Fic: Get Your Game Face On, bandom, Nick/Tyson pre-slash, PG-13
Title: Get Your Game Face On
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Swearing? None, really.
Pairing: Nick/Tyson, pre-slash
Word Count: 4475
Disclaimer: NONE OF THIS IS REAL, I DON'T KNOW ANY OF THESE PEOPLE AND I AM A LYING LIAR WHO LIES. YOU CAN ALL GO HOME NOW.
Summary: AU. Tyson's about to model for the first time and isn't too sure how he feels about it. Nick's the make-up artist who cheers him up.
A/N: Well, this was unexpected; it started off as a ficlet for xaritomene, because she was having a terrible day and wanted 'Nick being sweet to Tyson'. I obliged. It grew. I'm sorry.
Crossposted to aar_capslock, bandslashmania and my own journal.
Tyson sat in Reception, shivering a little and trying not to look too obviously as though he was using his shoulder bag as a sort of shield. Glad though he was that Parker, May & Co. had turned out to be legitimate and not just a front for something seedy, he couldn't help feeling very out of place.
The room was a magazine advert for minimalism; the walls and ceiling were painted white, the carpet was steely grey and orchids on glass tables were the only nod to decoration. Looking around, Tyson was less reminded of a modelling agency than the expensive dentist his mom had taken him to that one time. At least no-one would stick braces on him here. He hoped.
He glanced at the intimidatingly beautiful receptionist, sat behind her desk. She'd been so sweet when he'd come in, offering him coffee and telling him to make himself at home. Tyson couldn't imagine feeling at home here, and that was just in reception. He had a whole shoot to get through and God knew how that was going to turn out. He already felt as though he'd tracked mud and country-bumpkin cooties over the floor just by being there. What if they took one look at him and said no?
The plane tickets hadn't been cheap, and Tyson had blown his savings and then some just getting here. He didn't even dare think what people would say if he came back to Stillwater two days after leaving with nothing but an empty wallet and a few 'sorry, but you're not what we're looking for's.
Tyson gulped and hugged his bag closer to his chest.
He was just wondering whether they'd spied on him through cameras hidden in the orchids and decided that he wasn't worth bothering with, when a door that had previously gone unnoticed swung open. A woman stood in the doorway, holding a clipboard and absently twisting a lock of her dark hair around a pen.
"Tyson Ritter?" she called, and Tyson stood up, clutching the strap of his bag in an effort to stop his hands shaking.
"Um -" was as far as he got. The woman looked up at him and smiled.
"Hi," she said, striding over and stretching out her hand. Tyson managed to unclench his own from the bag long enough to shake it, praying it wasn't too sweaty. "I'm Victoria Asher. Good to meet you. You got here all right?"
"Um, yeah," Tyson said. "Thanks."
"That's good," Victoria sat down on one of the ridiculously plush chairs and gestured Tyson to do the same. Tyson sank back down, feeling a little boneless. No rejections as yet, he supposed. "Okay, Tyson - can I call you Tyson? Great - we need you to sign these for us. Nothing to worry about," she said, smiling as Tyson looked guarded. "This just says you won't spread our ideas around to other agencies or run away when we pay you. Have a read-through."
"Um, okay." Tyson really, really wished he could stop saying 'um'.
"Great." Victoria said again and picked up a magazine from one of the orchid-tables. "While you do that, I'm gonna look at my handiwork." She grinned at him. "I know it's probably gloating, I'm just really proud of this particular issue."
Tyson smiled back shakily and dropped his eyes to the paper festooned with small print. After a thorough going-over, however, he couldn't find anything that implied that some part of his salary was to be earned on his knees, and signed the papers. Victoria had looked up at the scratch of pen on paper and nodded, taking them from him and shuffling them into neatness on her clipboard.
"My turn," she said reaching for the pen Tyson readily handed over. "Now I'm saying we won't exploit you and we'll give you holidays and sick-leave and stuff."
She signed on the dotted line beneath Tyson's signature, a blue scrawl of which only the V and the A were really decipherable. Clicking the lid back on the pen, she stood up. Tyson did, too, out of instinct.
"Right," she said briskly. "Now we've dealt with the red-tape, let's have some fun!"
She strode off and Tyson gulped as he followed. The nice receptionist smiled at him indulgently as he went.
**
Victoria led him through a positive labyrinth of white walls and artistically monochrome paintings, all - Tyson assumed - of the company's former models. Tyson didn't even try to keep track of where they were going; it was taking more brain power than he had trying to keep up with Victoria and not trip over his own feet. Eventually, they came to a halt outside a closed door. The rest of the building had been relatively quiet, considering it was a fairly top-notch agency with models and set-crew and admin staff. Inside that room, however, there was some pretty loud shouting going on, and Tyson recoiled instinctively. Whoever was in there sounded angry. Victoria, however, just rolled her eyes and knocked, going in without even waiting for a reply. Tyson followed meekly at her heels.
" - and what part of green don't you understand?" a man was yelling into a mobile, his back to Victoria and Tyson. "I ordered forty feet of green tulle from you fuckwits three weeks ago and not only have you not sent me green tulle, you've sent me blue chiffon. What? You're damn right it's your fault! Am I gonna get my green tulle or is even that too much for you? You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me -"
The man turned round, catching sight of his visitors. He glared. "What?" he barked into the phone. Victoria waved. The man sighed, and rubbed a hand through his hair. "You know what - I'll call you back. Maybe you guys'll have pulled your heads out of your asses by then, whaddaya say?"
He hung up without saying goodbye. "Swear to God, La Joya," he said, suddenly looking tired, "if I get shit on by one more supplier in this fucking town... Who're you?"
He was looking at Tyson, eyebrows raised. Tyson opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The man wasn't as tall as Tyson, but he was still definitely taller than average, and intimidating in a way Tyson most certainly wasn't. He looked Tyson over with dark eyes that were currently snapping with anger, and Tyson felt all of his imperfections spring into glaring clarity.
"This is Tyson," Victoria was saying. "He's got his headshots today."
