Author’s note: fake dating tag relevant soon trust. wc 1.6k
Neither the dim hum of fluorescent lights nor the snappy chatter from the camera crew was nearly enough to distract you from the biting cold of the warehouse-turned studio.
The enormous, sterile-white cyc walls taper downward to present the set’s focal-piece—a beautifully sleek sports car, all expensive curves and glinting finish, the windows tinted lightly to reveal an equally sophisticated leather interior. Even without much interest in cars at all, you had to admit it was stunning. Luxurious. Precisely the sort of car you’d never be able to afford with your current, relatively fresh Jackals contract.
Well. Not without the money from this sponsorship, anyway. When your agent had forwarded you the contract, the stipulated payment was enough to make you gasp aloud. Way, way more than five times your salary, even with the performance bonuses you’d been earning (pretty frequently, as of late) and the Playmaker of the Year payout. Needless to say, it was a no-brainer to accept the sponsorship, Sae Itoshi be damned.
You’re jolted out of your musings by a pretty, harried-looking blond woman.
“Lovely to have you,” she says, motioning for you to follow.
“Nice to meet you,” you reply, smile wavering a bit when she barely acknowledges the greeting. Oh, well.
“We’re a bit behind schedule, so please, bear with me. If you’d take a seat over-” Her eyes narrow, head swiveling, “there, our make-up artists and stylists will doll you right up.”
The dressing room is makeshift, an area sectioned off with tall curtains, a few vanities and comfortable chairs.
You take a seat and are immediately swarmed by a horde of people holding up swathes of lacy fabric and gauzy clothes, all in similar shades of white and beige-gold, a stark contrast to the sleek black of the sports car. A makeup artist smiles apologetically as she maneuvers your face towards her, applying primer diligently. The sticky sensation on your face makes your nose wrinkle. Distantly, you register hands working to part your hair, applying anti-frizz creams and styling mousse and god-knows what else. It’s a veritable whirlwind of motion around you.
You loose track of time, vacillating between preening at being pampered and osmosis-absorbing the obvious stress of the staff flitting about. It’s only much later, when the chaos has abated somewhat, and someone yells out, “she’s ready!” that the make-shift room clears out for a moment.
It’s not long that you get to enjoy the peace.
A ringed hand pushes aside a curtain, and Sae Itoshi steps inside.
Wearing expensive-looking linen pants and a shirt low-cut enough to show off his upper chest and collarbones, Sae Itoshi looks just as maddeningly good as he did at the Intersports Banquet (even though you were much too preoccupied with the possibility of winning to properly appreciate his looks). His bangs are gelled up, and they’ve done something subtle with the makeup around his eyes that makes the blue-green of his irises appear even more striking. God, you’re jealous of his lashes.
You wonder if he uses growth serum. Probably not.
Some people really do have it all.
Belatedly, you realize you’re gaping and make a conscious effort to close your mouth. “Hey,” you say, stepping forward with a hand outstretched.
He nods a greeting and steps forward. His hand envelops yours. It’s warm. Brief shake.
He lets go and steps back.
“It’s good to see you again.”
“You as well,” he replies. It’s a little awkward, considering the events of your first meeting.
Surely a staff member will come soon to direct the both of you.
The silence stretches.
…or not.
He makes no effort to break the silence, but his eyes bore into yours. You fidget.
You clear your throat. “So, uh…how’s socc—football going?”
Sae blinks, expression blasé. “It’s going well.” He gives you a once-over, probably realizing that if he elaborated on anything technical-soccer related, he’d baffle you.
It would be offensive if he weren’t right.
“…How is your volleyball?”
“It’s pretty good. Really busy lately, we’re about to enter a new tournament. But, y’know. Fun,” you finish lamely, attempting to remedy the painfully dry small talk with a charming smile.
He opens his mouth to reply—only to be interrupted by a makeup artist poking their head through the curtain.
“We’re ready to start,” she says, gesturing towards the set. “Come, come!”
The two of you are herded in front of the car and shown a minimalistic scrapbook. Tacked-on white fabric contrasts with crisp shots of the car, a few sample shots and poses.
There’s gentle brush of linen against your shoulder as Sae leans down slightly to get a better look.
You step back. Absently, his eyes follow you, brows raising briefly in acknowledgment when you smile tentatively.
