Chapter Text
"Right, Mikhail. We have this campaign going to make Anlood milk sexy. How do you feel about that?"
"About Anlood? Rudvic, are you trying to sell me some form of animal preservation thing?"
"Unlikely. We do not work for free. It's a luxury brand. They want the best they can get. Here's the itinerary and Akhos's concept and story board."
Taking the tablet, Mik studies it for a while, scrolling further down. Interesting. "You want me to drink milk out of the bottle with no shirt on, spilling it down this shapely chest? Really?" Mik waves a hand in front of himself and laughs. He puts the tablet back on the desk. He's seen what he needs to see. "Does it pay well?"
"It is paid for by the Ministry of Agriculture in Tantal. What do you think?"
Mikhail thinks that whoever will pay his model agency the exorbitant amount it costs to hire him as the face for a campaign isn't right in the head. He's not complaining, though. It's fools like that who make him rich. "Who is on it besides me and Akhos?"
"Jin. Patroka on make-up. She'll make you look good. The product is expensive; it's going on the shelves as an extremely limited, exclusive brand."
"I do not look good. I look gorgeous, even before Akhos and Patroka do their thing," Mik states. He leans back in the chair he's in, one arm across the backrest, legs stretched. He's making a pose, just because he can. He likes how it makes even his boss flustered. Men, women, Blades, Nopon… they either want him or want to hire him, neither being an option to anyone but the select few, of course.
Besides, Mik is not for sale just because his face is. And, apparently, his chest.
"So… Jin, hm?" Mik can see why they would have chosen Jin. He is almost as good looking as Mik himself. Besides, Mik likes Jin. They are not friends, but maybe they could be. If Jin had friends, which Mik doubts. Still, Jin has kind of a big brother vibe, which should be weird, but isn't. Mik never got much parental care in his life, moving from one orphanage or refugee camp to the next, Milton his only stable connection. He'll take it.
"So we work together. Do we have separate shoots?" Mik asks.
"Together. All of it."
Mik purses his lips. It's a huge job. And it's with Jin. Each on their own they're good. But together? Half of Tantal's population will be questioning their life choices and sexuality before they're done filming. Mik likes the prospect. Is he vain? Of course. Does his confidence need a boost? Absolutely not. Does he need money? Hell, no.
Mik can see it, though: sun and skin, snow and the two of them, the best looking men in Alrest. There is something to be said about that. Jin and him in the same campaign will be like the sun and the moon coming together in all their glory to dazzle the world.
It's good money, it's with Jin, it's going to be great. The location, though? Tantal is cold. Any time of year, cold. If at least it was in, say, Dannagh Desert the job would be vastly more pleasant, except for the apparent lack of snow which would be detrimental to the campaign. Mik weighs the options. There's the Fonsa Myma Fashion Week. He could do that instead. He has several designers vying for his accept. The catwalk is easy work for the money. He'll have offers of clothes, accessories, bags, shoes, and probably things he never thought he needed. Every fashion house will shower him with gifts in the faint hope that he will be seen wearing one or more of their offerings to some occasion or other. It could make or break an up and coming designer's career.
"So, Tantal?"
"Jin cancelled his participation in the Fashion Week for this. I noticed you do not have accepted any engagements yet during that time. I need you to make a decision. Fashion Week or Tantal. The sooner the better. The pay reflects how much Tantal wants you."
"Of course they do." Mik runs the numbers and benefits in his head, weighing the pros and cons. "I'll do it."
"Great! I'll let Akhos know. Unrelated, but did you know that my grandfather met the Tantal king during his travels? They talked about salvaging. Apparently King Eulogimenos had been a seasoned salvager in his youth."
"Salvaging? Huh? Doesn't sound very royal to me."
With a copy of his contract in hand, Mik takes his leave.
"Remember to pack warm clothes," Rudvic shouts as he closes the door.
*
Milton is home when Mik comes back to the flat they share. Mik toes off his boots, throwing the contract on the small table in the hall.
"Hey, Mik!" Milton comes out into the hall, spoon in hand. "Soup?"
