FIC: City of Dreams, PG-13, Bill/Tom, 1/2
Title: City of Dreams
Author: ???
Pairing: Bill/Tom
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: possible glaring inaccuracies about the structure of the fashion industry
Disclaimer: This story is an entire work of fiction, all recognizable people and brands mentioned belong to their respective owners.
Summary: Bill is a small town boy who moves to New York City with nothing but a suitcase and his dreams to become a fashion designer. He swore he wouldn't come home until he's made it, and he intends to keep his promise, even through a disastrous Christmas.
Recipient: hysterichotel
Author's notes: I apologize for all my warped adaptations of Tokio Hotel canon in this. I know DSquared is not an enormous fashion house, David Jost is not a sassy journalist, etc. I hope you enjoy it anyway, especially my recipient! I hope this makes your holidays warm and fuzzy. :) Thanks so much to my pre-reader and my beta as well. You lovelies know who you are <3
"Merry Christmas, Bill," said the second person of the evening, a drink in their hand as they dawdled in the foyer of DSquared New York, the fashion house of twins Dan and Dean Caten and the main branch of the label. Bill mumbled a return greeting, far too focused on pinning festive fabric to a mannequin stand while his coworkers were popping champagne. There was still so much to be done for the Christmas party; so many finishing touches to completed. Bill, as an intern at the fashion house, received most of the grunt work, and he knew if there was but a bauble out of place this evening, responsibility would fall upon his shoulders. He rarely reported to the twins themselves; more often he reported to Tom Trumper, the creative director, and sometimes Natalie Franz, the production manager. On this occasion, it was Natalie who had ordered the decoration of the store, and she was often much more critical than Tom. She was a business person, through and through, and she had Bill working nonstop, around the clock, designing, building, and finally putting up all the decorations.
Of course, in the fashion world, a Christmas party was never just a Christmas party. Many important fashion journals would be represented, as well as other designers. The presentation of the store would reflect on the entire company's reputation. Every detail mattered.
The store's original design featured dark, neutral colors and ultra modern architecture, so the regular practice of sticking some Santa hats on the mannequins and putting up some ribbon here and there would have looked tacky and out of place. Bill had decided to play off the darkness of the store, using a theme of silver and gold, with touches of deep reds in his decorations. For some of the mannequins, he had designed festive garments specifically to add to the ambience; one mannequin sported a poncho of glittering gold tassels, inspired by the tinsel he was using sparingly, another one a knitted burgundy scarf embroidered with silver thread. Bill had styled wigs for them as well, adding in ribbons of silver and gold, or headpieces made of pine. He had found a patterned dark gold fabric for the mannequin stands and decadent hangings for the walls, and he'd bought dozens of roses and placed them around the store in crystal vases, with gold painted nuts and pinecones as vase fillers instead of the standard glass marbles.
Bill had made sure everything would be perfect for his bosses' arrivals. He checked his phone; it was 3:45 PM. Tom had mentioned that he would come around 4:00 PM, leaving Bill with only fifteen minutes to get everything together.
After a yearlong internship, this was the first chance Bill had really had to show off his design skills. Previously all of his tasks had been to do drudge work for Tom, Natalie, Dan, and Dean, from cutting and sewing designs, to doing paperwork and fetching coffees. Bill didn't mind it - well, he did mind that Natalie seemed to think of him as a personal assistant - but every opportunity Bill had to work with professionals, he savored. Sometimes Tom did ask him for input on a design, though Bill had only managed to truly impress him once or twice. Being able to design the flagship store was a huge leap forward for him, a true test of his skills, and with his internship ending soon, he hoped that Dan and Dean might consider bringing him on fulltime as a designer. The DSquared label was huge, and even between Tom, Dan, Dean, and their dozen or so employees in the house, their workload was constant and heavy. The Caten twins turned out fantastic products year round and had several lines, from women's couture, to a swimsuit line, to mens readywear. Surely they could use another hand.
Everything seemed to be in place, so Bill took a quick stroll through the store, checking it up and down for anything missing or not perfectly secured. Even if he didn't finish before Tom came, his real worry was Natalie, who wouldn't arrive until the party began at 8:00 PM. Tom, far unlike Natalie, was generally pleasant and helpful - not that that would stop him from having a negative opinion of Bill. And Tom was truly the one Bill had to impress, because he was the one Bill worked with the most often. The twins were usually too busy jetsetting around the world to work with their designers in person.
After carefully adjusting a wall hanging, Bill turned around to double-check the upper floor, but stopped in his tracks when he spotted Tom standing by a mannequin, head tilted back as he looked it up and down. Bill did the same with him, covertly. Tom's style could be described as classic with a modern twist, very simple and clean-cut. Today he wore an asymmetrical, forest green sweater with dark, loosely fitted pants, and gold plugs in his ears. His long, black dreadlocks, undeniably the trademark of his image, had been twisted intricately and neatly atop his head as per usual, today with a streak of gold twisted in. Bill already felt gratified that Tom had dressed to complement his color scheme.
"Bill," Tom said, turning his head toward him. He seemed astonished, perhaps that Bill had actually been able to pull everything off in time. "You did all this?"
"Yes sir, just as I was asked to," Bill responded, not sure what his disbelief was. Unless, Bill thought cynically, had he and Natalie tried to set Bill up for failure on purpose? "And with ten minutes to spare," he made sure to remind Tom. He was a good, talented, diligent worker who knew his place, and he hoped now more than ever to impress that upon his boss.
"Ten minutes…" Tom glanced down at his watch for half a second, then back at Bill as he seemed to reach some sort of comprehension. "Oh! Oh, Bill, no, you completely misunderstood me. I'm so sorry. When I said I was coming at four, I meant to help you, not to make sure you were finished!" Tom grazed a hand over his dreads, and spun around in a slow circle, casting his eyes all around the store. "This must have taken you ages!"
"Well, I came in at noon," Bill told him, now quite disappointed that he had missed an opportunity to work with a creative genius like Tom Trumper. He was essentially the third Caten twin, with how closely he collaborated with them. And not only was he handsome and talented, but he was German as well, just like Bill. Unlike Bill, however, he had a distractingly gorgeous accent.
"Wow. I'm sure we could have had this done in half the time…I'm so sorry I wasn't clearer. But the decorations are simply perfect. Very well done, Bill, congratulations. And the extra lightning - fantastic."
"Thank you," Bill grinned, gratified. There was nothing like having a successful designer praise your work.
"And all these drunks--" Tom gestured toward the employees who had already opened the champagne, "didn't they help you?"
"Well, no, I wasn't really sure if they were here to help, but no one offered, so I figured they had other business." He watched as one of them refilled everyone's glass and set down the second empty bottle of champagne. "I guess I was wrong."
"They shouldn't be here unless they're working," Tom sighed, and started toward them. "Time to kick them out. Hey, guys! Anyone not here for set-up needs to go home. We'll see you in a few hours. Try to be here about half an hour early, all right? And Bill really appreciates all the 'help' you gave him with the decorations."
"Didn't see you helping either!" one tipsy designer retorted, and Tom just raised his eyebrows at her. "What else are interns good for?"
"Interns? You really think that something like designing the store, which is such an important component of our image, would be passed off as busywork to an intern? As I remember it, all of you were prompted for designs, so you should be the ones embarrassed that an intern with barely any experience beat all of you out."
Tom's words took Bill by surprise, partially because he hadn't known this, but also because he had never known Tom to raise his voice in the slightest. Chagrined, the designers made their humble exits, leaving Bill and Tom alone.