The man frowned. "Tyson? Oh. Oh. Yeah," his face relaxed into a smile, and he looked Tyson up and down again, this time more slowly and clearly more appreciatively. "Gotta say, that stuff you sent us really doesn't do you justice, kid. Wow."
Tyson felt himself flush to the roots of his hair. He and Mike had done the photos he'd sent to Parker, May & Co. They'd rigged up a white sheet in Tyson's living room and taken the photos there, with Zach catcalling in the background.
Victoria sighed. "Gabe, this is Tyson. Tyson, this is my esteemed overlord and your manager, Gabriel Saporta. Don't let the quasi-harrassment get to you; he's not serious and if he gets too close, I've got some pepper spray in my bag."
Gabe grinned at Tyson's stunned expression. "Don't worry, you're safe with me; my wife sprayed me with Anti-Mate before I left this morning." It was only then that Tyson noticed the glimmer of silver on Gabe's left hand. "So, Tyson. you wanna get started? As soon as we do your headshots, we can get to the fun stuff."
"Uh, sure," Tyson ventured uncertainly. 'Uh' wasn't 'um', but it wasn't the greatest improvement.
"Great. Victoria'll take you through to make-up. You don't have a clothes-change for these, these are just photos we give out to the fashion houses. Hey, I know, man, it's dull," he said, totally misinterpreting the look of terror on Tyson's face, "but headshots gotta be done before you get to the fancy stuff."
"This way, Tyson," said Victoria, beckoning him towards the door. "Good luck with the tulle, Gabe."
She shut the door behind them on Gabe's despairing groan.
"Have you ever been made up before?" Victoria asked Tyson as they moved through yet more white corridors.
Tyson shook his head. His total experience of make-up had been strictly limited to Bailey scrawling on his face with Barbie glitter pens and the sticky, cloying lipgloss his ex-girlfriends had worn. The idea of wearing it himself... he shivered again, imagining exactly what the Stillwater inhabitants would say and do if they could see him now.
Lynch him, quite probably.
Victoria nodded, evidently understanding. "Lots of guys get to us make-up virgins," she said cheerily, and Tyson almost fell over. "Nicky soon changes that. You'll like Nicky," she added, as Tyson wondered who Nicky was. His first - and probably uncharitable - thought was of a bleached blonde toothpick woman with radioactively tanned skin and heavy mascara. At least, those were the sort of women who lived in New York on reality TV shows and professed to being make-up artists.
Tyson hoped he was wrong; he really didn't want to go back to Stillwater with tangerine-coloured skin.
They'd arrived at yet another door, and this time, Victoria didn't even bother to knock. "Wake up, you lazy bastard," she said, grinning at someone Tyson, still behind her, couldn't yet see.
Tyson frowned. He wasn't sure, but that wasn't how you usually referred to a woman.
Then again, the sleepy "'M awake" that followed definitely wasn't female. He shuffled into the room after Victoria, who pronounced with no little glee, "I brought you a present. He's from Oklahoma, like you. You can bond!"
"Great," said the not-female voice again, low and slightly rasping. The speaker was half-hidden in a wardrobe overflowing with drawers of hair product. "Because I love talking about Oklahoma."
"Shut up," Victoria said fondly and turned to Tyson. "Tyson, this is Nicky - Nick Wheeler. He's the best make-up artist this side of Dollywood and he's from Oklahoma. He'll do the make-up for your headshots and then I'll take you through to the studio. Okay?"
"Uh..." Tyson swallowed. "Okay."
"Okay! See you in - what, twenty minutes?"
"Lemme see what I'm workin' with before you give me a time limit," Nick-Wheeler-the-male-make-up-artist said, and Tyson would have been offended had he still not been getting over the fact that his make-up artist was male. Then Nick Wheeler appeared from the wardrobe and Tyson stopped thinking altogether.
Nick was shorter than Tyson and sharper around the face, maybe three years older than Tyson at the most. His hair was black and straight and flopped over his forehead into lazy green eyes. He wasn't what you'd call classically good-looking, but he had... something. Tyson couldn't put his finger on it, just flushed self-consciously as the green eyes lingered on his face. Then Nick smiled, and Tyson swallowed as it went straight to his gut. Oh, this was a problem. Make-up was one thing, but noticing a guy's eyes and their smile was an entirely different one.
"You know what," Nick said to Victoria, who was still waiting for an answer. "I can do this one in fifteen."
Victoria beamed. "Great," she said, and vanished out of the door, leaving Tyson to fend for himself.
Nick grinned at him before tugging a black robe out from behind a chair. "Take a seat," he said, gesturing to a swivel-chair in front of the mirror, and Tyson did, awkwardly. Nick whirled the robe in front of Tyson's face and tied it behind his neck. Tyson looked at himself in the mirror, reduced to a head, and swallowed. It was all getting very real now.
Nick was muttering somewhere behind him, fishing things out of his magical wardrobe as Tyson sat and sweated in the chair. He really hoped he didn't make a fool of himself - either in the studio or in here. He was awkward anyway - too tall, too many goddamn limbs, but when he was nervous, he seemed to grow another thirty and had no idea what to do with any of them.
"Much as it pains me to ask you this and prove Victoria right, what part of Oklahoma are you from?" Nick asked, scattering various brushes and powders onto the ledge in front of the mirror.
Tyson, still lost in the horror of prospective humiliation, glanced up at him. "What?" he asked and hated how timid his voice sounded.
"I'm from OK City," Nick told him, apparently ignoring the fact that Tyson had been struck dumb. "Well, I was. I left when I was sixteen. Had to get out of there."
Tyson looked at Nick in the mirror. He wasn't surprised; Nick may have been a make-up artist, but that wasn't the only problem with him from an Oklahoma standpoint: he was wearing skinny jeans, a paisley shirt and a black cord waistcoat, his shoes had sequins on them and, as he reached over Tyson's shoulder to pick up a jar of something, Tyson caught a glimpse of black nail polish. Of course he had to get out of Oklahoma. Tyson might be lynched for wearing make-up and modelling, but this guy would be straight-up tarred and feathered if he even set foot in Stillwater.
