Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the thick, meaningful silence that followed, the modelling director makes his decision crystal clear:

“I’m afraid we’re just not looking to hire at the moment.”

Staring at his knees, face scrunched in fury, Oikawa slides his interview chair all the way back until he reaches the door. He jams his thumb in the middle of the knob. It locks with a loud click.

He smooths out his expression as he jerks his head back to look at the modelling director with a - no other way of putting it - diabolical smile. Without hesitation he starts using the extra but highly limited time he just bought himself. “Could you at least tell me where I’m falling short in?” he asks, sweetly and civilly. “I’ve got at least five minutes,” he adds with a wink, literally feeling the director pushing some sort of hidden button beneath his big designer desk for security.

The director looks at him, the door, him and his smug little face again, the clock, back at the door, and then blurts out this line: “We don’t need another carbon copy of Kise Ryouta.”

Oh he did not. Oikawa’s dominant color was milk chocolate brown, and he had a head of naturally curly tufts that left him free of premature balding; unlike the unhealthy amount of bleaching it took to maintain that piss-yellow color of a head on that Kise Ryouta. “I do not look like-“

Cutting off what was clearly the beginning of an angry tirade, the director pulls out a copy of Kise Ryouta’s debut Junon magazine cover from four years ago and spreads his hands at Oikawa, implicitly going, You think?

And it’s like, Oikawa can’t discern if he’s making a jab at Oikawa’s modelling career thus far or just acting like he’s seriously about to give Oikawa an objective comparison between him and that ugly blonde monkey. Surely they were as unlike as apples were to orange. He stared at the sunlit face of Kise Ryouta in a fake school uniform and consciously withheld outwards derision from appearing on his face. He had been 16 then, some kind of basketball prodigy, an ultra-popular, cookie-cutter, attention-seeking jock that went from inter-school popularity to actual model/idol/actor... success. Oikawa hates him; he feels personally invalidated every time anyone compare the two of them. With his Junon magazine cover debut at age 17, as a nationals-level volleyball talent with a genuine fanbase, perfect team playing aptitude, legitimate athletic skills, attempting also to turn his many charms to the entertainment world, it was particularly difficult for him not to come across as inauthentic when that bleach-head had already rode the entire industry’s dick high and dry. Case in point, Kise Ryouta didn’t even belong to this company.

The director snaps him out of his thoughts with an “I’m sure you see what I mean.” 

Oikawa thick-skins on with a growl that couldn’t really be passed off as anything else. “I’m afraid I don’t!”

The director flashes him a look of half annoyance, and a half something that was potentially interest... maybe. That was enough for Oikawa. They look at each other without saying anything, and it turns into a staring match that Oikawa wins. Blinking and sighing unhappily, the director pulls out a thick folder from beneath his table. He thuds it down on the table and tells Oikawa to “Open it.”

“What page?” Oikawa straightens, smelling a chance.

“Any,” the director responds indifferently. Oikawa flips it open right to the middle. He recognizes the company’s top model from his photoshoot in Bali, Indonesia; on the left page, he lounges in an unbuttoned pinstripe silk suit, dark blue, on a red velvet armchair; body oiled and glistening; in-between his legs, a collared leopard rests its’ head on his right inner thigh. On the right page-

“What does this model have that you don’t?” The director prompts, interrupting Oikawa's flow.

“A phallic symbol in my mouth?” Oikawa snarks.   

“Completely unique physical characteristics,” the director deadpans, pointing at the model’s hair.

“He dyes it,” Oikawa challenges, even as he knew that wasn’t true.

“It’s natural. Look at his pubic hair.”

Oikawa didn’t want to look at his pubic hair, but the director flips three pages forward. The jump that Hanamaki Takahiro was making from runway to fetish photography was a risky one for models – anybody could do porn, but only a few could make art – though those among his true followers had largely seen it coming. In his years of work, Hanamaki had an ultra-confident sensuality that radiated off the pages , and came to develop signature poses that always involved his finger either hovering near or inside his mouth. He had a look like a lounging big cat in most of his shoots, lazy and charismatic, but these days he’d flipped some sort of switch and was suddenly, of all things, championing the look of a virgin – vulnerable, curious and unbelievably gentle. Just not innocent. Oikawa couldn’t fathom it. He missed the old Hanamaki – he’d been iconic, adorable, a true trend leader, especially that crushing campaign of him modelling denim casual-wear in fuck-me heels and red lipstick – but the new Hanamaki still appealed to him, albeit in a very different way. Oikawa felt like he could bite him. 