"So," Bill started cautiously, afraid to set his boss off again, "there's still some stuff we could do…I did skip some smaller touches because I thought four o'clock was my deadline…"
For a moment Tom was silent, then he turned to Bill, eyes downcast briefly before meeting Bill's. "I'm sorry," he said. "I lost my cool a bit, huh?" He tried to turn it into a joke, giving a forced smile, and Bill shuffled his feet. "Right, well, let's finish this up and get you home."
"Okay well, I made some simple decals that I thought we could put on the mannequins…they'll peel off real easy, I just thought it would be a cool touch," Bill explained, then began his hunt around the store to find where he'd stowed them away. He brought the bag out and for a moment they worked silently, adhering silver and gold decals to the mannequins.
"Was that true?" Bill said suddenly, watching from his crouched position, as Tom finished their final mannequin; the one with a gold poncho. Bill hoped Tom would say something about it; it had turned out to be his favorite piece that he'd done for the store. "About um, asking the other designers to create the store design?"
"Of course," Tom said, glancing down at Bill and then offering him a hand up. "But only a few of them actually submitted designs. The rest of them…they've become complacent," he said darkly. Tom brushed his fingers over the tassels of the poncho Bill had made, then picked a few up contemplatively. He shot Bill a questioning look.
"I made it," Bill answered before he could ask, his heart leaping in his chest. Did Tom hate it? Did he think it was hideous?
"Bill…" Tom glanced over his shoulder at the other mannequins, then sighed. "I thought something was amiss," he muttered, turning back to the mannequin with the poncho. "I'm sorry, Bill, while I appreciate the effort - we have to take these down." He unzipped the poncho at the back and began lifting it over the mannequin's head, knocking its wig askew as he did. Bill's heart stuttered and flopped uneasily in response, unreasonably upset as Tom tossed the poncho into Bill's bag. "They're not DSquared products, so we can't advertise them. But you're welcome to go in the back and try to find anything comparable to use."
He moved to another mannequin and began unwrapping its scarf from its shoulders. Bill nodded, shakily, and reached for the wig that was about to fall off the mannequin's head. How could Tom be so careless and rude? Was this how he always acted, and Bill had simply never noticed? It didn't seem right; Tom had always been kind and understanding to Bill, if somewhat distant. Bill smoothed a shaking hand over the hair of the wig, set it on the mannequin's head, and carefully adjusted its decorations before turning and heading into the back. Bill wasn't angry so much that he couldn't put up his designs - in retrospect, it made sense - but he was angry that he had put so much effort and hope into those pieces, thinking that Tom would commend him, that maybe even Dan and Dean would notice and give him a compliment. Bill was angry at himself for being so naive. And he was mad at Tom, who had delivered the news so heartlessly, ripping off the poncho and throwing it away, with total irreverence toward Bill's efforts. Bill crouched down in the back room and pressed his fingers to his eyes; didn't Tom know how hard Bill had worked to get to this moment? To show his designs to someone who actually mattered? To be noticed?
But Bill hadn't come all the way from Bumfuck Nowhere, Colorado to the City of Dreams to cry in a storage room because someone didn't care about his feelings. If something didn't work out, then the only solution was to try harder, push harder. The fashion industry was not a place where being a hard worker and never toeing the line was rewarded, and Bill knew that. He had to be able to absorb criticism and cruelty when he messed up, and even when he didn't, and keep pushing regardless.
Bill stood up with the intention of delving into a search for the perfect accessories to replace the ones he'd made, but he caught sight of a figure in the corner of his eye. Bill turned to see Tom standing at the entryway of the storage room, the poncho in one hand, eyebrows drawn together. "Hey, I'm so sorry," he said, starting forward. Bill bit his lip and glanced away, embarrassed for both of them. "I, I've just - just been going through some personal things, lately, and I didn't mean to take it out on you. I was - totally out of line." Tom glanced down, seeming earnest, leaving Bill somewhat shellshocked. He had never known Tom to be personal with him, either, or for anyone in the industry to be apologetic.
Holding up the poncho, Tom said, "This is really beautiful, and…you have a lot of promise. Please don't think, because I was short with you, that I was insulting your designs. I really, really wish we could keep them out…but they might steal the show, you know?" He offered a timorous smile, and Bill nodded, taking a deep breath.
"Thank you," he said, and smiled in relief. "Really, you don't know how much it means to me, to have your…support. And um, I really hope, whatever you're dealing with, um, gets better. Really," he added for good measure, wanting to sound as sincere as Tom had.
"Thank you," Tom replied humbly. "So…let's find us some scarves and ponchos, yeah?"
Bill and Tom continued working in relative silence, but there was barely anything else to do now. They finished within a half hour, at which point Bill gathered up his empty bags and any other tools he'd left lying around and hid them in the back.
"So we have more than three hours until the party," Tom said, glancing at his watch. He then looked up at Bill, who was patiently awaiting instruction. "Do you have any plans between now and then?"
"Well, I do want to change, but I brought an outfit, so…" Bill gestured toward the back room, where his outfit sat folded in his purse.
"Would you like to go out with me then? I'll take you out for dinner. What do you say?"
Flabbergasted, Bill didn't even know how to reply for a few seconds. That couldn't - Tom couldn't have possibly just asked him out, right?
"I just still feel so bad," Tom continued when Bill didn't answer, and gave Bill a hopeful look. Bill finally gathered himself and nodded.
"I, I would love that - I mean, but I shouldn't accept. I'm not upset, it's really all right…" Bill trailed off. It was hard to stay professional with how sweetly Tom was looking at him.
"Please, I would like to, as much for myself as for you. I need something to take my mind off all…this." He gestured around the shop, which caused Bill to wonder if there was some tension between Tom and the twins.
"Well…all right, then," Bill smiled, and then said, "there's nothing else we have to do? Set up for food?" He glanced at the tables that he had put out the night before after close, bare but for the empty champagne bottles.
"Oh, catering will take care of it all," Tom promised, then made a shooing motion. "Go get ready."
Bill changed in the storage room, slipping into a pair of fitted charcoal slacks, a wide-necked sweater that showed off just enough of his skin to be shameless, some jewelry and ankle boots. He crouched down, pulled out his makeup and a compact, and spent as much time as he dared on a glittery smokey look. After dabbing on some lipgloss, he brushed his hair and checked that it had held its style and that the short hairs of his undercut weren't sticking up oddly. When everything checked out, he wrapped himself up in his peacoat, lifted his purse onto his shoulder, and went into the front of the store with a small skip in his step. Even if he couldn't have his designs out, going out for dinner with one of the most respected, charming, and talented people in the business was a wonderful opportunity of equal measure.
When Bill spotted Tom, he was pacing by the water feature, phone pressed to his ear and arm gesturing spasmodically.
"Yes, yes I know. I'm aware - I understand. This has to be done tonight…?" Tom trailed off as he seemed to notice Bill in the room, and Bill could already tell his magical, once-in-a-lifetime chance at dinner with Tom Trumper was not happening. "I am on my way. You can expect me in twenty minutes."
Tom hung up and sent Bill a sheepish look that begged for forgiveness. Bill just nodded. "That's okay, thanks anyway," he said, trying to sound grateful rather than disappointed.
"I"m so sorry…it's just…this whole thing…it's just a wreck, and I have to deal with it." Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed his eyes, and then started for the door. "Hopefully this will all be resolved by tonight, though," he said, offering a wan smile that led Bill to believe that whatever Tom was dealing with was in fact far from over. "Thank you for your patience, and your hard work. And, for what it's worth, you look lovely. I'll see you at eight."
