Chapter Text
Matt groaned as he heard the familiar ping of an incoming email. He had hoped that the work Ken said he might send him today would remain unsent, but his associate obviously had no idea how much Matt needed this day off.
Ken wore the name perfectly. If Barbie's plastic boyfriend came to life, he would definitely look like his associate: blond hair, always cut and combed to ‘straight-from-the-hairdresser' perfection; tanned skin; a tall, toned body; and always a flash of white teeth when his lips stretched into a confident smile. Matt looked even more like the short, dishevelled redhead he was, compared to Mister America. Perfection never touched his hair; it just sat on top of his head like some overgrown, untamed jungle, falling into eyes that were at least of a more vibrant blue than Ken's. They were enough to bring some ass back to his apartment when he felt like getting laid anyway.
Matt rolled onto his back and groaned again, just out of annoyance. He'd been up all night partying at the launch of a new bar in town, since he and Ken had been hired to shoot the event. Soon, though, Ken had been shooting while Matt had gotten a bit too drunk for his associate's liking. When the shoot was over, Ken had left, and Matt had officially stepped out of the photographer's role to remove the camera standing between him and a potential hook-up.
Whoever had been in his bed last night had already fled, and it took Matt a moment to remember whether it had been a guy or a girl. As he sat, stretching and groaning a third time for good measure, the slight pain in his ass gave away the nature of his one-night stand.
Damn, I overdid it this time… he yawned, the nasty pulse in his temples matching last night’s techno beats at the bar. He dragged his feet to the kitchen to fetch some painkillers. He had drunk way too much, and way too fast, to even remember how much or what.
Two Advils and a cup of coffee later, he was sitting at his desk, browsing through the batch of photos Ken had sent him for editing. Do what you can, you're the specialist, the email stated.
Ken and Matt had started their partnership eight months ago. Both were employed by a photographer's agency, wondering why they were working for minimum wage when their boss was driving a Bentley and eating at the Ritz. They had both simply resigned to enjoy the full benefits of their work within their own business. They were both equally good photographers, but Matt had specialised in editing because he loved computers more than the lens. That skill came in handy now that there were just the two of them.
However, the photos he was staring at right now needed a miracle more than skills. Ken had told him after returning from the studio that day that, regardless of angle, lighting, and filters, he was almost sure the photos weren't usable. The model fit the theme perfectly, he said, but a visible scar showed in every pose, and he wanted Matt to remove it. “Why couldn't they hire a model without a scar?” Matt had asked in response.
Now, he could understand why. Indeed, the model was perfect for the role. The client was an up-and-coming, LGBT-activist cosmetic brand known for its dark, saturnine commercials. They were launching their first perfume, and Matt had to give them credit for casting the perfect model. His looks screamed unapologetically gay, and yet, he was pulling off dangerous and sombre so well that Matt felt the need to avert his eyes from the cold look on the screen.
Matt chuckled. He was intimidated by a picture. Focusing his eyes on anything else but the face of the long-haired model, he had a totally different, unexpected reaction, and he lit a cigarette to cool down. “Damn, that body…” Matt mumbled to himself, blowing smoke at an angle from the corner of his mouth to prevent it from altering his sight, even for a second. The lean, bare torso, the leather pants' low waistline, letting the beginning of curves appear…
Matt was surprised when, a few minutes later, he masturbated in the shower. Considering he had been laid last night, that really reflected how attractive the model was.
After some more coffee, some more cigarettes, and partially-burnt scrambled eggs on fully burnt toast, Matt decided to take the request a bit more seriously, but a few hours of editing later, he could only come to the same conclusion as Ken: the shoot was unusable.
Matt cursed at his associate as he stretched in his desk chair, giving up. Mister Perfect was entirely responsible for this; Ken had taken the job because his cousin—head of a modest modelling agency—wanted to get one of his models hired, and had promised the headhunter of the cosmetics company’s advertising branch that he’d get him a deal with the best photographers in town in return.
Matt hadn't been particularly enthralled about lowering their prices, but Ken could hardly refuse and had gone alone with minimal gear to cut the costs. As a result, even though the photos were professional, they could have been of better quality. Matt felt somewhat annoyed with Ken about this: better to use the same material as usual and get the job done properly. They had a business to run, and it didn't matter whether the job paid less; the results had to meet their standards if they wanted to keep their reputation.