"Please!" As usual Milton always gets him. "Hey, Mil." Mik hugs his best friend tightly. He is rarely grateful, no need to be when the only person you can rely on is yourself. Milton is special, though. Mik is grateful for him on any given day. "I had an offer. It's weird."
"New job?"
"Mm, in Tantal."
"Tantal!" Milton cries. "What are you going to do in Tantal? Freeze to death? Impersonate icicles? Promote glaciers?"
Making a dramatic gesture, Mik sighs theatrically. "They pay me. And you should be happy, because no way we could afford this extravagant flat if it wasn't for the money this kind of job gets us. I mean, we have two rooms and something that looks like a kitchen—if you squint! You should count yourself lucky!"
"Only because you wanted to live in the most attractive quarter in Fonsa Myma. It's all location, location, location with you and no common sense. I would have been happy—and wealthy—staying in Torigoth, but no. Not good enough for Mikhail Marsanes! Why I even bother with you…" Milton rolls his eyes as he underlines his words by pointing at Mik with the soup ladle.
"You love me." Mik winks and makes a pose, one hand on his hip. "And you have a view to this. For free."
"Aw, thank you so much. I am very grateful. I mean, none of my other friends have such a big ego I can look at. Pretty impressive. Even for you."
"Urgh, be happy you are my childhood friend and thus untouchable. Or I'd have pulled your ears." Despite saying the opposite, Mik reaches out and pulls Milton's one ear, then makes a hasty retreat.
A spoon flung at him has Mik fleeing into the bathroom as he cackles triumphantly.
"I know you'll be out when you are hungry, and I will get you," Milton threatens.
The delicious scent of soup lures Mik out after a quick shower. Luckily, Milton has forgotten about revenge. Until he hasn't. As Mik walks into his bedroom to change into something comfy, he realises that Milton has changed the silk sheets in his bed for some cheap and decidedly scratchy linen. The guy has no respect.
At least Milton's cooking makes up for the outrage. They sit down at the small dining table they've managed to edge into the corner of the kitchen.
"Tell me about it," Milton demands. "Tantal? You really want to go? Or is it just for the pay?"
Picking up his spoon, Mik fiddles with it before he puts it down on the table again. "The place is nothing but a pile of snow as far as I know. Who wants to live in a climate where the only thing you can wear is unappealing, bulky coats while wandering around in some derelict city?"
"I can see the problem. I mean, since they can afford to pay you, they surely must be poor. Seriously, Mik, Tantal is on the rise after Indol fell. To say that Amalthus was siphoning resources from them is a gross understatement. Now they are back in business." Milton points at Mik with his spoon. "Also, you are being stupid."
"Maybe a little bit."
"If by 'little bit' you mean 'overly'. How about you take things as they come? The Tantalese probably have the softest blankets and pillows to make up for the eternal winter. But don't go if you really don't want to. We have gold enough, Mik."
"Now that you mention soft blankets… when we're done eating, you are changing my bedsheets again. I saw what you did. Where's my silk, I ask!"
Milton lets out an evil cackle, because that is how he is.
Mik sighs deeply. "Titan's toes, what did I do to deserve this?"
"Swapped lunch with me when we were ten because I liked your dumplings better than my onigiri?"
"Should have taught me. I have taken care of you ever since."
"In your dreams! Besides, what would you do without me?" Milton asks, confident. "You'd starve and your life would fall to pieces. Besides, nobody else knows how much of a softie you are, behind all that… facade. Just be happy you have at least one person who knows that you're not the arsehole you seem to be."
Milton is right, of course. No one knows him as well as Milton does. Mik would never allow it. As orphans, they still have a hard time trusting people. They trust only each other. Implicitly.
"Eat," Milton demands. "I didn't make this delicious shit just so you can sit and stare at it. Plus, you need proper food if you are off to colder climates—" Milton holds up a hand. "Nu-uh, I don't care about your measurements; you are not ending up unemployed because you eat my soup. Eat up, buddy."