Tom's surprising parting words kept Bill's morale up while he wandered around Manhattan to pass the time; it was an hour's walk to his apartment in SoHo and he didn't feel like paying for a cab, so he took the time to window shop and do some sketches here and there. All there really was in his cramped, studio apartment was an overflowing stock of fabric and half finished dresses that he barely had the free time to work on. His mind wandered back to Tom's words once again - you look lovely. That made his belly feel warmer than the hot cider he had purchased. Bill couldn't help feeling magnetically attracted to Tom; despite the fact that he was utterly gorgeous, he was one of the kindest people Bill had met in the industry, and he was incredibly successful and driven. Then again, practically every single gay man in the fashion industry probably wanted to jump Tom's bones, and then some, so Bill knew he was the last in a long line of admirers. But, after a year of grueling work and zero free time, a little crush to distract Bill was basically harmless.
When Bill returned to the store, half an hour early as Tom had told the designers, a swarm of media waited outside, undoubtedly for the arrival of the Catens, who would come closer to eight. A few of them snapped pictures of Bill, only half-interested as he let himself into the store. Inside, the catering team had finished with their own touches and decorations, and the store looking absolutely decadent. Bill took a quick look the foods - gourmet hors d'oeuvres, small cakes, mineral water, coffee, tea, and champagne all beckoned him. He realized he had hardly eaten a bite all day, but he assumed that he wouldn't be allowed to eat the food until the party began.
By now Natalie was here, buzzing around from person to person and interrogating them for a few seconds before moving on to the next. Bill sometimes thought she might actually be a nice person, if she could learn how to not be stressed out by every little thing all the time. She was the polar opposite to Tom.
"Bill! At least I don't have to ask you if you did what you were supposed to, because it's obvious by looking around. Bravo. Please, tonight, please, stay out of the way, speak only when spoke to, that kind of deal - not that I don't have faith in your people skills, but you are an intern. Your job is to observe. Don't get in the way. Please. Thank you."
Even Natalie seemed more stressed than usual as she scurried off to bother someone else. He felt slightly insulted by her words, but tried to remind himself not to take them too personally. Natalie had the habit of biting off heads indiscriminately when stressed, including the twins' if they dared to get in her way.
Soon Dan and Dean arrived and guests were allowed in, along with the press. Bill tried his best to be wallpaper, staying out of the way of guests and his coworkers, though that wasn't hard because they already had a habit of avoiding him. Bill snacked on hors d'oeuvres and eyed many a gorgeous gown and watched all his coworkers get drunk off champagne.
Tom hadn't returned yet, either, which concerned Bill a bit. Obviously something was happening in the business that only Tom, Natalie, Dan and Dean knew, and whatever it was, wasn't good. Bill had never seen Tom as stressed as he had appeared today.
"…well, goodness, thank you! Yes, Dan and I threw all this together last minute…" Bill perked up when he heard Dean speaking near him, assuming at first he meant the Christmas party in general - though that didn't make sense, seeing as they had been planning it for several months now.
"It was my idea to accent the colors of the walls!" Dan put in, flitting over to stand by his twin, and Bill stiffened. Were they taking credit for Bill's designs? "But, admittedly, those gorgeous mannequins? All Dean."
"Yes, I did put those together…"
Bill felt his blood boil. Was this an expected part of being an intern? Having credit stolen for one's designs? Was this why no one else had put any effort into submitting a design? Should he have foreseen this coming? Bill was raging inside. He wanted Tom to be there; Tom would understand and commiserate, if not stick up for him. That would only create bad press for the label and it would put Tom's and Bill's jobs both in jeopardy.
Helpless - that was how Bill felt. What was he supposed to say, "Excuse me, but the Caten twins, world-renown fashion designers, actually didn't touch a single bauble and this work is all mine"? He would be laughed out of the studio, probably permanently. Bill decided the best choice was to track down the champagne server and drink his night away.
Three small glasses of champagne later and Bill had tucked himself away in a corner, imagining he made a nice addition to the Catens' wall decorations. He was a bit tipsy, but not nearly as much as he would have liked. He simply wanted the damn thing to be over, and it would be, in an hour and a half more. Then the Catens would move to the afterparty, and Bill would probably be responsible for cleaning up. He felt even more sour now, and he was angry at Tom too; where the hell was he? What could possibly be more important than being here tonight?
"Well well, who is this pretty young thing, alone all the way over here?" asked a short, wiry man who seemed to emerge from behind a mannequin. Bill blinked at him, noticing he held two glasses of champagne, one untouched. "My name is David Jost, journalist and fashionista," he introduced himself, and passed over the second glass of champagne. "Your name, cherie?"
"Bill Kaulitz," Bill replied dumbly, and accepted the champagne gratefully. He thought he should probably try harder to act cheerful for Mr. Jost but he didn't care enough at the moment. "I'm the Catens' intern."
"Oh! That's wonderful. Have you learned a lot working for them?" Jost asked, taking a comfortable position beside Bill, casual but not so close that it was awkward or intimidating. Overall, Jost seemed harmless.
"Of course, but maybe not about any of the things I expected to," Bill admitted, drinking more of his champagne and wishing he could just knock it all back in one gulp without appearing crass.
"Very different world here, isn't it? Still, congratulations! They're truly one of the most visionary labels right now, I think. Huge."
"Hmm. I suppose," Bill said noncommittally, and to his surprise, Jost smirked.
"No? Not smitten with them? I wonder why not…"
"It might partly be due to the fact that I work twice as hard as almost anyone here with a tenth the pay, and they take credit for all my work afterward," Bill said bitterly, realizing after the fact that he was speaking to a journalist. He could wake up tomorrow with his name in headlines, bashing Dan and Dean, and that could ruin his future career.
"What? What did they steal from you?" Jost wheedled, and Bill frowned.
"This entire party - the designs, color scheming, and decorations - all were my doing." Bill couldn't stop himself, no matter how much he wanted to. "I sketched them, I created them, I put them up. The Catens didn't lift a finger. I guess that's the business. But, that's all off the record. I don't want to ruin any slim chances I might have at a career," Bill muttered, glancing into his drink and finally downing the rest.
"Well, you'd hardly be the first to make such an allegation, but no worries, I'm not a gossip column anyhow. I report on clothes, not the awful people who usually tend to make them," Jost said consolingly, though Bill hardly felt better.
"I don't even know where to go from here. I thought maybe this position could lead me to another job, a real industry job."
"Well, I wish you the best of luck," Jost said suddenly before making his exit. Bill didn't blame him for leaving. He hadn't exactly meant to completely drop his frustrations on a stranger, but he supposed the alcohol had loosened his tongue.
Not nearly satisfied with his level of drunkenness yet though, Bill found a few more champagne glasses, chugged them all in quick succession, and went back to waiting for the night to be over. He talked to a couple more party guests and tried to explain to them that he had created the decorations, but they vehemently disagreed - no, of course the twins had designed their own holiday decorations! Foolish boy, stop talking.
As the night dragged on, Bill found himself glancing at the entrance every other minute to check if Tom had arrived. This was far past fashionably late, and the anger Bill had felt earlier began to fester, no doubt helped by the alcohol. Why shouldn't he be angry at Tom? Simply because he was good at playing nice didn't make him a saint or a savior. Today he had shown Bill his true colors, and then tried to cover it up by offering to take him to some fancy-dancy dinner. Where was he, anyway? Probably avoiding Bill because somehow, in Bill's delusional, drunken mind, this was all his fault. Tom's fault the twins had ripped him off, Tom's fault Bill couldn't object, Tom's fault Bill was drunk and miserable right now.
A few minutes past eleven, Dan made an announcement, thanking their guests and wishing them happy holidays and blah blah blah. Of course, Dan made sure to add that everyone was invited to the afterparty, and Bill muttered under his breath, "'Except for our hardworking intern who built this entire party singlehandedly'."
The music quieted but most of the guests remained, chatting with one another about whatever frivolous things. Bill, having had quite enough, decided to grab the wig off the nearest mannequin. He was unpeeling decals when suddenly Dean rushed to his side, grabbing his arm.