Despite Matt’s Photoshop skills, there was always something slightly off about this batch of photos, no matter how much he edited them. He couldn't quite identify the issue, but even with perfect, smooth skin, it still felt unnatural. He continued experimenting with brushes and filters, but nothing seemed right. It wasn't that it looked fake; he just couldn't figure out what was wrong… oh well. He decided to call Ken.
Sighing, he hung up after the conversation ended. It had taken all his willpower not to end it sooner, as his associate was still talking. Ken and he fought regularly, so it was no surprise that the verbal exchange had been a bit heated. Such dicker never threatened their collaboration; it was always quite childish and brazen, but this time, Matt, even if he wasn't mad at Ken in the slightest, was pretty irritated.
Ken was primarily concerned with his status. Initially, he wanted to run his own business to boast about being his own boss and envisioned himself as a renowned photographer, expecting everyone to compete for his attention. Matt, however, was a perfectionist dedicated to doing every job to the highest standard. Although he was skilled at retouching photos, he didn't think he should do it for Ken all the time; he believed the photos should look good even without editing.
The call had ended unfavourably for Matt, and now he needed to demonstrate to his associate that he could take better photos using the same equipment. Put two grown-up kids together and see what happens: this, obviously.
Matt called the agency to arrange an appointment with the long-haired model. He was a bit surprised to hear the secretary say she would get back to him as soon as she had located the model, so they could agree on a date for the shoot. Since when did models decide on their appointments? It was usually the agency that had control over their timetables, not the other way around. And… located? Was he some kind of wisp? Didn't he have a phone?
He informed Ken quickly by email, and since he could now benefit from the rest of his day off, as little of it as remained, he switched off his computer and settled on his couch in front of the TV with a beer in hand.
Matt was dozing off when his phone rang.
“Mr Jeevas, hello again. This is Kim from Lowell Models. I have Mello, the model you requested, with me here. You're lucky he visited us today. Now, when do you want to shoot him? We can schedule…” She was cut off.
Matt heard some shuffling and the secretary's protest in the background before a male voice came through on the phone.
“Thursday, 7 pm, same studio as the first time. I hope you're better than your damn associate because you're making me lose my fucking time.”
The call ended abruptly before Matt could even reply.
When did he want to shoot the model? Right now. Not with a camera. The guy sure had some nerve, but Matt was used to capricious pretty faces, and this one would walk along the right track just like the others once Matt had shown him who was in charge. Especially when the model was named Mellow. What kind of name is that?
Thursday at 7 pm? Matt almost wished he had something else planned that day, just so he could shove it down this Mellow's throat. Who said the model could decide, damnit? He didn't have anything planned, though, and apparently, getting hold of Mellow was difficult for the agency. That was odd. He would need to ask Ken, who could then ask his cousin.
It was only Sunday, and the cosmetics company was waiting for those photos. Matt was a bit annoyed because it would leave him only one day after the shoot to retouch the photos, as they were due the following Saturday. He had to do better than Ken. They were already losing money on this contract.
On Thursday, Matt arrived at the studio with the cameras and accessories Ken had used for the first shoot. He also brought along some more reliable gear in case his bet with Ken resulted in unusable photos again. While it wouldn’t affect the model, it would allow him to honour the contract. They had a reputation to uphold after all.
He arrived early to set up and start shooting as soon as the model arrived. As time passed, his nerves grew; the model seemed full of himself, but he was undeniably attractive. Since Sunday night, Matt had been watching the untouched photos every evening, noting the scar, the face, the toned abs, and sexy curves, especially those eyes… The lighting made it hard to determine their exact colour, but their cold, direct gaze made him feel uneasy every time he looked at them.
He had jerked off so much while looking at those photos… He wasn’t a sex fiend by any means, even if he appreciated a good shag every so often, but he wondered whether he could eventually invite the model for a drink after the shoot.
It made him nervous that it made him nervous. He wasn't usually nervous. So why was he nervous now? Oh fuck.
The model was just a pretentious brat; he'd have him eating out of his hand in no time. They always did. Then he'd bring him home, realise the fantasy, and stop thinking about it for good; nothing to get worked up about.
The door suddenly clicked open, and Matt turned around.