He loved him, but- “He’s the only alternative-hair color model who is this popular for it.”

“Yes, because it’s natural.”

“The colorful hair fad will pass.”   

“Of course, but Hanamaki Takahiro will own the authority on pink hair forever.”

That’s high praise. Oikawa craved exactly that, and just because he was a natural brunette like 95% of the Japanese population didn't mean that he would never make it. It just meant that he would have to capture people’s hearts in other ways. As long as he could secure a company that would represent him and fight for job openings for him in the cut-throat entertainment industry. The director flips to an A3 vertical poster, cut in a half to fit into the two folders in the file. A sacrilege. It’s one of the poster designs that came with initial orders of Hanamaki’s long-awaited first photobook, featuring him wearing the title in Helvetica Neue font across a thin white cotton shirt: Virgo. He’s an Aquarius. He’d treated his Instagram fans with two rows of B-takes on that day, always a sign that meant he’d been feeling especially pretty, hahstagging them all with januarybaby.

Oikawa had to force down his reflex to shift uneasily in his seat. Not that anybody knew, but he’d pawned that very poster, autographed, off Yahoo Auctions at a price five times that of Kise Ryouta’s most recent three-per-pack movie bromides. There was no rational reason for buying it – not when Oikawa already had all the other three versions as well, un-autographed, but also obtained at exorbitant prices. On the other hand, no rational person could resist Hanamaki Takahiro in that pastel color scheme he was literally born for. Especially not when he made the color white look like it stood for sin.  

“And then there’s him.”

That was an introductory line, clearly meant to pull Oikawa’s attention from the daydream he was having. And really, like this one needed any introduction – Oikawa let slip a small sigh as soon as he saw the new pages. It was Matsukawa Issei, blessed with physical traits handpicked by god; one could describe the man’s personality and career with the same word – effortless. His chiseled face stood him out from a sea of light and delicate features. A look as distinctive as his would not do to be marred by over accessorizing or complex clothing, something his management was well aware of. In his rare photoshoot campaigns, Matsukawa stuck to classically masculine looks like Armani suits and Calvin Klein underwear. Why ruin perfection? Besides, as Best Newcomer Actor in the year of his debut, and alternate nominees for Best Supporting and Best Actor in the next three years that had followed, Matsukawa’s strongest suit was his acting, where he had played: the older brother with an unconventional sense of humor, the rich and wild secondary love interest, that bespectacled murdering lawyer, and most notably, four doctor roles in three dramas and one movie. It would have been too much, by this point, for hospitals to sign endorsement deals with him (not that they could afford him), but Matsukawa had recently been advocating for prostate cancer awareness in TV commercial spots.

Oikawa flips the page of his own accord and sees a black and white shot of Matsukawa from the back, leaning a cocked elbow against a pillar, with only his left profile visible as he half turned for the camera. Beautiful in the nude like an ancient Roman statue. As he counted the ridges in his back muscles, he recalled that little social media uproar that had occurred when three months ago, someone’s make-up artist posted a picture of Hanamaki, violet cocktail in hand, resting against one of Matsukawa’s folded knee as they fitted their bodies onto a single sun chair, next to the swimming pool of some musician’s mansion. They were fully clothed, and Matsukawa had his usual ambiguous smirk, but the tip of Hanamaki’s tongue had been licking Matsukawa’s knee. The uploader might have deleted the picture two hours later, but it had already spread like wildfire and gained legendary status on the Internet. 

In the ensuing fight between Hanamaki-only fans, Matsukawa-only fans, and the newly birthed, Hanamaki-and-Matsukawa-only fans, Oikawa had been so confused he ended up on a discreet tumblr blog that claimed to repost pictures from Hanamaki’s supposed secret Instagram account. He’d followed it. The blog had proceeded to turn into a conspiracy account digging for “evidence” of the alleged Hanamaki/Matsukawa romance. At this point in time he still hadn’t made up his mind as to how he was supposed to feel about the whole thing.

He flipped the next page and found himself staring right at Matsukawa’s bulge as he posed with a cigarette for Calvin Klein. Shorts could be bought, but sex appeal? Never, and that was the lie. Based on Oikawa’s own idea of Hanamaki – and he had the feeling he had a pretty good grasp of Hanamaki’s true personality – maybe, just maybe, that love affair rumor was real.

The director grips the other end of the folder in a move that most would have interpreted as him wanting it back. Not to Oikawa, preoccupied as he was at the realization that he's being treated to a B-shot that had never been released to public. He considered it proof of his own impressive tenacity when the director eventually ceded the tug-of-war and let Oikawa’s fingers linger on Matsukawa’s photo. The director flipped the pages on the other side, coming to a stop at horizontal stills from an action movie, where yet another young male actor is smeared in grime and blood on the set of a warzone.