Just thinking about what retribution awaited him if anyone at home found out about this made Tyson's mouth go dry and his hands start to shake. Carl Peters had had three teeth knocked out by kids at school who just suspected him of being a fag. It wouldn't matter that Tyson had had a couple of girlfriends and had been on the football team; if anyone found out about the modelling, he'd die a painful, humiliating death at the hands of the goons at high school, branded a cocksucking faggot for all eternity. It was just as well they couldn't see what was going on in his head, especially now, with Nick behind him.
"Hey," Tyson opened his eyes. He hadn't even realised he'd closed them.
Nick was looking at him in the mirror, frowning. "You okay?"
"Um?" Tyson squeaked, his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest. "Yeah. Totally. Fine."
Nick raised his eyebrows and grabbed a little stool, sitting on it and gently spinning Tyson away from the mirror. "Hope you don't mind," he murmured, eyes studying Tyson's face. "I work better without a mirror." He unscrewed the jar, and held it out to Tyson. "Hold this?"
The jar was full of pinkish goop. Tyson held it and tried to keep his hands steady. Goop it may have been, but it probably cost more than his car. It was difficult when his hands kept shaking so much.
"Hey, no," Nick was scowling at him, lazy green eyes sharp and narrowed. "You're shakin' like hell, man, what's up?"
Tyson tried for a smile. "Oh - I guess," his mouth dried up and he swallowed. "Guess I'm just nervous."
Nick's eyes softened and he nodded, taking the jar of goop from Tyson's hands and balancing it on his own knee. "I get it. It's fucking terrifying." He dipped a brush in the goop and smoothed it across Tyson's cheekbone. Tyson shivered; it was cold. "This is a moisturising primer. It goes on first, gets your skin ready for the actual make-up." Another stroke of the brush across his other cheekbone. "Listen, Gabe's a good boss. He's a good guy. He's fun to work with, and he never, ever makes any of his models do anything they don't want to do."
"That's good," Tyson muttered, shivering again as the brush moved over his forehead. "I'm just - scared, I guess. Like, what if I'm no good? What if they just say 'yeah, no thanks' and send me home?"
Nick smiled a little absently, half-absorbed in his work. "They won't, I can tell just by looking at your face that they won't. Don't take this the wrong way, but I've had a lot of guys through my hands and you are definitely one of the best-looking. And Gabe'll tell you how to move and stand and stuff - no-one knows how to start with. So don't worry."
Tyson nodded, a little reassured. "What do you mean, 'don't take this the wrong way'?"
"Oh," Nick's smile dropped a little as he put the jar of goop on the floor and pulled a selection of brushes seemingly out of nowhere. "Because of who I am and what I do... I've had guys think I'm coming on to them before. They sometimes don't take it well. I'm not," he added hastily. "I just tell it like I see it. But I guess it sounds a bit gay. Which some people don't like."
"Are you gay?" Tyson blurted out before he could stop himself, and then wanted to crawl into a dark corner and die. Because he was trapped in a chair with goop all over his face, he stumbled on, "Not that that's a bad thing, it's totally cool, I mean, I think I'm bi, and it -"
"Stop, stop, stop," Nick said and he was laughing. "Calm down before you hurt yourself. Yes, I'm gay, no, I'm not insulted you asked and you really, really need to calm down before Victoria rips me a new one for upsetting you. I'm gonna put some concealer on you, now. Then some foundation. It smooths the skin, makes for a matte finish. Pretty for the cameras."
He snatched another two pots off the ledge and opened one, giving the other to Tyson to hold. Tyson shivered as Nick traced underneath his eyes and his jawline. "When did -" Tyson cleared his throat. "When did you know?"
"That I was gay?" Nick hummed consideringly, swiping the brush over Tyson's eyebrows and smoothing the concealer with his fingertips. "When I was fourteen. Then things got a bit shit for me back home, so I left when I was seventeen. I just didn't fit, you know?" His eyes sharpened again on Tyson's face. "Is that what you're worried about?"
Tyson sighed. "Some of the guys at school - they'd make my life a living hell if they even knew I was here. If they knew I might be gay... or bi..."
Nick nodded, taking the other jar from Tyson's hands and selecting another brush. "You think you're gay?"
"All signs point to yes," Tyson tried for a smile, but it probably came out miserable. This was not how he envisaged his first trip to New York.
Nick just nodded and started applying a new goop - foundation, apparently - to Tyson's face. "You're still at school?" he asked, changing the subject to Tyson's relief.
"Yeah. I'm seventeen."
"Don't let anyone tell you that your teenage years are the best days of your life. Your teenage years suck balls," Nick smiled as Tyson let out a shocked giggle. "I was twenty three days ago and I'm already having twice as much fun as I did when I was nineteen. It'll get better when you get out of school, even better than that if you get out of Oklahoma..." he smirked at Tyson from under his lashes, trailing the brush down the blade of Tyson's nose. Tyson fought the urge to shiver. "Not that I'm biased or anything."
"How did you get to New York?" Tyson asked, and then pulled a face. "Don't say 'by plane'."
Nick laughed, screwing the top back on the foundation jar and vanishing into the wardrobe for a moment. "Me? I was lucky," he reappeared, holding another pot and brush -Tyson started to wonder whether he had an infinite supply. "I already knew someone here. My roommate, actually. He gave me a place to stay and let me eat for free until I found my feet. Bear it in mind," he said, mock-sternly, pointing at Tyson with his brush. "A support network is key, soldier!"
Tyson laughed. "I'll remember. I'm not plannin' on leaving Stillwater yet, but I'll remember."
Nick paused. "Stillwater? Huh."
"What?"
"My mother came from Stillwater; I used to go there every summer to stay with my grandparents. Know them? Jack and Samantha Craig? They own a florist."
Tyson shook his head sheepishly. "Sorry."