"Oh no no no, just leave these. We'll take them down after Christmas."
"Will we?" Bill spat out in reply, and immediately regretted it, but it was too late for him now. Dean narrowed his eyes.
"I don't know what you mean. Thank you for being so eager to help, but…" Dean reached for the wig but Bill jerked his hand back, holding it above his head. There was no hope for Dean to reach it, being almost a full head shorter than Bill.
"Bill, come on…don't cause a scene," he pleaded, glancing around.
"Why would you be worried about that?" Bill slurred, then tore the scarf off the mannequin as well. "It can't be that I was the one to put all the backbreaking work into this party while you sipped martinis in Milan, right? You didn't even help set it up. Leave all the dirty work to the intern, but when he does something great, make sure he gets no credit for it!"
Bill realized he was shouting and the entire room had gone quiet. Horrified, he turned on his heel and headed straight for the back room, stumbling a bit as he weaved through guests. He grabbed his purse and all his bags of decorations, stuffing the few he'd gathered inside and then heading for the door. Dean hadn't followed; instead Bill found him with the guests, doing damage control and encouraging them all to get a move on, no doubt away from Bill.
"…I wouldn't like to fire him, such a good worker!" Dean was saying to a guest.
"No, of course not, he's just had a bit to drink, like most of us here," the guest responded, giggling drunkenly. Bill walked past them pointedly and continued to collect his decorations.
"Bill…why don't you go home, you poor thing…I'll call a taxi for you…" Dean approached him, and began steering him through the store. "You're overworked--"
"I'm overworked!" Bill cried in response. "How nice of you to notice. Now go tell every guest here how many dozens of hours I slaved over this damn party just to receive nothing for it."
"Of course - of course you'll receive something for it!" Dean seemed shocked by the notion. "Bill, you really ought to get to bed--" Dean lowered his voice, "and tomorrow you can find a few extra thousand dollars in your bank account to make you forget--"
Bill shoved Dean away from him, and watched as the designer stumbled and lost his footing. Dan appeared out of seemingly nowhere, by his twin's side in an instant to help him up. Bill, furious and disgusted and mortified all at once, threw his bags over his shoulder and all but bolted for the door.
Bill stumbled through the streets of Manhattan, clutching his half empty bags and his pride, making a misstep every now and then but keeping on. After thirty or forty minutes in the icy cold, Bill arrived on his doorstep, markedly more sober. With every step he'd begun to regret his actions more and more. He was screwed, eternally. Dan and Dean were gods in the fashion world. They would make sure Bill never worked for a reputable company ever again. Bill wondered if there was any hope for reconciliation between them - probably not. But even though Bill knew he was in the right, he was a mouse battling lions. They had extreme power and influence in the fashion world, and even though Bill would hate himself for it, he knew he had to at least try his hardest to not burn his bridges.
Tonight, however, was not the night to mend what he had broken. Hell, he was still drunk, and he needed a clear mind to be able to face the music. Exhausted, Bill kicked off his shoes and fell back into his bed.
Bill's alarm went off at eight o'clock AM the next morning, as it did every morning, and for a few moments Bill thought with panic that he had to get into work. He was halfway out of bed when he remembered his actions that had, no doubt, gotten him fired. Bill slumped back into his bed and curled up. What if he just went back home? The holidays were coming up…he could visit his parents and just not tell them that he wasn't leaving for New York again.
But Bill knew he couldn't do that. He would sooner starve and live on the streets than return home. He had promised himself and his family that he was going to make it. For as much as Bill missed his family, that didn't heal the scars of their laughter, because Bill had had the audacity to have dreams beyond his small town life. Everyone back home in Colorado had assured him that he wouldn't make it, that he'd be back within a year, if not within three months. Bill had to make it. He had to prove them all wrong. Maybe they were his family and friends, and Bill loved them, but deep down, he hated them all, too.
As Bill showered and put together a barely edible breakfast, he thought back to his hazy resolve the night before. He had essentially assaulted Dean Caten; Bill's stomach dropped when he thought how that might turn out for him legally. And although Bill had a few cards of his own, there was no way he would win out against the Catens, who probably had the finest lawyer money could buy. He was, in a word, screwed.
Nevertheless, Bill had to make the call. He had to at least make an effort. He dialed the store's phone number but got no answer, then tried the studio, but only received a vague answer about the twins being unavailable, but he should probably come by to get his stuff. Bill tried Tom's number as well, even though he really had no clue what Tom could do for him seeing as he hadn't even been at the party, but it rolled to voicemail. That left Bill with only the twins' phone numbers left to try. Bill had rather hoped it wouldn't come to this.
Dan picked up on the second ring.
"Hey," Bill said uneasily, "I would like to um, talk, about my actions last night. I know I was out of line, completely, but I wasn't entirely at fault." He said it all rather quick, and his heart lodged itself in his throat. He had never had to confront the twins before, or any employer for that matter, and so much depended on this.
"It's clear to Dean and I that you are not a fit for our company," Dan replied tersely, and Bill's heart sank, as if he'd been expecting any different. "But there are still matters to resolve. First of all, you should understand that any work you did for Dean and I does belong to us, as terms of your employment."
Bill clenched his jaw. "I understand that…but just because my designs belong to you doesn't mean you made them. No one would believe you if you said you designed every single item for all your lines from scratch."
"At any rate, it was a tiny white lie that you could have just ignored," Dan pressed on. "I understand that you had been drinking and weren't in your right mind, but you should also understand that you were representing the DSquared label at that party and should have thought twice before having so much to drink. Anyway, none of this is really a concern to Dean or me. We have larger fish to fry, like your good-for-nothing mentor, Mr. Trumper. If you agree to give a statement explaining your actions…"
Bill's phone beeped, and to Bill's shock, Tom was on the other line. Tom, who was apparently in hot water with the twins as well…Bill's head hurt. He wanted to make this all go away.
"…five thousand dollars." Bill snapped back to attention at the mention of money. So Dan and Dean still wanted to pay him off, and admittedly, it would be smart for Bill to take the deal. It worked out for him both ways; the twins would bury the story, saving both themselves and Bill from bad press, and Bill would have enough money to keep himself fed until he found another job.
Still, 5K for a cover-up? Bill wondered if he could push for more.
Bill's phone beeped again to interrupt his thoughts, alerting him that Tom had left a voicemail. "It sounds like a good deal," Bill started uncertainly, "but I'm assuming you aren't going to just take my word for it."
"Of course not. Our lawyer is drafting a non-disclosure agreement as we speak. I'll text you the address; come over immediately." Dan hung up.
Head spinning, Bill almost threw his phone away without listening to Tom's message, as if that would simplify things. He waited until he heard his phone ding with Dan's text message, then called his voicemail. The message was much shorter than he expected: "Call me as soon as you get this. Don't make any agreements with Dan and Dean."
That changed things. Bill dialed Tom back as instructed, wondering if the twins had hoped to have Bill sign on the dotted line before Tom could get to him, but Bill was far more inclined to trust Tom than the Catens.
"Bill," Tom answered urgently on the first ring, "please tell me you haven't talked to the twins yet."
"Sort of," Bill confirmed, "they want me to sign a non-disclosure…"
"Don't do it. Whatever you do, do not accept their agreement. I'm going to handle everything, you don't have to worry about a thing, okay? Just take care of yourself."
"Wait," Bill blurted out before Tom hung up. "Just…what…" He trailed off, helpless. He wanted to trust Tom, but he needed something far more specific than "I'll handle it."
"Don't worry," Tom repeated. "Consider it already dealt with. I suggest you go retrieve anything that belongs to you from the studio and the store before the twins get to it, and just wait for this to pass over. Okay? Take care."
