Bathrobes And Fedoras (A Model Love Story) Pt. 1
Written for a prompt at buckleup_meme , and I own none of them.
Chris Pine was the best in the business at what he did, and what he did was very, very nice. He was a hand model, though he’d branched out into full body shoots and had been dressed in the best the world had to offer. However, it was for little magazines that weren’t mainstream, and he was still closer to the starving artist he’d been than the international superstar he was working on becoming. That all changed when he met Bruce Greenwood.
Bruce was an editor for StarFleet!, one of the four biggest fashion magazines in the world. Chris had met him by chance, when he was at the gym one Sunday morning, and he had ended up spotting Bruce, who had somehow been left by his workout partner (that partner was Shera, his assistant, he found out later, who had been called out to oversee something at the office that had to be done RIGHT THEN). Once Bruce found out who he was, son of the famous designer Robert Pine, he immediately gave him his card (well, as immediately as anyone doing chest presses possibly can), and told him to give them a call.
He called the next day, and was scheduled to meet with the photographer and the fashion Director, who would decide where and what to put him in, and whether it would be worth it to do so at all. Because as much as having the kudos from an editor did things for your career, the photographer could veto you and you’d be ruined for life. Especially Karl Urban, who did covers for Vanity Fair and Vogue Magazines, as well as others, like People and Cosmopolitan. So Chris was understandably nervous when he went in for the interview, having put on his best t-shirt and jeans, the best clothes he owned, and he even shaved.
He needn’t have worried. Karl Urban was wearing a faded button up and old jeans, and while he was nearly clean-shaven, his scruff stood out against his olive skin. Zoe Saldana, on the other hand, was impeccably dressed in Vera Wang and Jimmy Choo, and he felt intimidated just being in the same room. Karl made him stand, and turn, and he heard shutters going off, but he didn’t want to pay attention, because paying attention meant that he wasn’t easy or natural, one of the only things his mother had ever taught him before she ran off to Milan when he was 9, leaving him with nanny after nanny until he got out from under them and quickly made his own way in the world.
“Okay, I need you to drop your chin, just a little, right there, and then look at Zoe. There.” A shutter clicked, and then Karl dropped into a chair and just stared at him. “What do you think, Zoe?”
“Brash, but… Yes,” the woman said, and he almost relaxed, but then remembered that photographers were a tricky bunch, wanting their commands to be followed to the letter.
“Oh sit down, Kid, I’m done taking pictures.” He fell into a seat and gratefully accepted the water bottle pressed into his hands. “You’re good. You’ve got a natural way of anticipating what the photographer wants, and your presence is very… open, and yet aloof.” He inwardly beamed, allowing a small smile to take over his face. “Case in point. Your eyes are practically glowing with the praise, but you aren’t letting the extent show on the rest of your face. Enigmatic, is the word I’m thinking of, isn’t it, Zoe?”
“I’d say he’s a great actor, which is almost essential for modeling in a way that your face is shown. Your eyes are going to be a big pull, too. May I?” she asked, standing and sauntering over. Slightly confused, he nodded, and was surprised when she touched his chin, turning his face from side to side. “Very big. Lots of blues and greys, also bold jewel tones… they’ll bring that blue out, I’m sure. What do you say, Karl?”
“Kid, be here next Monday at 8, don’t shave over the weekend. I want about a 9 o’clock shadow, if that makes any sense.”
“So I shouldn’t shave on Sunday?”
“You know your hair, kid. Be here, wear something comfortable, since you’ll be going into the Wardrobe, and we’ll get you dressed. You get to keep one of the outfits, so you’d better choose carefully when you see them.” He was waved out and ended up on cloud nine for the rest of the week, especially when he met his friend Zach at rock-climbing on Saturday.
“So you've finally taken off. I must say that I'm proud,” Zach said, never changing his expression. Zach was an aspiring designer, and they’d met at Yale, where the guy from Pittsburgh was studying art and journalism, and Chris had gotten a degree in Contemporary English. Somehow they’d become friends, though Zach was a dork at the best of time.. So they met as often as possible to go rock-climbing or to the batting cages, because even though he was gay, Chris could really appreciate getting physical exercise.