Nick shrugged. "Eh. Doesn't matter. Okay, this is mattifying powder, does exactly what it says on the tin. Shut your eyes and try not to sneeze."
Tyson managed not to sneeze, but he did laugh as the fluffy powder brush tickled over his skin. When he opened his eyes again, Nick was looking at him, a strange, fond look on his face.
"What?" he asked, and Nick shook his head, smiling.
"Nothin'. Right. Let me look at you." He did, scanning Tyson's face with narrowed eyes. "Hmm. Reckon we can get away with a bit of bronzer and mascara, then you're done! Honestly, you're so fucking photogenic, it's not fair."
"Oh." Tyson felt himself blushing. "Good."
"Yep. Less work for me! Okay. Hold this." 'This' was yet another pot, this one filled with golden, bronze and rose-coloured beads. Tyson stared at it. "Bronzer, kid. Because it's winter and everyone looks like they just crawled out of a crypt."
Nick brushed briskly over Tyson's cheekbones and the arches of his eyebrows with a brush so coarse Tyson could feel blood rushing to the surface of the skin with each stroke. Nick leaned back, studying him critically before jumping off his stool and heading back to the wardrobe of Make-up Narnia.
"Blusher," he called back to Tyson. "Thought we could get away with just bronzer, but you're still too pale."
"Sorry," Tyson said, though he wasn't particularly sure why. It wasn't as though winter was his fault.
Nick appeared to be thinking along the same lines. "Not like you can help it." He held out another jar, and Tyson took it without thinking. "Oh hey," Nick said and he was smiling. "You're not shaking - not nervous any more?"
Tyson shrugged. "A little? But I'm not terrified any more, I guess."
"Then my work here is done," Nick said, dusting Tyson's cheeks with pale pink powder and feathering his fingertips along his cheekbones. "It's what I couldn't stand about being a make-up artist at first; you're expected to be an artist and a therapist in one, and I normally hate people."
"Should I be flattered?" Tyson asked, wondering if that sounded too flirtatious, though he really had no idea how to flirt with a guy. What if he was flirting by accident? He wasn't meaning to - but he did like Nick, maybe a bit too much...
"Yes," Nick told him solemnly. "The make-up artist likes you; nothing can go wrong. You are indeed blessed."
Tyson sniggered, and Nick grinned. "Seriously. I've learned to get on with most people, but there are still only a few I actually like. Luckily, most of them work here."
"Like me?" Tyson wasn't sure why he was pushing the issue. For some reason, he wanted to know, desperately wanted Nick to like him, and he had absolutely no idea why or where it had come from. Perhaps it was something in the make-up.
Nick gave him an slow, considering look, a little wary. "Yeah," he said eventually. "I think so. Like you." An odd, shivery moment passed between them, and Tyson bit his lip. He really hoped he hadn't fucked it up. He had to go and pose, as well, after all.
Then Nick ducked his head and the spell was broken. "And finally - mascara! You didn't think you were getting away without that, did you?" He smirked, waving the wand at Tyson, who pulled a face.
"Mascara? Really?"
"Oh, I see," Nick said, pulling the stool close to Tyson's chair. "He manages the concealer, the bronzer and the blusher, but no, the mascara's too much! The ultimate loss of masculinity!"
Tyson snorted, and batted his lashes at Nick. "And there was I thinking my lashes were long and luscious enough without more goop!"
"Not a chance. Hold still or I'll poke you in the eye, and that shit hurts." Applying the mascara, Nick was far closer than he'd been before. Tyson could smell him - coffee and cheap spearmint gum and ten different types of product. It was mildly intoxicating, and Tyson held his breath to stop his head spinning, tapping his fingers against his knee in an effort to distract himself. The moments passed painfully slowly as Nick moved on to the other eye, and finally, away.
"Done!" he said, sounding exhilarated. "And fuck me, I've done a good job."
Tyson swivelled round to look at himself in the mirror and gaped. "It - it looks like me," he stammered, feeling at once ridiculous and beautiful. "Just- more."
"My work here is done," Nick grinned, gathering up the brushes and throwing them into a sink in the corner of the room. Then he frowned, striding over to Tyson and pushing him backwards in the chair. "Don't move, don't move," he muttered, and Tyson held his breath, wondering what was happening.
Nick was giving him the narrow-eyed stare. Suddenly, he licked his thumb and quickly dabbed it over Tyson's cheekbone, just under his eye, before pulling back, evidently relaxed.
"Mascara escaped," he said by way of explanation, holding up his thumb to show a blob of black liquid. "But you're all pretty again, now."
"Uh, thanks," Tyson said, heart thumping. He could feel the spot where Nick had touched him burn. And now he was back to saying 'uh' again, which was perfect.
Nick quirked a smile at him. "No problem."
There was a squeak as the door-handle turned, and they both jumped as Victoria came in. "Fifteen minutes on the nail!" she announced, looking at Nick expectantly. Nick bowed, gesturing at Tyson, and Victoria whistled approvingly. "You know, Nicky, this might just be a new record."
"Yeah, well," Tyson jumped as Nick undid the back of his overall and snatched it before it fell to the ground. "Good material to work with."
He shot a quick smile at Tyson as he started to collect up all the pots and thrust them back into the wardrobe. Tyson could practically feel him drawing away, and felt absurdly sad.
"Tyson?" Victoria was looking at him. "You want to head over to the studio, now?"
Tyson forcibly dragged himself back into the present moment. "Uh, yeah? Sure!" Victoria nodded and walked out, Tyson tagging slightly awkwardly behind. He lingered at the door, watching Nick fill the sink with water and brushes. "Hey - Nick?"
Nick looked up, half-smiling. "Yeah?"
"Thanks. Um - see you soon?" Tyson had no idea what he was doing, but it seemed a good idea.
Nick smiled, properly this time. "Ain't no thing. And hey - look me up when you come to New York, yeah?"
Tyson grinned. "Yeah. Yeah, I will."
Then he left, following Victoria down the labyrinth to the studio.