"Yeah, okay," Bill said numbly in return and hung up.
NEXT
Author: ???
Pairing: Bill/Tom
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: possible glaring inaccuracies about the structure of the fashion industry
Disclaimer: This story is an entire work of fiction, all recognizable people and brands mentioned belong to their respective owners.
Summary: Bill is a small town boy who moves to New York City with nothing but a suitcase and his dreams to become a fashion designer. He swore he wouldn't come home until he's made it, and he intends to keep his promise, even through a disastrous Christmas.
Recipient: hysterichotel
Author's notes: I apologize for all my warped adaptations of Tokio Hotel canon in this. I know DSquared is not an enormous fashion house, David Jost is not a sassy journalist, etc. I hope you enjoy it anyway, especially my recipient! I hope this makes your holidays warm and fuzzy. :) Thanks so much to my pre-reader and my beta as well. You lovelies know who you are <3
"Merry Christmas, Bill," said the second person of the evening, a drink in their hand as they dawdled in the foyer of DSquared New York, the fashion house of twins Dan and Dean Caten and the main branch of the label. Bill mumbled a return greeting, far too focused on pinning festive fabric to a mannequin stand while his coworkers were popping champagne. There was still so much to be done for the Christmas party; so many finishing touches to completed. Bill, as an intern at the fashion house, received most of the grunt work, and he knew if there was but a bauble out of place this evening, responsibility would fall upon his shoulders. He rarely reported to the twins themselves; more often he reported to Tom Trumper, the creative director, and sometimes Natalie Franz, the production manager. On this occasion, it was Natalie who had ordered the decoration of the store, and she was often much more critical than Tom. She was a business person, through and through, and she had Bill working nonstop, around the clock, designing, building, and finally putting up all the decorations.
Of course, in the fashion world, a Christmas party was never just a Christmas party. Many important fashion journals would be represented, as well as other designers. The presentation of the store would reflect on the entire company's reputation. Every detail mattered.
The store's original design featured dark, neutral colors and ultra modern architecture, so the regular practice of sticking some Santa hats on the mannequins and putting up some ribbon here and there would have looked tacky and out of place. Bill had decided to play off the darkness of the store, using a theme of silver and gold, with touches of deep reds in his decorations. For some of the mannequins, he had designed festive garments specifically to add to the ambience; one mannequin sported a poncho of glittering gold tassels, inspired by the tinsel he was using sparingly, another one a knitted burgundy scarf embroidered with silver thread. Bill had styled wigs for them as well, adding in ribbons of silver and gold, or headpieces made of pine. He had found a patterned dark gold fabric for the mannequin stands and decadent hangings for the walls, and he'd bought dozens of roses and placed them around the store in crystal vases, with gold painted nuts and pinecones as vase fillers instead of the standard glass marbles.
Bill had made sure everything would be perfect for his bosses' arrivals. He checked his phone; it was 3:45 PM. Tom had mentioned that he would come around 4:00 PM, leaving Bill with only fifteen minutes to get everything together.
After a yearlong internship, this was the first chance Bill had really had to show off his design skills. Previously all of his tasks had been to do drudge work for Tom, Natalie, Dan, and Dean, from cutting and sewing designs, to doing paperwork and fetching coffees. Bill didn't mind it - well, he did mind that Natalie seemed to think of him as a personal assistant - but every opportunity Bill had to work with professionals, he savored. Sometimes Tom did ask him for input on a design, though Bill had only managed to truly impress him once or twice. Being able to design the flagship store was a huge leap forward for him, a true test of his skills, and with his internship ending soon, he hoped that Dan and Dean might consider bringing him on fulltime as a designer. The DSquared label was huge, and even between Tom, Dan, Dean, and their dozen or so employees in the house, their workload was constant and heavy. The Caten twins turned out fantastic products year round and had several lines, from women's couture, to a swimsuit line, to mens readywear. Surely they could use another hand.
Everything seemed to be in place, so Bill took a quick stroll through the store, checking it up and down for anything missing or not perfectly secured. Even if he didn't finish before Tom came, his real worry was Natalie, who wouldn't arrive until the party began at 8:00 PM. Tom, far unlike Natalie, was generally pleasant and helpful - not that that would stop him from having a negative opinion of Bill. And Tom was truly the one Bill had to impress, because he was the one Bill worked with the most often. The twins were usually too busy jetsetting around the world to work with their designers in person.
After carefully adjusting a wall hanging, Bill turned around to double-check the upper floor, but stopped in his tracks when he spotted Tom standing by a mannequin, head tilted back as he looked it up and down. Bill did the same with him, covertly. Tom's style could be described as classic with a modern twist, very simple and clean-cut. Today he wore an asymmetrical, forest green sweater with dark, loosely fitted pants, and gold plugs in his ears. His long, black dreadlocks, undeniably the trademark of his image, had been twisted intricately and neatly atop his head as per usual, today with a streak of gold twisted in. Bill already felt gratified that Tom had dressed to complement his color scheme.
"Bill," Tom said, turning his head toward him. He seemed astonished, perhaps that Bill had actually been able to pull everything off in time. "You did all this?"
"Yes sir, just as I was asked to," Bill responded, not sure what his disbelief was. Unless, Bill thought cynically, had he and Natalie tried to set Bill up for failure on purpose? "And with ten minutes to spare," he made sure to remind Tom. He was a good, talented, diligent worker who knew his place, and he hoped now more than ever to impress that upon his boss.
"Ten minutes…" Tom glanced down at his watch for half a second, then back at Bill as he seemed to reach some sort of comprehension. "Oh! Oh, Bill, no, you completely misunderstood me. I'm so sorry. When I said I was coming at four, I meant to help you, not to make sure you were finished!" Tom grazed a hand over his dreads, and spun around in a slow circle, casting his eyes all around the store. "This must have taken you ages!"
"Well, I came in at noon," Bill told him, now quite disappointed that he had missed an opportunity to work with a creative genius like Tom Trumper. He was essentially the third Caten twin, with how closely he collaborated with them. And not only was he handsome and talented, but he was German as well, just like Bill. Unlike Bill, however, he had a distractingly gorgeous accent.
"Wow. I'm sure we could have had this done in half the time…I'm so sorry I wasn't clearer. But the decorations are simply perfect. Very well done, Bill, congratulations. And the extra lightning - fantastic."
"Thank you," Bill grinned, gratified. There was nothing like having a successful designer praise your work.
"And all these drunks--" Tom gestured toward the employees who had already opened the champagne, "didn't they help you?"
"Well, no, I wasn't really sure if they were here to help, but no one offered, so I figured they had other business." He watched as one of them refilled everyone's glass and set down the second empty bottle of champagne. "I guess I was wrong."
"They shouldn't be here unless they're working," Tom sighed, and started toward them. "Time to kick them out. Hey, guys! Anyone not here for set-up needs to go home. We'll see you in a few hours. Try to be here about half an hour early, all right? And Bill really appreciates all the 'help' you gave him with the decorations."
"Didn't see you helping either!" one tipsy designer retorted, and Tom just raised his eyebrows at her. "What else are interns good for?"
"Interns? You really think that something like designing the store, which is such an important component of our image, would be passed off as busywork to an intern? As I remember it, all of you were prompted for designs, so you should be the ones embarrassed that an intern with barely any experience beat all of you out."
Tom's words took Bill by surprise, partially because he hadn't known this, but also because he had never known Tom to raise his voice in the slightest. Chagrined, the designers made their humble exits, leaving Bill and Tom alone.
"So," Bill started cautiously, afraid to set his boss off again, "there's still some stuff we could do…I did skip some smaller touches because I thought four o'clock was my deadline…"
For a moment Tom was silent, then he turned to Bill, eyes downcast briefly before meeting Bill's. "I'm sorry," he said. "I lost my cool a bit, huh?" He tried to turn it into a joke, giving a forced smile, and Bill shuffled his feet. "Right, well, let's finish this up and get you home."