Oikawa scrunches his nose. He recognized Iwaizumi Hajime alright, he just couldn’t fathom why the director would be showing him this. The ever-intuitive man sense his silent query and answers it, saying “It’s true we don’t have much actors, but when we do hire them, this is the caliber we seek.”

Try as he might, Oikawa couldn’t keep his eyebrows from coming together, and he hated frowning. The director might as well have thrown a live grenade at Oikawa lap if this had been the reaction he’d been trying to get out of him. Oikawa doesn't detest Iwaizumi with the same level of intensity as he does Kise; he just disliked him on grounds of being yet another generically good-looking mainstream crowd pleaser. His career choices were as predictable as his charms and humor were boring. He went from the latest instalment in the Power Rangers TV series to the straight-laced detective in the white-collar crime drama on late night TV; then went from the solo protagonist in a manga’s movie adaptation to one of the team in the huge superhero blockbuster that also starred Kise Ryouta. Now he was in Godzilla as the main male lead. Each of those franchises spawned figurines and merchandise and countless TV spot opportunities; to boot, he even had a 1/8 figurine of his movie superhero character coming up from the top Japanese figurine manufacturer. If Oikawa had to roll his eyeballs one more time he should just join them in heaven.

“He’s a sex god now,” the director said pointedly, seeming a little suspicious at Oikawa for taking such big offence. 

“But he’s so basic,” Oikawa replies, balking at the idea.

“Indeed, you’re nothing like him,” the director tells him.

Oikawa senses that he might have mis-stepped and immediately recants his reaction with a “But I have the potential to become like him!”

The director doesn't react, not with words nor much of a change in expression, apparently intent to let the cold and awkward silence tick by until security busted into the room. Reminded by the clock overhead that his time was very limited and very precious, Oikawa slams both hands down on the mahogany table, intending to whip out the final trick in his book. “Listen!”

He pauses for breath and then launches into his pitch.

“Imagine this: rising social media star Oikawa Tooru with twenty thousand followers on his Youtube, Twitter and Instagram combined, not including the members registered in the Miyagi and Tokyo branches of his fan club, officially announces his debut as a model for the biggest agency in Japan. He’s finally taking his blessed good looks to the editorial, and everybody who lays their eyes on him can’t deny the look in his eyes – ambition. They see in him the potential to become something greater than a pretty face and body wearing pretty clothes. After a year of that, he makes the jump to acting seamlessly, taking the stage like he was born for it, starring as a junior nurse alongside master surgeon Matsukawa Issei. He then takes on a series of serious dramas for a while, always playing the young, lover-boy, flawed but hopelessly charming character, until he eventually earns the role of titular lead in a high school romance movie. Where the male protag is bashful, perfect, and hiding a terminal illness. The movie reaches international acclaim and spawns endless opportunities for merchandise and cross-product marketing. Also, he sings its melancholic love ballad OST. In order to address his popularity, he then embarks on a half a year tour around Asia to meet with all of his adoring fans in the region. Photobooks and fan club merchandise continuously sell out. The remaining half of the year is devoted to promotions for an original single – another love song, this one acoustic for the spring season. After that sells out, he returns back to the silver screen, joining Iwaizumi Hajime and Kise Ryouta in that big superhero blockbuster franchise as one of the new members. A character with ice magic or mind-control powers, I’m thinking.”

The director holds up his hands the same time as Oikawa ends the delivery of his meticulously laid-out entertainment career. One hand up would have signalled the need for a pause or a break; two hands up looked more like surrender. Oikawa waits for the director’s verdict, eager and brimming with anticipation.

“Very good, Oikawa-san.”

Oikawa smirks.

The director’s hands move in the air like he’s petting something placatingly. “You’re everyone’s type, that’s for sure." 

Oikawa continues to wait.

“Just… Not our type.”

Christ, did that man even listen to a single word Oikawa had just said? “How can I be everyone’s type but not your type? What does that even mean?”

“It means we’re not hiring.”

“This is the recruiting season-“

“You.”

“But-“

“Goodbye, Oikawa-san.”

The door behind him busts open. Two guards storm in, as burly as twin Iwaizumi's, and each grab him by an arm. They pull him out of the room, kicking and screaming, into the lifts, out the lobby and onto the sidewalk. The answer is a resounding no from the heavens. Oikawa Tooru is denied his destiny.