**
Yeah, it got long. ¬_¬ Oops. As ever, any and all feedback is much appreciated!
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Swearing? None, really.
Pairing: Nick/Tyson, pre-slash
Word Count: 4475
Disclaimer: NONE OF THIS IS REAL, I DON'T KNOW ANY OF THESE PEOPLE AND I AM A LYING LIAR WHO LIES. YOU CAN ALL GO HOME NOW.
Summary: AU. Tyson's about to model for the first time and isn't too sure how he feels about it. Nick's the make-up artist who cheers him up.
A/N: Well, this was unexpected; it started off as a ficlet for xaritomene, because she was having a terrible day and wanted 'Nick being sweet to Tyson'. I obliged. It grew. I'm sorry.
Crossposted to aar_capslock, bandslashmania and my own journal.
Tyson sat in Reception, shivering a little and trying not to look too obviously as though he was using his shoulder bag as a sort of shield. Glad though he was that Parker, May & Co. had turned out to be legitimate and not just a front for something seedy, he couldn't help feeling very out of place.
The room was a magazine advert for minimalism; the walls and ceiling were painted white, the carpet was steely grey and orchids on glass tables were the only nod to decoration. Looking around, Tyson was less reminded of a modelling agency than the expensive dentist his mom had taken him to that one time. At least no-one would stick braces on him here. He hoped.
He glanced at the intimidatingly beautiful receptionist, sat behind her desk. She'd been so sweet when he'd come in, offering him coffee and telling him to make himself at home. Tyson couldn't imagine feeling at home here, and that was just in reception. He had a whole shoot to get through and God knew how that was going to turn out. He already felt as though he'd tracked mud and country-bumpkin cooties over the floor just by being there. What if they took one look at him and said no?
The plane tickets hadn't been cheap, and Tyson had blown his savings and then some just getting here. He didn't even dare think what people would say if he came back to Stillwater two days after leaving with nothing but an empty wallet and a few 'sorry, but you're not what we're looking for's.
Tyson gulped and hugged his bag closer to his chest.
He was just wondering whether they'd spied on him through cameras hidden in the orchids and decided that he wasn't worth bothering with, when a door that had previously gone unnoticed swung open. A woman stood in the doorway, holding a clipboard and absently twisting a lock of her dark hair around a pen.
"Tyson Ritter?" she called, and Tyson stood up, clutching the strap of his bag in an effort to stop his hands shaking.
"Um -" was as far as he got. The woman looked up at him and smiled.
"Hi," she said, striding over and stretching out her hand. Tyson managed to unclench his own from the bag long enough to shake it, praying it wasn't too sweaty. "I'm Victoria Asher. Good to meet you. You got here all right?"
"Um, yeah," Tyson said. "Thanks."
"That's good," Victoria sat down on one of the ridiculously plush chairs and gestured Tyson to do the same. Tyson sank back down, feeling a little boneless. No rejections as yet, he supposed. "Okay, Tyson - can I call you Tyson? Great - we need you to sign these for us. Nothing to worry about," she said, smiling as Tyson looked guarded. "This just says you won't spread our ideas around to other agencies or run away when we pay you. Have a read-through."
"Um, okay." Tyson really, really wished he could stop saying 'um'.
"Great." Victoria said again and picked up a magazine from one of the orchid-tables. "While you do that, I'm gonna look at my handiwork." She grinned at him. "I know it's probably gloating, I'm just really proud of this particular issue."
Tyson smiled back shakily and dropped his eyes to the paper festooned with small print. After a thorough going-over, however, he couldn't find anything that implied that some part of his salary was to be earned on his knees, and signed the papers. Victoria had looked up at the scratch of pen on paper and nodded, taking them from him and shuffling them into neatness on her clipboard.
"My turn," she said reaching for the pen Tyson readily handed over. "Now I'm saying we won't exploit you and we'll give you holidays and sick-leave and stuff."
She signed on the dotted line beneath Tyson's signature, a blue scrawl of which only the V and the A were really decipherable. Clicking the lid back on the pen, she stood up. Tyson did, too, out of instinct.
"Right," she said briskly. "Now we've dealt with the red-tape, let's have some fun!"
She strode off and Tyson gulped as he followed. The nice receptionist smiled at him indulgently as he went.
**
Victoria led him through a positive labyrinth of white walls and artistically monochrome paintings, all - Tyson assumed - of the company's former models. Tyson didn't even try to keep track of where they were going; it was taking more brain power than he had trying to keep up with Victoria and not trip over his own feet. Eventually, they came to a halt outside a closed door. The rest of the building had been relatively quiet, considering it was a fairly top-notch agency with models and set-crew and admin staff. Inside that room, however, there was some pretty loud shouting going on, and Tyson recoiled instinctively. Whoever was in there sounded angry. Victoria, however, just rolled her eyes and knocked, going in without even waiting for a reply. Tyson followed meekly at her heels.
" - and what part of green don't you understand?" a man was yelling into a mobile, his back to Victoria and Tyson. "I ordered forty feet of green tulle from you fuckwits three weeks ago and not only have you not sent me green tulle, you've sent me blue chiffon. What? You're damn right it's your fault! Am I gonna get my green tulle or is even that too much for you? You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me -"
The man turned round, catching sight of his visitors. He glared. "What?" he barked into the phone. Victoria waved. The man sighed, and rubbed a hand through his hair. "You know what - I'll call you back. Maybe you guys'll have pulled your heads out of your asses by then, whaddaya say?"
He hung up without saying goodbye. "Swear to God, La Joya," he said, suddenly looking tired, "if I get shit on by one more supplier in this fucking town... Who're you?"
He was looking at Tyson, eyebrows raised. Tyson opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The man wasn't as tall as Tyson, but he was still definitely taller than average, and intimidating in a way Tyson most certainly wasn't. He looked Tyson over with dark eyes that were currently snapping with anger, and Tyson felt all of his imperfections spring into glaring clarity.
"This is Tyson," Victoria was saying. "He's got his headshots today."
