takes everything in him not to drop to the floor and sleep there for the night.
“Great job, everyone. Thank you guys, thank you.” Tharn gives a round of applause that everyone, even the hairstylist, joins in on. Everyone but Type. He doesn’t have the energy. He’s amazed his eyes are still open. Maybe the makeup artist glued his eyelids on storks when she touched up his foundation.
Or maybe she didn’t, because now they’re closed and someone has their hand on his shoulder. It’s familiar enough that he knows exactly who it belongs to without looking. Still, it makes him uncomfortable. And the shoot is over. So formalities are well and truly out of the window. If they were ever in it to begin with.
“Stop. touching. me,” he orders. It sounded much more menacing in his head than it does out loud.
“Okay. Sure thing.” Tharn’s hand leaves his vibrating skin. “I just wanted to say thank you for today. And for letting me shoot your bike too. It's beautiful."
"She," Type corrects, opening his eyes to glare. "You saw her in the parking lot." Not a question, a statement. "You knew how I got here this morning." He figured it out while he was straddling her for the mid roll of the shoot.
"I did."
"Then why did you even ask?"
"Because I was trying to be nice?" The photographer says like he's guessing as much as Type is. "We got off on the wrong foot, and I'm sorry. Sometimes I can be a little particular.” A little? Type thinks internally. "I wanted you stick around, I wanted you to relax. So I played dumb and asked you to bring your bike in so you could loosen up around something familiar."
"Do you think I'm some sort of rookie who needs patronising?"
Tharn frowns, deep creases trickling his forehead. "Do you always assume the worst of people?"
"Yes."
"How come?"
"Like I owe you an explanation," Type scoffs. "Whatever. It’s not like we’ll be seeing each other ever again. Have a safe flight back to America,” he mutters, the undertone of snark sitting heavy in his stomach the moment he says it.
“Oh…” Tharn smiles, it's hollow and Type feels a little guilty for putting it there. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I’m not going back to America. I’m here indefinitely.”
“So?” Type wants to pretend he doesn’t care. But honestly, if he didn’t, why hasn’t he walked away yet?
“So, didn’t your agent tell you?” His smile broadens. “I’ve been hired as the new director of photography at Mode Models. We’ll probably be seeing a lot more of each other.”
Oh, fuck.