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sevenswellsTitle: Burlap Sacks Are IN
Author:
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sevenswellsRating: NC - 17
Pairing: Ryo/Kame (plus several other stupid pairings that I like, but they don't really matter)
Fandom: crossover between the real TV show "Project Runway", and Johnny's Entertainment. Hardcore, I know.
Warnings: Don't make your little niece read this!
Or you may, but then she'll look at you funny.
Also, there might be mistakes here and there, since my English needs big improvement.
So don't make your little niece read this, I don't want her to make fun of me.
Word count: 7 052 words, holy crap on a cracker!
Comments: This fic has been originally inspired by
silver_rose88's beautiful Ryo icon: 
(hence its title)And by the awesomeness that is Project Runway and the fabulousness that is Tim Gunn, they really prevented me from going crazy during my exam period.
Everything is dedicated to
kamexkame: Here you go, girl! Now sell me your soul.
-Okay designers, gather around, please, Tim Gunn called. So, the challenge is this: you're going to design an outfit for a very special client. You will have to answer their requests while bringing in your own sense of style, and you will be judged specifically on this.
The announcement was welcomed with sighs and grunts of dissatisfaction: it meant they had to work with somebody else, and that never was good news. It meant egos clashing endlessly and drama all over the place. Kame always did his best not to trample on someone else's ego, he always kept his thoughts to himself even when they interrogated him separately in front of the camera.
He knew that in a fight between personalities, when it came to bitching and crushing your opponent with mean words, there was just no way he could come out as the winner. Kame used to think that it was just about the clothes. Let the most talented win, like a law of nature. But now he realized that it was only a matter of making good TV or not. Only the bitchiest, flashiest, spazziest had their chances: welcome to the freak show.
Kame used to think he possessed a competitive spirit. In general. Or at least he thought his strive for perfection was a trait of competitiveness. Of sorts.
But at this point, he was starting to wonder -- maybe along with all his remaining fellow designer colleagues -- what the hell he was still doing here.
Maybe the judges found him cute, in a dorky sort of way, but he was pretty sure he was getting the sack anytime now, because cute in a dorky sort of way could only last this long.
"While bringing in your own sense of style", hah! They always said this, and then on the runway they would go "yeah, but you should've been more this or less that", "I would have done it different (and better)" - bottom line: bring in your own sense of style, but show us what we want to see.
Honestly, he didn't know what his sense of style was. He thought he knew, before he entered the race: he used to make clothes he liked, he had really wanted to win this gig because he used to think that there was something unique, that was him and only him, that he could bring to the table.
But now everything was kind of blurry in his head. He was pretty sure that this assignment would be his last. He was already so much out of it.
The sudden change in the atmosphere made him snap out of his glum reverie. The air somehow got... thicker. Heavy with... He understood he must definitely have missed something when he heard the squeals. Embarrassingly, coming from his colleagues. Their models had just entered the room.
Male models.
Kame felt Pi beside him shifting slightly, like a cat, getting ready to pounce, one muscle at a time, his eyes fixed on one model in particular who was gorgeous, tall and slightly dumb-looking. Now, this one, he reminded Kame of a big golden retriever, sticking his head out of the window of a moving car, his ears and dangling tongue flapping away in the wind. Dumb, and feeling comfortable about that. There, Pi was already on the move, almost purring in advance. The way he rolled his hips, advancing towards the model like he really, really meant business was making Kame a little seasick. Yup, that guy was dead meat. Even if he tried to look away, Pi’s pheromones would get him in the end. The whole scene made quite a fascinating sight: it was like watching Animal Planet or something. And, in the background, it felt like mating season was in the air, too. Koki was parading in front of the tallest guy in the room, which was also kind of funny to watch: short, nervous Koki trying to get the full attention of that long-limbed, nonchalant elf with the goofiest grin anyone’d ever seen. Detachedly, Kame also noticed Koyama, a few steps away from him, getting acquainted with a stunning doe-eyed brunette.
He could hear the TV commentary running in his head: the designer has now cornered his model. The latter has no chance to escape anymore. He must accept his fate and let the coupling begin. Observe how the designer is tucking a strand of hair behind his ear: that is the signal. The model is leaving his body open as sign of remission, and…
Shut the fuck up, thought Kame, no time to make jokes for yourself, idiot, you’re getting left behind!
Indeed, while he was virtually shooting animal documentary spoof, it seemed all the models had already been snatched away by his overzealous and über horny competitors. He had watched it all happen in front of him, unconcerned, discouraged, like he was sitting beside himself, but now that the results were in, sheer panic took over.
Fuck, what was he going to do now? How come there wasn’t any model left for him? Was it another trick of the producers to make the audience numbers go through the roof, like, there weren’t enough models for all the designers, and now they had to fight over them, or, that was actually a test of, of, alertness, designer’s alertness (what?) or something and he failed so now he was eliminated, oh sweet pole dancing Jesus in a strip club, did he miss a very important part of what Tim Gunn had said or what?