The man frowned. "Tyson? Oh. Oh. Yeah," his face relaxed into a smile, and he looked Tyson up and down again, this time more slowly and clearly more appreciatively. "Gotta say, that stuff you sent us really doesn't do you justice, kid. Wow."
Tyson felt himself flush to the roots of his hair. He and Mike had done the photos he'd sent to Parker, May & Co. They'd rigged up a white sheet in Tyson's living room and taken the photos there, with Zach catcalling in the background.
Victoria sighed. "Gabe, this is Tyson. Tyson, this is my esteemed overlord and your manager, Gabriel Saporta. Don't let the quasi-harrassment get to you; he's not serious and if he gets too close, I've got some pepper spray in my bag."
Gabe grinned at Tyson's stunned expression. "Don't worry, you're safe with me; my wife sprayed me with Anti-Mate before I left this morning." It was only then that Tyson noticed the glimmer of silver on Gabe's left hand. "So, Tyson. you wanna get started? As soon as we do your headshots, we can get to the fun stuff."
"Uh, sure," Tyson ventured uncertainly. 'Uh' wasn't 'um', but it wasn't the greatest improvement.
"Great. Victoria'll take you through to make-up. You don't have a clothes-change for these, these are just photos we give out to the fashion houses. Hey, I know, man, it's dull," he said, totally misinterpreting the look of terror on Tyson's face, "but headshots gotta be done before you get to the fancy stuff."
"This way, Tyson," said Victoria, beckoning him towards the door. "Good luck with the tulle, Gabe."
She shut the door behind them on Gabe's despairing groan.
"Have you ever been made up before?" Victoria asked Tyson as they moved through yet more white corridors.
Tyson shook his head. His total experience of make-up had been strictly limited to Bailey scrawling on his face with Barbie glitter pens and the sticky, cloying lipgloss his ex-girlfriends had worn. The idea of wearing it himself... he shivered again, imagining exactly what the Stillwater inhabitants would say and do if they could see him now.
Lynch him, quite probably.
Victoria nodded, evidently understanding. "Lots of guys get to us make-up virgins," she said cheerily, and Tyson almost fell over. "Nicky soon changes that. You'll like Nicky," she added, as Tyson wondered who Nicky was. His first - and probably uncharitable - thought was of a bleached blonde toothpick woman with radioactively tanned skin and heavy mascara. At least, those were the sort of women who lived in New York on reality TV shows and professed to being make-up artists.
Tyson hoped he was wrong; he really didn't want to go back to Stillwater with tangerine-coloured skin.
They'd arrived at yet another door, and this time, Victoria didn't even bother to knock. "Wake up, you lazy bastard," she said, grinning at someone Tyson, still behind her, couldn't yet see.
Tyson frowned. He wasn't sure, but that wasn't how you usually referred to a woman.
Then again, the sleepy "'M awake" that followed definitely wasn't female. He shuffled into the room after Victoria, who pronounced with no little glee, "I brought you a present. He's from Oklahoma, like you. You can bond!"
"Great," said the not-female voice again, low and slightly rasping. The speaker was half-hidden in a wardrobe overflowing with drawers of hair product. "Because I love talking about Oklahoma."
"Shut up," Victoria said fondly and turned to Tyson. "Tyson, this is Nicky - Nick Wheeler. He's the best make-up artist this side of Dollywood and he's from Oklahoma. He'll do the make-up for your headshots and then I'll take you through to the studio. Okay?"
"Uh..." Tyson swallowed. "Okay."
"Okay! See you in - what, twenty minutes?"
"Lemme see what I'm workin' with before you give me a time limit," Nick-Wheeler-the-male-make-up-artist said, and Tyson would have been offended had he still not been getting over the fact that his make-up artist was male. Then Nick Wheeler appeared from the wardrobe and Tyson stopped thinking altogether.
Nick was shorter than Tyson and sharper around the face, maybe three years older than Tyson at the most. His hair was black and straight and flopped over his forehead into lazy green eyes. He wasn't what you'd call classically good-looking, but he had... something. Tyson couldn't put his finger on it, just flushed self-consciously as the green eyes lingered on his face. Then Nick smiled, and Tyson swallowed as it went straight to his gut. Oh, this was a problem. Make-up was one thing, but noticing a guy's eyes and their smile was an entirely different one.
"You know what," Nick said to Victoria, who was still waiting for an answer. "I can do this one in fifteen."
Victoria beamed. "Great," she said, and vanished out of the door, leaving Tyson to fend for himself.
Nick grinned at him before tugging a black robe out from behind a chair. "Take a seat," he said, gesturing to a swivel-chair in front of the mirror, and Tyson did, awkwardly. Nick whirled the robe in front of Tyson's face and tied it behind his neck. Tyson looked at himself in the mirror, reduced to a head, and swallowed. It was all getting very real now.
Nick was muttering somewhere behind him, fishing things out of his magical wardrobe as Tyson sat and sweated in the chair. He really hoped he didn't make a fool of himself - either in the studio or in here. He was awkward anyway - too tall, too many goddamn limbs, but when he was nervous, he seemed to grow another thirty and had no idea what to do with any of them.
"Much as it pains me to ask you this and prove Victoria right, what part of Oklahoma are you from?" Nick asked, scattering various brushes and powders onto the ledge in front of the mirror.
Tyson, still lost in the horror of prospective humiliation, glanced up at him. "What?" he asked and hated how timid his voice sounded.
"I'm from OK City," Nick told him, apparently ignoring the fact that Tyson had been struck dumb. "Well, I was. I left when I was sixteen. Had to get out of there."
Tyson looked at Nick in the mirror. He wasn't surprised; Nick may have been a make-up artist, but that wasn't the only problem with him from an Oklahoma standpoint: he was wearing skinny jeans, a paisley shirt and a black cord waistcoat, his shoes had sequins on them and, as he reached over Tyson's shoulder to pick up a jar of something, Tyson caught a glimpse of black nail polish. Of course he had to get out of Oklahoma. Tyson might be lynched for wearing make-up and modelling, but this guy would be straight-up tarred and feathered if he even set foot in Stillwater.