As usual when Milton has decided something, that's how it ends. Mik grabs his spoon and digs in. It tastes good enough to make him consider if being a model is truly worth the strict diet.
*
A week later, Mik is about to pull his hair out in frustration, ruining his perfect coiffure. Throwing yet another designer brand coat on the bed, he looks into his now empty closet, wondering how he can own more cloaks, coats, and jackets than most men and still not have something warm enough for Tantal. Or something he thinks is warm enough for Tantal. Since he has actually never visited the place, he's erring on the side of… nothing. He's got nothing. He's so annoyed that he doesn't notice Milton, watching his dress distress with apprehension.
"I've been standing here for five minutes," Milton informs him. "I can see your problem."
"No, you can't," Mik argues sourly, holding up the only two coats with which he has a minor chance surviving winter. "I thought I had a coat for this. Instead I am going to freeze to death and then die of illness and—" The coats go back on the bed. "How is it even possible to have so much… this, and not have a decent coat?" He waves a hand in the direction of the clothes pile. "What is all this for? These?" Mik holds up two of his favourite coats, art pieces almost, elaborate and intricate and with a famous designer's name to them. "What is all this for if it has no function other than look good?" He throws the coats back into the pile, swearing that he is going to clean out his closet when he comes back from Tantal. Providing he hasn't died from hypothermia within the first five minutes he is there.
Uncaring, Milton laughs at him. "You had a week to prepare, and you didn't?"
"Well," huffs Mik, "I had other things to think about." He huffs again, annoyed with himself. He has gotten so used to assistants and editors doing things for him before a shoot. Despite taking a pride in doing a decent job for Akhos, he had been busy wrapping up other appointments before he would have to take out a full week in his calendar for Tantal. "It's too late now. If I wanted to make do with a shitty no name coat from the market, I can't. Nobody sells clothes at this time of night; not that it would help me much, no vendor has proper winter coats here, because we have no winter."
"And how about you buy stuff in Tantal, then?"
"Milton, it's freezing there, like absolute-zero frozen." Mik knows he's exaggerating wildly, at least he thinks he is. He has never been to Tantal. "The trip from Genbu Port to the Tantalese capitol is by foot and sleigh. Not to speak of the fact that we travel by Titan there and that's not going to be pleasant, either." Mik sighs dramatically and wonders again how he could be so distracted by his other work as not to check his wardrobe for warm clothes.
"I can see how that's a problem."
"Yeah." Mik rubs his face. "How could I forget to buy a proper coat? I knew I needed one, and it slipped my mind!"
"Why don't you call one of your friends and ask if they have something you can borrow? Oh, wait, you don't have friends."
"Ouch, that was mean," Mik pouts. "I have. I have you." Sadly there is a tinge of truth to Milton's argument. Mik is not good at making friends. Again it's a question of trust. He doesn't trust anyone. His job is not conductive to having friends. Or any other personal relations, for that matter, except those that put him on the front cover and G in his purse.
"I'm serious. Chances are you can get something warm in Theosoir, but you need to survive until you get there." Milton eyes the pile of silk summer jackets and elegant evening wear in the finest, lightest wool, none of which can keep out more than the chill of a windy summer morning. "It's not below you to ask another friend, acquaintance, whatever; I can't be the only person you know in this city. I know I'm not. Now get your head out of your admittedly nice arse and go ask someone else. Sorry I can't help you, but this cute Gormotti's clothes won't do you any good."
"Seeing that you're what, half a ped shorter than me? " Mik throws a shoe at Milton. "Go away if you don't wanna help. Or at least comfort me, you little shit."
"Love you, too," Milton makes kissy noises and runs off, leaving Mik to deal with the unsurmountable obstacle of not freezing to death in the near future.
Reconsidering his life choices, Mik stares at the mountain of clothes on his bed. Even for him, it's too much; how did it come to a point where he has more just to have more, not because he needs clothes? All he has are decorative items that barely constitute clothing. He gives up and moves to sit down by the window. It is the only spot in his room that isn't covered by mountains of clothes, clothes, and more clothes.