The director shouts out a flurry of instructions, and suddenly the whirlwind of motion from earlier resumes, people coming to adjust you and Sae for the camera.
Lean back. Widen your eyes. Tilt your head. Get closer to Itoshi. Pout some more. Relax your shoulders. Get closer to Itoshi.
You deliberately ignore that last bit. Your agent glares at you meaningfully, and you widen your smile apologetically. You don’t really know Sae like that, and while he’s been civil with you, you don’t want to presume.
To his credit, Sae doesn’t push, either. He adjusts just enough to make it seem like he’s listening to the director, but much to the chagrin of the crew, never actually touches you as the both of you cycle through poses.
“Okay,” the director calls exasperatedly. “I need the two of you to relax. Break the personal space barrier. It’s not like you’re strangers.”
You make eye contact with Sae out of the corner of your eye. His brows furrow almost imperceptibly at the irony. You have to suppress a laugh. He’s so deadpan.
You scoot a little closer towards him on the hood of the car, hyper-aware that any dents on it will probably come out of your paycheck. He adjusts the hand he’s resting his weight on, moving it further back to give you space.
The director sighs. “Alright, let’s try something else. Itoshi, sit further back on the hood. Try and look relaxed, alright?”
He complies wordlessly, sitting with legs spread.
The director looks at you critically. “Now, you scoot back too, but turn and lean into his side. Drape your legs across the width of the hood…and place a hand on the hood between his thighs.”
You follow the directions till the last bit, glancing at Sae hesitantly. “You mind?”
He looks at you for a long while, teal eyes unblinking. Then, a minuscule shrug. “It’s fine.”
This close, you can feel his warmth—it seeps in through the gauzy fabric of your outfit. It’s a nice reprieve from the biting air of the studio.
“There we go,” says the director, finally relaxing somewhat as the camera shutters resume their click-click-click. “Itoshi, hand on her waist.”
Sae spares a glance down at you, long lashes fluttering. A large hand hovers just above your waist.
A sigh from the director. “Come, now, Itoshi. Neither of you bite.”
“Yeah, right,” you mutter before you can bite your tongue.
A quiet exhale ruffles the hair by your ear. Did he just laugh?
His warm hand settles, resting tentatively on your waist, thumb ghosting over the exposed skin of your back.
A little zip of nervous heat sparks up your spine. And if you can feel your heart’s throb in your throat, well. Who could blame you?
The burst of shutters resumes, the flash of the cameras blinding. Still, every click of the shutters seems agonizingly prolonged.
You’re all too aware of every point of contact between you and Sae. Your scapula’s against his ribs, top of your head tilted close to his jaw, forearm brushing against his thigh. Most distractingly of all, his hand on your waist, large enough that his pinky brushes the top of your thigh.
You swallow dryly.
Distantly, you can hear the director’s enthused clapping, muted by the click-click of shutters. “Perfect. Perfect, that’s what I’m talking about.”
He looks critically at a one of the various monitors for a long minute, then nods, seemingly satisfied. “I think we’ve got what we need. We can wrap this up. Thank you!”
You straighten, sliding off the hood of the car carefully. Pausing, you watch as Sae does the same, dismounting with all the grace his passes are so famous for.
In your peripheral, you can see your agent chatting to a spindly man with glasses. Sae’s manager, maybe?
Still, you’re anxious for a breather. Your back protests from the long period of sitting ramrod straight and your cheeks ache from smiling and it’s long past a reasonable lunch time, and god, you’re really, really hungry…
You notice Sae Itoshi is staring at you.
“So,” you start, “interesting experience, huh?”
He arches a brow slightly. “I suppose.” He’s silent for a while, then seems to register you’re waiting for him to say more. “I haven’t done something like this with someone else. Someone who doesn’t play football.”
“Yeah, me neither. Nothing this big, at least. It’s new.”
His expression doesn’t change, but the way his gaze sweeps over you once more in a manner that somehow feels appraising. “I couldn’t tell.”
The nape of your neck flushes with heat—you can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.
You hear your manager calling you over from across the studio, saving you from the medieval torture of trying to hold a conversation with this man.
“Well. Um, good…modeling today?” You try, “I’ll probably be seeing you around.”
He nods.
You turn, scanning the studio to find your manager.
There’s worse things in the world than trying to talk to a beautiful (but painfully dry) man. At least you’ll only see him when you’re doing promotional shoots. You don’t have to endure him every day.