Just thinking about what retribution awaited him if anyone at home found out about this made Tyson's mouth go dry and his hands start to shake. Carl Peters had had three teeth knocked out by kids at school who just suspected him of being a fag. It wouldn't matter that Tyson had had a couple of girlfriends and had been on the football team; if anyone found out about the modelling, he'd die a painful, humiliating death at the hands of the goons at high school, branded a cocksucking faggot for all eternity. It was just as well they couldn't see what was going on in his head, especially now, with Nick behind him.
"Hey," Tyson opened his eyes. He hadn't even realised he'd closed them.
Nick was looking at him in the mirror, frowning. "You okay?"
"Um?" Tyson squeaked, his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest. "Yeah. Totally. Fine."
Nick raised his eyebrows and grabbed a little stool, sitting on it and gently spinning Tyson away from the mirror. "Hope you don't mind," he murmured, eyes studying Tyson's face. "I work better without a mirror." He unscrewed the jar, and held it out to Tyson. "Hold this?"
The jar was full of pinkish goop. Tyson held it and tried to keep his hands steady. Goop it may have been, but it probably cost more than his car. It was difficult when his hands kept shaking so much.
"Hey, no," Nick was scowling at him, lazy green eyes sharp and narrowed. "You're shakin' like hell, man, what's up?"
Tyson tried for a smile. "Oh - I guess," his mouth dried up and he swallowed. "Guess I'm just nervous."
Nick's eyes softened and he nodded, taking the jar of goop from Tyson's hands and balancing it on his own knee. "I get it. It's fucking terrifying." He dipped a brush in the goop and smoothed it across Tyson's cheekbone. Tyson shivered; it was cold. "This is a moisturising primer. It goes on first, gets your skin ready for the actual make-up." Another stroke of the brush across his other cheekbone. "Listen, Gabe's a good boss. He's a good guy. He's fun to work with, and he never, ever makes any of his models do anything they don't want to do."
"That's good," Tyson muttered, shivering again as the brush moved over his forehead. "I'm just - scared, I guess. Like, what if I'm no good? What if they just say 'yeah, no thanks' and send me home?"
Nick smiled a little absently, half-absorbed in his work. "They won't, I can tell just by looking at your face that they won't. Don't take this the wrong way, but I've had a lot of guys through my hands and you are definitely one of the best-looking. And Gabe'll tell you how to move and stand and stuff - no-one knows how to start with. So don't worry."
Tyson nodded, a little reassured. "What do you mean, 'don't take this the wrong way'?"
"Oh," Nick's smile dropped a little as he put the jar of goop on the floor and pulled a selection of brushes seemingly out of nowhere. "Because of who I am and what I do... I've had guys think I'm coming on to them before. They sometimes don't take it well. I'm not," he added hastily. "I just tell it like I see it. But I guess it sounds a bit gay. Which some people don't like."
"Are you gay?" Tyson blurted out before he could stop himself, and then wanted to crawl into a dark corner and die. Because he was trapped in a chair with goop all over his face, he stumbled on, "Not that that's a bad thing, it's totally cool, I mean, I think I'm bi, and it -"
"Stop, stop, stop," Nick said and he was laughing. "Calm down before you hurt yourself. Yes, I'm gay, no, I'm not insulted you asked and you really, really need to calm down before Victoria rips me a new one for upsetting you. I'm gonna put some concealer on you, now. Then some foundation. It smooths the skin, makes for a matte finish. Pretty for the cameras."
He snatched another two pots off the ledge and opened one, giving the other to Tyson to hold. Tyson shivered as Nick traced underneath his eyes and his jawline. "When did -" Tyson cleared his throat. "When did you know?"
"That I was gay?" Nick hummed consideringly, swiping the brush over Tyson's eyebrows and smoothing the concealer with his fingertips. "When I was fourteen. Then things got a bit shit for me back home, so I left when I was seventeen. I just didn't fit, you know?" His eyes sharpened again on Tyson's face. "Is that what you're worried about?"
Tyson sighed. "Some of the guys at school - they'd make my life a living hell if they even knew I was here. If they knew I might be gay... or bi..."
Nick nodded, taking the other jar from Tyson's hands and selecting another brush. "You think you're gay?"
"All signs point to yes," Tyson tried for a smile, but it probably came out miserable. This was not how he envisaged his first trip to New York.
Nick just nodded and started applying a new goop - foundation, apparently - to Tyson's face. "You're still at school?" he asked, changing the subject to Tyson's relief.
"Yeah. I'm seventeen."
"Don't let anyone tell you that your teenage years are the best days of your life. Your teenage years suck balls," Nick smiled as Tyson let out a shocked giggle. "I was twenty three days ago and I'm already having twice as much fun as I did when I was nineteen. It'll get better when you get out of school, even better than that if you get out of Oklahoma..." he smirked at Tyson from under his lashes, trailing the brush down the blade of Tyson's nose. Tyson fought the urge to shiver. "Not that I'm biased or anything."
"How did you get to New York?" Tyson asked, and then pulled a face. "Don't say 'by plane'."
Nick laughed, screwing the top back on the foundation jar and vanishing into the wardrobe for a moment. "Me? I was lucky," he reappeared, holding another pot and brush -Tyson started to wonder whether he had an infinite supply. "I already knew someone here. My roommate, actually. He gave me a place to stay and let me eat for free until I found my feet. Bear it in mind," he said, mock-sternly, pointing at Tyson with his brush. "A support network is key, soldier!"
Tyson laughed. "I'll remember. I'm not plannin' on leaving Stillwater yet, but I'll remember."
Nick paused. "Stillwater? Huh."
"What?"
"My mother came from Stillwater; I used to go there every summer to stay with my grandparents. Know them? Jack and Samantha Craig? They own a florist."
Tyson shook his head sheepishly. "Sorry."
Nick shrugged. "Eh. Doesn't matter. Okay, this is mattifying powder, does exactly what it says on the tin. Shut your eyes and try not to sneeze."