When he went in on Monday morning, the studio was absolute chaos. People running around looking crazed, and one very irritated photographer snapping at some little intern to get him his coffee. Chris was a good model, and pushed the extra cup of black coffee he’d gotten into the photographer’s hand as soon as he could get to him, which quelled that bit of drama. He was then whisked into a giant closet and dressed like a doll. He ended up in dark-washed denim, something that wasn’t quite in style as far as he’d been aware, and a green bomber jacket, which somehow set off his eyes perfectly. Of course, both pieces cost more than his entire apartment each, as did the silk sleeveless shirt he’d been skimmed into. The platform boots with useless laces and a very discreet zipper were the finishing touch, and then it was off to the hairdresser, who artfully mussed his hair.
He had no idea what the theme for this shoot was, but he was highly tempted to pick the jeans and shirt without looking at the rest. When he returned to the main studio, the chaos was completely gone, replaced by a calm and focus that he’d rarely seen outside Zach’s yoga classes. He was gruffly told where to stand and what to do, and at the end of the outfit, he was already tired, but he refused to show it. He was not losing this shoot because he was a wuss, and that was a fact.
They broke for lunch within two hours of putting on the second outfit, and he was told that the next shoot wouldn’t be until the next morning. When he asked why, no one would tell him. So he went back to his crap flat in Queens, slightly disgruntled. But he made it through the next four days of the shoot without incident, simply by bringing the photographer coffee every morning. At the end of it all, he was handed the jeans and shirt he’d worn the first day, as well as a pair of boots and a nice button-up that made for an amazing outfit, and somehow Karl had talked him into changing before he left and sitting for a photo, which he received in the mail 4 days later, and he realized that he now had an Urban Headshot and bodyshot, which would make his career skyrocket if he used them.
He put them in a drawer and waited for the next issue of StarFleet! to come out.
On to Part 2
Chris Pine was the best in the business at what he did, and what he did was very, very nice. He was a hand model, though he’d branched out into full body shoots and had been dressed in the best the world had to offer. However, it was for little magazines that weren’t mainstream, and he was still closer to the starving artist he’d been than the international superstar he was working on becoming. That all changed when he met Bruce Greenwood.
Bruce was an editor for StarFleet!, one of the four biggest fashion magazines in the world. Chris had met him by chance, when he was at the gym one Sunday morning, and he had ended up spotting Bruce, who had somehow been left by his workout partner (that partner was Shera, his assistant, he found out later, who had been called out to oversee something at the office that had to be done RIGHT THEN). Once Bruce found out who he was, son of the famous designer Robert Pine, he immediately gave him his card (well, as immediately as anyone doing chest presses possibly can), and told him to give them a call.
He called the next day, and was scheduled to meet with the photographer and the fashion Director, who would decide where and what to put him in, and whether it would be worth it to do so at all. Because as much as having the kudos from an editor did things for your career, the photographer could veto you and you’d be ruined for life. Especially Karl Urban, who did covers for Vanity Fair and Vogue Magazines, as well as others, like People and Cosmopolitan. So Chris was understandably nervous when he went in for the interview, having put on his best t-shirt and jeans, the best clothes he owned, and he even shaved.
He needn’t have worried. Karl Urban was wearing a faded button up and old jeans, and while he was nearly clean-shaven, his scruff stood out against his olive skin. Zoe Saldana, on the other hand, was impeccably dressed in Vera Wang and Jimmy Choo, and he felt intimidated just being in the same room. Karl made him stand, and turn, and he heard shutters going off, but he didn’t want to pay attention, because paying attention meant that he wasn’t easy or natural, one of the only things his mother had ever taught him before she ran off to Milan when he was 9, leaving him with nanny after nanny until he got out from under them and quickly made his own way in the world.