"Okay well, I made some simple decals that I thought we could put on the mannequins…they'll peel off real easy, I just thought it would be a cool touch," Bill explained, then began his hunt around the store to find where he'd stowed them away. He brought the bag out and for a moment they worked silently, adhering silver and gold decals to the mannequins.
"Was that true?" Bill said suddenly, watching from his crouched position, as Tom finished their final mannequin; the one with a gold poncho. Bill hoped Tom would say something about it; it had turned out to be his favorite piece that he'd done for the store. "About um, asking the other designers to create the store design?"
"Of course," Tom said, glancing down at Bill and then offering him a hand up. "But only a few of them actually submitted designs. The rest of them…they've become complacent," he said darkly. Tom brushed his fingers over the tassels of the poncho Bill had made, then picked a few up contemplatively. He shot Bill a questioning look.
"I made it," Bill answered before he could ask, his heart leaping in his chest. Did Tom hate it? Did he think it was hideous?
"Bill…" Tom glanced over his shoulder at the other mannequins, then sighed. "I thought something was amiss," he muttered, turning back to the mannequin with the poncho. "I'm sorry, Bill, while I appreciate the effort - we have to take these down." He unzipped the poncho at the back and began lifting it over the mannequin's head, knocking its wig askew as he did. Bill's heart stuttered and flopped uneasily in response, unreasonably upset as Tom tossed the poncho into Bill's bag. "They're not DSquared products, so we can't advertise them. But you're welcome to go in the back and try to find anything comparable to use."
He moved to another mannequin and began unwrapping its scarf from its shoulders. Bill nodded, shakily, and reached for the wig that was about to fall off the mannequin's head. How could Tom be so careless and rude? Was this how he always acted, and Bill had simply never noticed? It didn't seem right; Tom had always been kind and understanding to Bill, if somewhat distant. Bill smoothed a shaking hand over the hair of the wig, set it on the mannequin's head, and carefully adjusted its decorations before turning and heading into the back. Bill wasn't angry so much that he couldn't put up his designs - in retrospect, it made sense - but he was angry that he had put so much effort and hope into those pieces, thinking that Tom would commend him, that maybe even Dan and Dean would notice and give him a compliment. Bill was angry at himself for being so naive. And he was mad at Tom, who had delivered the news so heartlessly, ripping off the poncho and throwing it away, with total irreverence toward Bill's efforts. Bill crouched down in the back room and pressed his fingers to his eyes; didn't Tom know how hard Bill had worked to get to this moment? To show his designs to someone who actually mattered? To be noticed?
But Bill hadn't come all the way from Bumfuck Nowhere, Colorado to the City of Dreams to cry in a storage room because someone didn't care about his feelings. If something didn't work out, then the only solution was to try harder, push harder. The fashion industry was not a place where being a hard worker and never toeing the line was rewarded, and Bill knew that. He had to be able to absorb criticism and cruelty when he messed up, and even when he didn't, and keep pushing regardless.
Bill stood up with the intention of delving into a search for the perfect accessories to replace the ones he'd made, but he caught sight of a figure in the corner of his eye. Bill turned to see Tom standing at the entryway of the storage room, the poncho in one hand, eyebrows drawn together. "Hey, I'm so sorry," he said, starting forward. Bill bit his lip and glanced away, embarrassed for both of them. "I, I've just - just been going through some personal things, lately, and I didn't mean to take it out on you. I was - totally out of line." Tom glanced down, seeming earnest, leaving Bill somewhat shellshocked. He had never known Tom to be personal with him, either, or for anyone in the industry to be apologetic.
Holding up the poncho, Tom said, "This is really beautiful, and…you have a lot of promise. Please don't think, because I was short with you, that I was insulting your designs. I really, really wish we could keep them out…but they might steal the show, you know?" He offered a timorous smile, and Bill nodded, taking a deep breath.
"Thank you," he said, and smiled in relief. "Really, you don't know how much it means to me, to have your…support. And um, I really hope, whatever you're dealing with, um, gets better. Really," he added for good measure, wanting to sound as sincere as Tom had.
"Thank you," Tom replied humbly. "So…let's find us some scarves and ponchos, yeah?"
Bill and Tom continued working in relative silence, but there was barely anything else to do now. They finished within a half hour, at which point Bill gathered up his empty bags and any other tools he'd left lying around and hid them in the back.
"So we have more than three hours until the party," Tom said, glancing at his watch. He then looked up at Bill, who was patiently awaiting instruction. "Do you have any plans between now and then?"
"Well, I do want to change, but I brought an outfit, so…" Bill gestured toward the back room, where his outfit sat folded in his purse.
"Would you like to go out with me then? I'll take you out for dinner. What do you say?"
Flabbergasted, Bill didn't even know how to reply for a few seconds. That couldn't - Tom couldn't have possibly just asked him out, right?
"I just still feel so bad," Tom continued when Bill didn't answer, and gave Bill a hopeful look. Bill finally gathered himself and nodded.
"I, I would love that - I mean, but I shouldn't accept. I'm not upset, it's really all right…" Bill trailed off. It was hard to stay professional with how sweetly Tom was looking at him.
"Please, I would like to, as much for myself as for you. I need something to take my mind off all…this." He gestured around the shop, which caused Bill to wonder if there was some tension between Tom and the twins.
"Well…all right, then," Bill smiled, and then said, "there's nothing else we have to do? Set up for food?" He glanced at the tables that he had put out the night before after close, bare but for the empty champagne bottles.
"Oh, catering will take care of it all," Tom promised, then made a shooing motion. "Go get ready."
Bill changed in the storage room, slipping into a pair of fitted charcoal slacks, a wide-necked sweater that showed off just enough of his skin to be shameless, some jewelry and ankle boots. He crouched down, pulled out his makeup and a compact, and spent as much time as he dared on a glittery smokey look. After dabbing on some lipgloss, he brushed his hair and checked that it had held its style and that the short hairs of his undercut weren't sticking up oddly. When everything checked out, he wrapped himself up in his peacoat, lifted his purse onto his shoulder, and went into the front of the store with a small skip in his step. Even if he couldn't have his designs out, going out for dinner with one of the most respected, charming, and talented people in the business was a wonderful opportunity of equal measure.
When Bill spotted Tom, he was pacing by the water feature, phone pressed to his ear and arm gesturing spasmodically.
"Yes, yes I know. I'm aware - I understand. This has to be done tonight…?" Tom trailed off as he seemed to notice Bill in the room, and Bill could already tell his magical, once-in-a-lifetime chance at dinner with Tom Trumper was not happening. "I am on my way. You can expect me in twenty minutes."
Tom hung up and sent Bill a sheepish look that begged for forgiveness. Bill just nodded. "That's okay, thanks anyway," he said, trying to sound grateful rather than disappointed.
"I"m so sorry…it's just…this whole thing…it's just a wreck, and I have to deal with it." Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed his eyes, and then started for the door. "Hopefully this will all be resolved by tonight, though," he said, offering a wan smile that led Bill to believe that whatever Tom was dealing with was in fact far from over. "Thank you for your patience, and your hard work. And, for what it's worth, you look lovely. I'll see you at eight."