No, wait.
There he was. Finally.
The last one.
His last chance.
The minute this dark-haired, black-eyed guy came up through the door, though, taking his time, like he purposefully wanted to set himself apart from the others, from the pack, strolling in the room like he owned it, Kame just knew, he instantly thought,
Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.
And the dark stranger lost a little of his arrogance when he looked around and took in the full comprehension of the disaster.
You know the feeling. You’re the only one remaining to get picked for the soccer/basketball/baseball team, and you realize everyone else on the team hates your guts, because it is a very well-known fact that you suck at soccer/basketball/baseball and you’re gonna make them lose, but, undoubtedly, the one who hates you the most is the captain of the team, because he had to pick you no matter what and now he’s responsible for you? That feeling?
Well, Kame could totally relate to that right there and then. And the look in the dark stranger’s eyes resembled that of the team captain a lot.
"Alright, Tim Gunn continued, so you have two days for this challenge, and your clients AND models will have to stay with you. The. Whole. Time.”
***************************************************
KAMENASHI KAZUYA, 23, designer
“Yes, I do believe in collaboration. I don’t have any problem working with somebody else, on the contrary, I tend to think it can be a very, rewarding, experience for both… parties. Involved. I feed off my partner’s ideas, and… well I hope he can feed off mine, so, there are, dynamics, at work. You know. So. Maybe we can work faster, better and something really interesting might come out, who knows? And no, I’m not going to look down on him because he’s a model, of course not, what kind of crazy idea is that? It has nothing to do with anything! At all. I’m sure his conception of fashion is very worthwhile and I’m, well, really looking forward to hear what he has to say.”
RYO, 25, model
“Are you *beeeep* kidding me? There’s no way I’m going to be bossed around by some loser I don’t even know. I’m used to do sh*beep* my way, I’ve got my own style, and it’s not because the other guy is supposed to be a, so-called, “designer”, unquote, that he’s not going to be my *beep* at the end of the day. You have my word on that.”
***************************************************
This was not going to work. He could see it not working.
-I want to look really cool, said Ryo before the sketching even began. Clean cut, classic colors, nothing fancy, we don’t want to make fools of ourselves, do we? I picture something gangster-like, a little film noir… very classy, you know?
Very boring, thought Kame.
-Okay, said Kame, still willing to cooperate. So how about we…
-I’ll show you how I want it done, okay? I get to pick the fabric, too, that way there won’t be any misunderstandings, we want things to go fast and smoothly, right?
There it was, the point, the breaking point, where Kame had to stand up for himself and put the guy right in his place, there was no second chance, he had to make him know right then that he was the dominant one, otherwise the whole thing was going to turn out a complete…
-Okay, said Kame, miserably.
YAMAPI, 24, designer
“Nuh-uh girlfriend, no way José, no one’s ever allowed anywhere near Pi’s Creativity Zone, okay? I’ma tell him, ‘I’m the one in charge, here, so you just sit back and look pretty, and when the time comes, the outfit will be good and ready for ya.’ He’ll just have to slip in and shake that ass on the runway, making mommy proud. It’s really all I’m asking. Him model, me designer. So nobody interferes with the natural order, okay?”
JIN, 25, model
“Iiii… don’t really care, I guess? Either way is fine with me, really.
…
Oh, right, wait a minute, did you mean, the… fashion… thingy?”
At Mood’s where they had 30 minutes as usual to buy the fabric, Kame took the first chance to slip away from Ryo and got lost on purpose between the alleys.
It started out a little eerie at first, because it seemed he wandered for a very long time without meeting anyone; the whole shop was like a vast, deserted labyrinth. But then again, the place was kilometric, so he wasn’t worried. Oddly enough, this walkabout was what he’d had closest to a little peace of mind for weeks. He wasn’t thinking about the competition, or what the others thought about him, or how much he sucked for letting Ryo crush his balls like that. His mind blank, he could finally contemplate what was around him, the textures, the colors, the shapes, the magic, the genius of it all. In the littlest things, he could see centuries of perfecting, he could grasp the variety and expanse of his craft – hard work, inspiration, lucky strokes; small hands, old hands, nimble, daft; soft, rough, woolly, round, glitter, spikes, fur; lie-de-vin, mother of pearl, synthetic, zippers, and lace.
He could feel it coming back. Again, he could enter this ethereal state he’d thought he could never go back to, where he could forget himself, back when creating used to be so simple for him. His hand started to search and feel through the shelves – his ugly hand he could be so proud of, the hand of someone who could never put a needle down no matter how much that hand got pricked and abused. His mother used to tell him that it was never meant to be useless, lazy and pampered, this hand, she would say, is the kind that grasps fate.