“Okay, I need you to drop your chin, just a little, right there, and then look at Zoe. There.” A shutter clicked, and then Karl dropped into a chair and just stared at him. “What do you think, Zoe?”
“Brash, but… Yes,” the woman said, and he almost relaxed, but then remembered that photographers were a tricky bunch, wanting their commands to be followed to the letter.
“Oh sit down, Kid, I’m done taking pictures.” He fell into a seat and gratefully accepted the water bottle pressed into his hands. “You’re good. You’ve got a natural way of anticipating what the photographer wants, and your presence is very… open, and yet aloof.” He inwardly beamed, allowing a small smile to take over his face. “Case in point. Your eyes are practically glowing with the praise, but you aren’t letting the extent show on the rest of your face. Enigmatic, is the word I’m thinking of, isn’t it, Zoe?”
“I’d say he’s a great actor, which is almost essential for modeling in a way that your face is shown. Your eyes are going to be a big pull, too. May I?” she asked, standing and sauntering over. Slightly confused, he nodded, and was surprised when she touched his chin, turning his face from side to side. “Very big. Lots of blues and greys, also bold jewel tones… they’ll bring that blue out, I’m sure. What do you say, Karl?”
“Kid, be here next Monday at 8, don’t shave over the weekend. I want about a 9 o’clock shadow, if that makes any sense.”
“So I shouldn’t shave on Sunday?”
“You know your hair, kid. Be here, wear something comfortable, since you’ll be going into the Wardrobe, and we’ll get you dressed. You get to keep one of the outfits, so you’d better choose carefully when you see them.” He was waved out and ended up on cloud nine for the rest of the week, especially when he met his friend Zach at rock-climbing on Saturday.
“So you've finally taken off. I must say that I'm proud,” Zach said, never changing his expression. Zach was an aspiring designer, and they’d met at Yale, where the guy from Pittsburgh was studying art and journalism, and Chris had gotten a degree in Contemporary English. Somehow they’d become friends, though Zach was a dork at the best of time.. So they met as often as possible to go rock-climbing or to the batting cages, because even though he was gay, Chris could really appreciate getting physical exercise.
When he went in on Monday morning, the studio was absolute chaos. People running around looking crazed, and one very irritated photographer snapping at some little intern to get him his coffee. Chris was a good model, and pushed the extra cup of black coffee he’d gotten into the photographer’s hand as soon as he could get to him, which quelled that bit of drama. He was then whisked into a giant closet and dressed like a doll. He ended up in dark-washed denim, something that wasn’t quite in style as far as he’d been aware, and a green bomber jacket, which somehow set off his eyes perfectly. Of course, both pieces cost more than his entire apartment each, as did the silk sleeveless shirt he’d been skimmed into. The platform boots with useless laces and a very discreet zipper were the finishing touch, and then it was off to the hairdresser, who artfully mussed his hair.
He had no idea what the theme for this shoot was, but he was highly tempted to pick the jeans and shirt without looking at the rest. When he returned to the main studio, the chaos was completely gone, replaced by a calm and focus that he’d rarely seen outside Zach’s yoga classes. He was gruffly told where to stand and what to do, and at the end of the outfit, he was already tired, but he refused to show it. He was not losing this shoot because he was a wuss, and that was a fact.
They broke for lunch within two hours of putting on the second outfit, and he was told that the next shoot wouldn’t be until the next morning. When he asked why, no one would tell him. So he went back to his crap flat in Queens, slightly disgruntled. But he made it through the next four days of the shoot without incident, simply by bringing the photographer coffee every morning. At the end of it all, he was handed the jeans and shirt he’d worn the first day, as well as a pair of boots and a nice button-up that made for an amazing outfit, and somehow Karl had talked him into changing before he left and sitting for a photo, which he received in the mail 4 days later, and he realized that he now had an Urban Headshot and bodyshot, which would make his career skyrocket if he used them.
He put them in a drawer and waited for the next issue of StarFleet! to come out.
On to Part 2