Tom's surprising parting words kept Bill's morale up while he wandered around Manhattan to pass the time; it was an hour's walk to his apartment in SoHo and he didn't feel like paying for a cab, so he took the time to window shop and do some sketches here and there. All there really was in his cramped, studio apartment was an overflowing stock of fabric and half finished dresses that he barely had the free time to work on. His mind wandered back to Tom's words once again - you look lovely. That made his belly feel warmer than the hot cider he had purchased. Bill couldn't help feeling magnetically attracted to Tom; despite the fact that he was utterly gorgeous, he was one of the kindest people Bill had met in the industry, and he was incredibly successful and driven. Then again, practically every single gay man in the fashion industry probably wanted to jump Tom's bones, and then some, so Bill knew he was the last in a long line of admirers. But, after a year of grueling work and zero free time, a little crush to distract Bill was basically harmless.
When Bill returned to the store, half an hour early as Tom had told the designers, a swarm of media waited outside, undoubtedly for the arrival of the Catens, who would come closer to eight. A few of them snapped pictures of Bill, only half-interested as he let himself into the store. Inside, the catering team had finished with their own touches and decorations, and the store looking absolutely decadent. Bill took a quick look the foods - gourmet hors d'oeuvres, small cakes, mineral water, coffee, tea, and champagne all beckoned him. He realized he had hardly eaten a bite all day, but he assumed that he wouldn't be allowed to eat the food until the party began.
By now Natalie was here, buzzing around from person to person and interrogating them for a few seconds before moving on to the next. Bill sometimes thought she might actually be a nice person, if she could learn how to not be stressed out by every little thing all the time. She was the polar opposite to Tom.
"Bill! At least I don't have to ask you if you did what you were supposed to, because it's obvious by looking around. Bravo. Please, tonight, please, stay out of the way, speak only when spoke to, that kind of deal - not that I don't have faith in your people skills, but you are an intern. Your job is to observe. Don't get in the way. Please. Thank you."
Even Natalie seemed more stressed than usual as she scurried off to bother someone else. He felt slightly insulted by her words, but tried to remind himself not to take them too personally. Natalie had the habit of biting off heads indiscriminately when stressed, including the twins' if they dared to get in her way.
Soon Dan and Dean arrived and guests were allowed in, along with the press. Bill tried his best to be wallpaper, staying out of the way of guests and his coworkers, though that wasn't hard because they already had a habit of avoiding him. Bill snacked on hors d'oeuvres and eyed many a gorgeous gown and watched all his coworkers get drunk off champagne.
Tom hadn't returned yet, either, which concerned Bill a bit. Obviously something was happening in the business that only Tom, Natalie, Dan and Dean knew, and whatever it was, wasn't good. Bill had never seen Tom as stressed as he had appeared today.
"…well, goodness, thank you! Yes, Dan and I threw all this together last minute…" Bill perked up when he heard Dean speaking near him, assuming at first he meant the Christmas party in general - though that didn't make sense, seeing as they had been planning it for several months now.
"It was my idea to accent the colors of the walls!" Dan put in, flitting over to stand by his twin, and Bill stiffened. Were they taking credit for Bill's designs? "But, admittedly, those gorgeous mannequins? All Dean."
"Yes, I did put those together…"
Bill felt his blood boil. Was this an expected part of being an intern? Having credit stolen for one's designs? Was this why no one else had put any effort into submitting a design? Should he have foreseen this coming? Bill was raging inside. He wanted Tom to be there; Tom would understand and commiserate, if not stick up for him. That would only create bad press for the label and it would put Tom's and Bill's jobs both in jeopardy.
Helpless - that was how Bill felt. What was he supposed to say, "Excuse me, but the Caten twins, world-renown fashion designers, actually didn't touch a single bauble and this work is all mine"? He would be laughed out of the studio, probably permanently. Bill decided the best choice was to track down the champagne server and drink his night away.
Three small glasses of champagne later and Bill had tucked himself away in a corner, imagining he made a nice addition to the Catens' wall decorations. He was a bit tipsy, but not nearly as much as he would have liked. He simply wanted the damn thing to be over, and it would be, in an hour and a half more. Then the Catens would move to the afterparty, and Bill would probably be responsible for cleaning up. He felt even more sour now, and he was angry at Tom too; where the hell was he? What could possibly be more important than being here tonight?
"Well well, who is this pretty young thing, alone all the way over here?" asked a short, wiry man who seemed to emerge from behind a mannequin. Bill blinked at him, noticing he held two glasses of champagne, one untouched. "My name is David Jost, journalist and fashionista," he introduced himself, and passed over the second glass of champagne. "Your name, cherie?"
"Bill Kaulitz," Bill replied dumbly, and accepted the champagne gratefully. He thought he should probably try harder to act cheerful for Mr. Jost but he didn't care enough at the moment. "I'm the Catens' intern."
"Oh! That's wonderful. Have you learned a lot working for them?" Jost asked, taking a comfortable position beside Bill, casual but not so close that it was awkward or intimidating. Overall, Jost seemed harmless.
"Of course, but maybe not about any of the things I expected to," Bill admitted, drinking more of his champagne and wishing he could just knock it all back in one gulp without appearing crass.
"Very different world here, isn't it? Still, congratulations! They're truly one of the most visionary labels right now, I think. Huge."
"Hmm. I suppose," Bill said noncommittally, and to his surprise, Jost smirked.
"No? Not smitten with them? I wonder why not…"
"It might partly be due to the fact that I work twice as hard as almost anyone here with a tenth the pay, and they take credit for all my work afterward," Bill said bitterly, realizing after the fact that he was speaking to a journalist. He could wake up tomorrow with his name in headlines, bashing Dan and Dean, and that could ruin his future career.
"What? What did they steal from you?" Jost wheedled, and Bill frowned.
"This entire party - the designs, color scheming, and decorations - all were my doing." Bill couldn't stop himself, no matter how much he wanted to. "I sketched them, I created them, I put them up. The Catens didn't lift a finger. I guess that's the business. But, that's all off the record. I don't want to ruin any slim chances I might have at a career," Bill muttered, glancing into his drink and finally downing the rest.
"Well, you'd hardly be the first to make such an allegation, but no worries, I'm not a gossip column anyhow. I report on clothes, not the awful people who usually tend to make them," Jost said consolingly, though Bill hardly felt better.
"I don't even know where to go from here. I thought maybe this position could lead me to another job, a real industry job."
"Well, I wish you the best of luck," Jost said suddenly before making his exit. Bill didn't blame him for leaving. He hadn't exactly meant to completely drop his frustrations on a stranger, but he supposed the alcohol had loosened his tongue.
Not nearly satisfied with his level of drunkenness yet though, Bill found a few more champagne glasses, chugged them all in quick succession, and went back to waiting for the night to be over. He talked to a couple more party guests and tried to explain to them that he had created the decorations, but they vehemently disagreed - no, of course the twins had designed their own holiday decorations! Foolish boy, stop talking.
As the night dragged on, Bill found himself glancing at the entrance every other minute to check if Tom had arrived. This was far past fashionably late, and the anger Bill had felt earlier began to fester, no doubt helped by the alcohol. Why shouldn't he be angry at Tom? Simply because he was good at playing nice didn't make him a saint or a savior. Today he had shown Bill his true colors, and then tried to cover it up by offering to take him to some fancy-dancy dinner. Where was he, anyway? Probably avoiding Bill because somehow, in Bill's delusional, drunken mind, this was all his fault. Tom's fault the twins had ripped him off, Tom's fault Bill couldn't object, Tom's fault Bill was drunk and miserable right now.
A few minutes past eleven, Dan made an announcement, thanking their guests and wishing them happy holidays and blah blah blah. Of course, Dan made sure to add that everyone was invited to the afterparty, and Bill muttered under his breath, "'Except for our hardworking intern who built this entire party singlehandedly'."
The music quieted but most of the guests remained, chatting with one another about whatever frivolous things. Bill, having had quite enough, decided to grab the wig off the nearest mannequin. He was unpeeling decals when suddenly Dean rushed to his side, grabbing his arm.