All of a sudden, in a messy pile of fabrics that weren’t exposed in neat rolls like the rest – maybe rejects that were about to be thrown away - he found just the material he was looking for. A large piece of it, already cut in the exact yardage he needed. Its color was perfect, too, just a hint of faded pink hid under indefinable, dirty grayish tones, reminiscent of skies in post-nuke movies from the 80’s. This color was so involuntarily passé, like how they used to express future in the past. He rubbed the sheet against his cheek, closing his eyes. It felt like an old, overused plushie. He opened his eyes again, a smile slowly spreading on his lips. The thing was horrid and tender, rebuking a little. It represented nostalgia and avant-garde at the same time, he decided. Whatever. He loved it.
He felt he needed something more, though. Still driven by his dreamy state, he fished three enormous flowers made of tissue from a box not far from where he stood – they, too, had this decaying quality he was seeking. Les Fleurs du Mal, he thought randomly, with a little hint of satisfaction, knowing that somehow it would all make perfect sense in the end.
This was him.
His style.
He started to walk again, holding the sheet and the flowers against him like a beloved treasure.
At the corner of an alley, bumping into Koki brutally sucked him back into his corporal state.
-Check out those mad sequins I just got, said Koki right away, excitedly, presenting his full hands to Kame like a child bringing shells back from the beach. They’re huge and really cheap, and, look at this one, it’s shaped like lightning, pretty wicked, huh?
Kame liked Koki a lot. They didn’t approve of each other’s sense of style, Kame thought Koki’s was too bling-bling, Koki thought Kame’s was a caricature of sensitivity, but they’d come to appreciate each other’s company when the cameras had gone off. After the first eliminations, they’d ended up sharing the same room in the apartment rented by Project Runway’s production company, and in their beds at night, they had started holding whispered conversations in the dark as if they were out camping. It had started with a “Hey. Are you asleep?” coming from Koki, which had caused them both to laugh to tears the instant this childish phrase was proffered, exhausted and hysterical as they were after the day they’d spent making a dress that was supposed to be inspired by a piece of furniture, what the fuck, right.
Normally they wouldn’t rant about the show, or how difficult it was to find a job in their trade, especially nowadays with the recession and all that, but they’d talk about tangible stuff, their real lives. Koki would talk about his little brother, Kame would tell how he almost became a baseball jock before taking a wrong turn and ending up in poofy land, how their parents had handled their son’s coming out (in Koki’s case, not at all, he couldn’t summon the courage to cross the ultimate line, but they had to suspect something, their son wanted to be in fashion after all, they just didn’t want to see what was so blatant, and in Kame’s case, he hadn’t spoken to his family in years after the revelation but he was okay, now he could manage just fine).
-Man, my model, Junno, he’s a real catch, Koki went on without transition. We’re totally on the same wavelength, he agreed on wearing chains and such, plus he’s so gorgeous I can’t stand it, this is gonna be a skuh-re-eam!
-Must be nice.
Kame hadn’t meant to sound envious, it was just a gimmick phrase of approval, but Koki’s expression turned compassionate.
-Ah, yeah, I’ve heard about yours, he’s a notorious bitch. The others gave him a shamanic name, “Viper Tongue” they call him. It’s too bad you have to deal with him now, but don’t let him get to you. By the way, are you really letting him buy all that fabric? I know the budget’s consequent on this one, but cheaper materials can be…
-What? Kame interrupted. Where is he now?
Koki’s eyes rounded with surprise.
-You mean you didn’t… Where the hell have you been all this time? There’s only fifteen minutes left and Viper Tongue’s out to buy the whole mofoing shop! Go! Now!
-Where? Kame repeated, already on the move.
-Over there, go!
When he found Ryo, he was discussing with a salesperson who was showing him a navy blue cloth that, indeed, seemed expensive. Somehow Ryo sensed his assigned designer’s presence, to Kame’s own wonder because he didn’t think that guy could sense any other person around with an ego that big, and he interrupted his very serious adult conversation with the salesperson to frown upon Kame as if he were a little child.
-Did you avoid me on purpose? Just how old are you, really? Thankfully, I am responsible enough for two, and all the fabric is almost…
He interrupted his sermon when his eyes fell upon the plushie material and they nearly popped out of his skull.
-What’s that piece of crap you’re carrying, he spat. Have you been smoking crack, or… you think I’d wear that? What is it, some kind of... burlap sack?
Kame was on the verge of going to pieces. But there was no way Ryo would make him let go of his miraculous find. He had to invent something.
-No, that’s just… It’s just spare. I’m not going to use it for the outfit, of course not. It’s just that sometimes, when you’re sewing, you need…
He was getting mixed up in his own explanation, but it didn’t matter, Ryo wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying anymore.
-What about the flowers, Ryo said. They’re so gaudy I can’t begin to imagine…
-They’re for me. I just like them. I want them for me.
Kame did his best not to clutch desperately at the material and the flowers, not to hide them away from Ryo’s spiteful stare, not to let Ryo see how much it was important to him not to let go.
Kame stopped himself from letting out a sigh of relief.