Tyson managed not to sneeze, but he did laugh as the fluffy powder brush tickled over his skin. When he opened his eyes again, Nick was looking at him, a strange, fond look on his face.
"What?" he asked, and Nick shook his head, smiling.
"Nothin'. Right. Let me look at you." He did, scanning Tyson's face with narrowed eyes. "Hmm. Reckon we can get away with a bit of bronzer and mascara, then you're done! Honestly, you're so fucking photogenic, it's not fair."
"Oh." Tyson felt himself blushing. "Good."
"Yep. Less work for me! Okay. Hold this." 'This' was yet another pot, this one filled with golden, bronze and rose-coloured beads. Tyson stared at it. "Bronzer, kid. Because it's winter and everyone looks like they just crawled out of a crypt."
Nick brushed briskly over Tyson's cheekbones and the arches of his eyebrows with a brush so coarse Tyson could feel blood rushing to the surface of the skin with each stroke. Nick leaned back, studying him critically before jumping off his stool and heading back to the wardrobe of Make-up Narnia.
"Blusher," he called back to Tyson. "Thought we could get away with just bronzer, but you're still too pale."
"Sorry," Tyson said, though he wasn't particularly sure why. It wasn't as though winter was his fault.
Nick appeared to be thinking along the same lines. "Not like you can help it." He held out another jar, and Tyson took it without thinking. "Oh hey," Nick said and he was smiling. "You're not shaking - not nervous any more?"
Tyson shrugged. "A little? But I'm not terrified any more, I guess."
"Then my work here is done," Nick said, dusting Tyson's cheeks with pale pink powder and feathering his fingertips along his cheekbones. "It's what I couldn't stand about being a make-up artist at first; you're expected to be an artist and a therapist in one, and I normally hate people."
"Should I be flattered?" Tyson asked, wondering if that sounded too flirtatious, though he really had no idea how to flirt with a guy. What if he was flirting by accident? He wasn't meaning to - but he did like Nick, maybe a bit too much...
"Yes," Nick told him solemnly. "The make-up artist likes you; nothing can go wrong. You are indeed blessed."
Tyson sniggered, and Nick grinned. "Seriously. I've learned to get on with most people, but there are still only a few I actually like. Luckily, most of them work here."
"Like me?" Tyson wasn't sure why he was pushing the issue. For some reason, he wanted to know, desperately wanted Nick to like him, and he had absolutely no idea why or where it had come from. Perhaps it was something in the make-up.
Nick gave him an slow, considering look, a little wary. "Yeah," he said eventually. "I think so. Like you." An odd, shivery moment passed between them, and Tyson bit his lip. He really hoped he hadn't fucked it up. He had to go and pose, as well, after all.
Then Nick ducked his head and the spell was broken. "And finally - mascara! You didn't think you were getting away without that, did you?" He smirked, waving the wand at Tyson, who pulled a face.
"Mascara? Really?"
"Oh, I see," Nick said, pulling the stool close to Tyson's chair. "He manages the concealer, the bronzer and the blusher, but no, the mascara's too much! The ultimate loss of masculinity!"
Tyson snorted, and batted his lashes at Nick. "And there was I thinking my lashes were long and luscious enough without more goop!"
"Not a chance. Hold still or I'll poke you in the eye, and that shit hurts." Applying the mascara, Nick was far closer than he'd been before. Tyson could smell him - coffee and cheap spearmint gum and ten different types of product. It was mildly intoxicating, and Tyson held his breath to stop his head spinning, tapping his fingers against his knee in an effort to distract himself. The moments passed painfully slowly as Nick moved on to the other eye, and finally, away.
"Done!" he said, sounding exhilarated. "And fuck me, I've done a good job."
Tyson swivelled round to look at himself in the mirror and gaped. "It - it looks like me," he stammered, feeling at once ridiculous and beautiful. "Just- more."
"My work here is done," Nick grinned, gathering up the brushes and throwing them into a sink in the corner of the room. Then he frowned, striding over to Tyson and pushing him backwards in the chair. "Don't move, don't move," he muttered, and Tyson held his breath, wondering what was happening.
Nick was giving him the narrow-eyed stare. Suddenly, he licked his thumb and quickly dabbed it over Tyson's cheekbone, just under his eye, before pulling back, evidently relaxed.
"Mascara escaped," he said by way of explanation, holding up his thumb to show a blob of black liquid. "But you're all pretty again, now."
"Uh, thanks," Tyson said, heart thumping. He could feel the spot where Nick had touched him burn. And now he was back to saying 'uh' again, which was perfect.
Nick quirked a smile at him. "No problem."
There was a squeak as the door-handle turned, and they both jumped as Victoria came in. "Fifteen minutes on the nail!" she announced, looking at Nick expectantly. Nick bowed, gesturing at Tyson, and Victoria whistled approvingly. "You know, Nicky, this might just be a new record."
"Yeah, well," Tyson jumped as Nick undid the back of his overall and snatched it before it fell to the ground. "Good material to work with."
He shot a quick smile at Tyson as he started to collect up all the pots and thrust them back into the wardrobe. Tyson could practically feel him drawing away, and felt absurdly sad.
"Tyson?" Victoria was looking at him. "You want to head over to the studio, now?"
Tyson forcibly dragged himself back into the present moment. "Uh, yeah? Sure!" Victoria nodded and walked out, Tyson tagging slightly awkwardly behind. He lingered at the door, watching Nick fill the sink with water and brushes. "Hey - Nick?"
Nick looked up, half-smiling. "Yeah?"
"Thanks. Um - see you soon?" Tyson had no idea what he was doing, but it seemed a good idea.
Nick smiled, properly this time. "Ain't no thing. And hey - look me up when you come to New York, yeah?"
Tyson grinned. "Yeah. Yeah, I will."
Then he left, following Victoria down the labyrinth to the studio.
**
Yeah, it got long. ¬_¬ Oops. As ever, any and all feedback is much appreciated!