Chapter Text
“Ivan!”
Ivan looked up, caught sight of Arthur, and turned quickly on his heel. Arthur fumed, quickening his stride to try and catch up to Ivan. The designer started into a jog, retreating back into his building.
“Toris!” Ivan said brightly as he hurried by, “Please stop the angry Englishman from yelling at me! Thank you.” He hurried by, and Arthur wanted to scream.
Toris stood, but he didn’t step from around his desk. Chained there like a nervous canary, he held one hand up, watching helplessly as Arthur slowed to shoot him a glare. Toris opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, and Arthur moved on.
Ivan poked his head around the corner. “Toris, you’re doing a very poor job of stopping him!”
“Ivan Braginski—“
Ivan smiled, head ducking; Arthur’s anger dampened slightly as the gesture, but he kept the scowl on his face. The other man waved his hand, backing away from the model, looking over his shoulder like someone might save him. Or come across the scene.
“Why have I been fu…” Arthur looked around himself, then looked back at Ivan. “Who are you even bloody looking for? No, Ivan, why have I been fucking blacklisted,” his voice dropped into a hiss, “by everyone in London?”
Nearby, someone laughed far too loud for the enclosed space. It irritated Arthur, who was already irritated, and Ivan was still smiling, though his hands were raised. Arthur pointed a finger.
“Did you tell people we slept together?” He asked the question too loudly, and Arthur’s head whipped around again, but the only other person nearby was Toris. And Toris never heard anything of importance, at least according to Ivan.
Suddenly, Ivan was looking very serious. “No, I did not. And really, who is not sleeping with the designers?” He tried to get Arthur to laugh along, but quickly gave up. “I did not. And that wouldn’t affect anything, if I did.”
“Then why was it,” Arthur said, “that when I walked into the Vargas’ studio, they gave me a look like I was the Black Death?”
Ivan made a face. “You model with the Vargases?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do model with them! And that’s none of your business, and I don’t appreciate whatever you did to poison my name in the city,” Arthur paused. “Hold on a tick—“
That laugh was getting closer, and it was unsettlingly familiar. For whatever reason, it reminded him of American movies, all too fake and loud, making sure whoever heard it knew the laugher was happy.
Ivan grimaced. “I need a new secretary.”
Alfred F. Jones, darling of the international modeling community, rounded the corner. An Asian man was at his side, holding some sort of smartphone. Alfred’s eyes flicked between Ivan and Arthur, and his smile widened.
“Arthur! Dude, where you been? Man, it’s been ages. Ages, right, Kiku? Fuckin’ ages.” He strode forward and thrust out his hand, which Arthur almost managed to shake without frowning. “How you been?”
“Fantastic, thanks for asking, you?” Arthur hoped his years of smiling for the camera had paid off.
Then again, models didn’t really smile. They just sort of stared moodily at the camera. Not Alfred, though. Arthur looked at Ivan, who was much too busy looking anywhere other than back at him. No, not the golden boy.
“Groovy,” Alfred replied, releasing his hand. “Just came over here to talk about…”
Kiku flashed his phone at Arthur in explanation. “Logistics. Kiku Honda, agent. You are Arthur Kirkland; an honor to meet you.” He inclined his head slightly.
Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but Alfred cut in.
“So, yeah, Ivan and I, just arguing over my contract.” Alfred laughed, and he didn’t notice or care that no one joined in. “But Artie, what are you doing here? I didn’t hear you were signed with anyone, but Kiku doesn’t really tell me that stuff. No idea why.”
Arthur felt the smile cutting edges in his cheeks. “Just leaving.”
At least the weather was better. Arthur tugged his jacket closer around him as he walked outside, barely giving Toris a goodbye. Leaves whipped around him, and he stepped around puddles that threatened to flood his shoes. He should really work out.
Instead, he found his feet leading him through the streets, and he ended up outside the hotel. Arthur had disliked the building the first time Ivan had brought him there, but it wasn’t so bad when all Arthur wanted to do was avoid the treadmill.
He nodded at the wait staff, taking the rickety elevator to Ivan’s room, jiggling the handle just right to let himself in without the key.
Arthur liked Ivan’s room. He liked the clothes that were neatly folded, the buckets of thread and ribbon, the yardsticks. He even liked it when the clothes were ripped on the ground, and the room was dusted with white powder.
Arthur meant to do something productive, maybe check his email, but he ended up smoking all the cigarettes he had on him. He sat with his back against the wall, watching the door, chain-smoking.
Finally, Ivan opened the door.
“Why are you sitting in the dark, silly, little, square man?” Ivan asked, smiling fondly at the burning cigarette tip. He shut the door. “For making over six figures a year, you are very insecure when your employer employs people.”
Arthur scoffed. “If I was making over six figures, you’d never see me again.”
Ivan strolled over, standing over Arthur and looking down at him. “Now, that is not true, is it?” He bent slightly, breathing in some of the lingering smoke. “Those smell good.”
Arthur looked at the box in hand. “They cost seven pounds.”
They stayed like that for a while, Arthur brooding and Ivan watching the smoke curl in the fading sunlight. Even a cigarette, Arthur remembered, lighting a new one. Maybe that’s why Ivan requested his company so often; to keep his mind off of other sins.
“Did you blacklist me?” Arthur looked up, only catching half of Ivan’s expression from the way the shadows played. “Because that was a shit thing to do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Fuck you.”