"Oh no no no, just leave these. We'll take them down after Christmas."
"Will we?" Bill spat out in reply, and immediately regretted it, but it was too late for him now. Dean narrowed his eyes.
"I don't know what you mean. Thank you for being so eager to help, but…" Dean reached for the wig but Bill jerked his hand back, holding it above his head. There was no hope for Dean to reach it, being almost a full head shorter than Bill.
"Bill, come on…don't cause a scene," he pleaded, glancing around.
"Why would you be worried about that?" Bill slurred, then tore the scarf off the mannequin as well. "It can't be that I was the one to put all the backbreaking work into this party while you sipped martinis in Milan, right? You didn't even help set it up. Leave all the dirty work to the intern, but when he does something great, make sure he gets no credit for it!"
Bill realized he was shouting and the entire room had gone quiet. Horrified, he turned on his heel and headed straight for the back room, stumbling a bit as he weaved through guests. He grabbed his purse and all his bags of decorations, stuffing the few he'd gathered inside and then heading for the door. Dean hadn't followed; instead Bill found him with the guests, doing damage control and encouraging them all to get a move on, no doubt away from Bill.
"…I wouldn't like to fire him, such a good worker!" Dean was saying to a guest.
"No, of course not, he's just had a bit to drink, like most of us here," the guest responded, giggling drunkenly. Bill walked past them pointedly and continued to collect his decorations.
"Bill…why don't you go home, you poor thing…I'll call a taxi for you…" Dean approached him, and began steering him through the store. "You're overworked--"
"I'm overworked!" Bill cried in response. "How nice of you to notice. Now go tell every guest here how many dozens of hours I slaved over this damn party just to receive nothing for it."
"Of course - of course you'll receive something for it!" Dean seemed shocked by the notion. "Bill, you really ought to get to bed--" Dean lowered his voice, "and tomorrow you can find a few extra thousand dollars in your bank account to make you forget--"
Bill shoved Dean away from him, and watched as the designer stumbled and lost his footing. Dan appeared out of seemingly nowhere, by his twin's side in an instant to help him up. Bill, furious and disgusted and mortified all at once, threw his bags over his shoulder and all but bolted for the door.
Bill stumbled through the streets of Manhattan, clutching his half empty bags and his pride, making a misstep every now and then but keeping on. After thirty or forty minutes in the icy cold, Bill arrived on his doorstep, markedly more sober. With every step he'd begun to regret his actions more and more. He was screwed, eternally. Dan and Dean were gods in the fashion world. They would make sure Bill never worked for a reputable company ever again. Bill wondered if there was any hope for reconciliation between them - probably not. But even though Bill knew he was in the right, he was a mouse battling lions. They had extreme power and influence in the fashion world, and even though Bill would hate himself for it, he knew he had to at least try his hardest to not burn his bridges.
Tonight, however, was not the night to mend what he had broken. Hell, he was still drunk, and he needed a clear mind to be able to face the music. Exhausted, Bill kicked off his shoes and fell back into his bed.
Bill's alarm went off at eight o'clock AM the next morning, as it did every morning, and for a few moments Bill thought with panic that he had to get into work. He was halfway out of bed when he remembered his actions that had, no doubt, gotten him fired. Bill slumped back into his bed and curled up. What if he just went back home? The holidays were coming up…he could visit his parents and just not tell them that he wasn't leaving for New York again.
But Bill knew he couldn't do that. He would sooner starve and live on the streets than return home. He had promised himself and his family that he was going to make it. For as much as Bill missed his family, that didn't heal the scars of their laughter, because Bill had had the audacity to have dreams beyond his small town life. Everyone back home in Colorado had assured him that he wouldn't make it, that he'd be back within a year, if not within three months. Bill had to make it. He had to prove them all wrong. Maybe they were his family and friends, and Bill loved them, but deep down, he hated them all, too.
As Bill showered and put together a barely edible breakfast, he thought back to his hazy resolve the night before. He had essentially assaulted Dean Caten; Bill's stomach dropped when he thought how that might turn out for him legally. And although Bill had a few cards of his own, there was no way he would win out against the Catens, who probably had the finest lawyer money could buy. He was, in a word, screwed.
Nevertheless, Bill had to make the call. He had to at least make an effort. He dialed the store's phone number but got no answer, then tried the studio, but only received a vague answer about the twins being unavailable, but he should probably come by to get his stuff. Bill tried Tom's number as well, even though he really had no clue what Tom could do for him seeing as he hadn't even been at the party, but it rolled to voicemail. That left Bill with only the twins' phone numbers left to try. Bill had rather hoped it wouldn't come to this.
Dan picked up on the second ring.
"Hey," Bill said uneasily, "I would like to um, talk, about my actions last night. I know I was out of line, completely, but I wasn't entirely at fault." He said it all rather quick, and his heart lodged itself in his throat. He had never had to confront the twins before, or any employer for that matter, and so much depended on this.
"It's clear to Dean and I that you are not a fit for our company," Dan replied tersely, and Bill's heart sank, as if he'd been expecting any different. "But there are still matters to resolve. First of all, you should understand that any work you did for Dean and I does belong to us, as terms of your employment."
Bill clenched his jaw. "I understand that…but just because my designs belong to you doesn't mean you made them. No one would believe you if you said you designed every single item for all your lines from scratch."
"At any rate, it was a tiny white lie that you could have just ignored," Dan pressed on. "I understand that you had been drinking and weren't in your right mind, but you should also understand that you were representing the DSquared label at that party and should have thought twice before having so much to drink. Anyway, none of this is really a concern to Dean or me. We have larger fish to fry, like your good-for-nothing mentor, Mr. Trumper. If you agree to give a statement explaining your actions…"
Bill's phone beeped, and to Bill's shock, Tom was on the other line. Tom, who was apparently in hot water with the twins as well…Bill's head hurt. He wanted to make this all go away.
"…five thousand dollars." Bill snapped back to attention at the mention of money. So Dan and Dean still wanted to pay him off, and admittedly, it would be smart for Bill to take the deal. It worked out for him both ways; the twins would bury the story, saving both themselves and Bill from bad press, and Bill would have enough money to keep himself fed until he found another job.
Still, 5K for a cover-up? Bill wondered if he could push for more.
Bill's phone beeped again to interrupt his thoughts, alerting him that Tom had left a voicemail. "It sounds like a good deal," Bill started uncertainly, "but I'm assuming you aren't going to just take my word for it."
"Of course not. Our lawyer is drafting a non-disclosure agreement as we speak. I'll text you the address; come over immediately." Dan hung up.
Head spinning, Bill almost threw his phone away without listening to Tom's message, as if that would simplify things. He waited until he heard his phone ding with Dan's text message, then called his voicemail. The message was much shorter than he expected: "Call me as soon as you get this. Don't make any agreements with Dan and Dean."
That changed things. Bill dialed Tom back as instructed, wondering if the twins had hoped to have Bill sign on the dotted line before Tom could get to him, but Bill was far more inclined to trust Tom than the Catens.
"Bill," Tom answered urgently on the first ring, "please tell me you haven't talked to the twins yet."
"Sort of," Bill confirmed, "they want me to sign a non-disclosure…"
"Don't do it. Whatever you do, do not accept their agreement. I'm going to handle everything, you don't have to worry about a thing, okay? Just take care of yourself."
"Wait," Bill blurted out before Tom hung up. "Just…what…" He trailed off, helpless. He wanted to trust Tom, but he needed something far more specific than "I'll handle it."
"Don't worry," Tom repeated. "Consider it already dealt with. I suggest you go retrieve anything that belongs to you from the studio and the store before the twins get to it, and just wait for this to pass over. Okay? Take care."
"Yeah, okay," Bill said numbly in return and hung up.
NEXT