He stares out into the street for a while, watching night fall and the stars come out. The city is lovely in the dark: lit torches by the shops and ether streetlights casting their blue light into the far alleys. As always, Fonsa Myma never sleeps; people rush by on their way home, or to and from the theatr—
Minoth!
It's not that Mik knows Minoth well, but he met the famous actor-director on several occasions through work, exchanging polite greetings on the red carpet. It may be somewhat presumptuous to think that Minoth, star of the Mymoma Playhouse, would care to lend his clothes to someone he has met only a few times. However, Minoth has access to a full theatre wardrobe, in case he, like Mik, has not been smart enough to purchase a proper winter coat. Do they know each other well enough for Mik to comfortably ask for a favour? Not really. But it's a solution.
Not bothering with an actual coat, Mik runs out the door. He crosses the plaza, not caring that all he's wearing is a pair of ratty, but oh, so comfy linen drawstring trousers and a shirt that has seen better days. He realises this only when he is about to go in, passing stragglers from the late show that must have ended recently. Oh well. He can be an ordinary human for once.
Stepping up to the ticket booth, he barely opens his mouth before the guy behind the counter gapes in awe and ruins the notion of being ordinary.
"You're… Mikhail Marsanes!"
"Um, yes?" It's not that Mik isn't used to the attention, it's a given. And he's used to the idiocy of people's statements, like he didn't know his own name. Of course he is Mikhail Marsanes. And he can just as well take advantage of it. "I'm here to see Minoth. Is he available?"
The guy behind the counter nods, mouth still hanging open.
"If you'd point me in the right direction," Mik says, wondering when counter guy's brain will come back to surface. Mik leans in. "I'll be grateful," he purrs and turns up the heat in his eyes.
"Door. On—down. Door at the— Um." Counter guy waves in the direction of a corridor, entirely flustered. "Bottom."
"Yeah, me too," Mik grins and winks, watching counter guy go red. It's rubbish of course, Mik does girls, not guys. His arse is a restricted area, and men are… well, competition.
He ventures into the dimly lit corridor that is supposed to lead to Minoth's dressing room. The smell of sweat and perfume still hangs in the air, even if the theatre is almost empty. Mik wonders for a second what type of play they are currently playing; he has been too busy to use any of his spare time on a visit. It's both a blessing and a curse to be in demand. He knows he is in his prime; next year it may be another model, and with age he will sink into oblivion. Such is the fate of the flesh, even if it will be a long time before he truly ages. But in the world of models, a few years are a long time, and Mik does not know how long a lifespan he will have on the front page.
Actors, on the other hand… Minoth is maybe twenty years older than him, but as the man in question opens the door, Mik is stunned into silence for a moment, just to take in the classic features, the sharp eyes, and the mark across his eye that does more to enhance the handsome features than to ruin them.
"Hello, Minoth." Mik smiles a more honest and friendly smile than he usually gives people. Minoth is on his level, almost as beautiful, almost as famous. Mik can afford being polite. Not least because he comes asking for favours, and it is generally a poor approach to be impolite if you want people to do things for you.
"Mikhail. An unexpected surprise." There is a slight wrinkle above Minoth's nose. "At this time of day?"
"Apologies. I'm in a bit of a crisis. I had no one else to ask. Or I have, but no one who can actually do anything to help."
A raised eyebrow is all the reply he gets. So Minoth is not going to make it easy?
"I have a job in Tantal. I have to leave early tomorrow morning and in the middle of packing, I realised I don't have a proper coat for the climate, and the only one I know of who is my size is you."
Minoth barks out a laugh. "You're a model and you don't own a proper coat? Hah, that's priceless. And Tantal, you say? Well, as it is, I am leaving for Tantal in two days. Wearing warm clothes."
Mik's face falls. The thought of freezing his dick off in thin layers for a week does not appeal to him in the slightest. It is bad enough that he has to shoot more or less naked. It does not mean he would like to be cold outside the set and studio. If they have a studio. For all Mik knows, Tantal is a pile of centuries-old buildings, and he's pretty sure no one cared about advertising at the point in time when Tantal was founded. Well, the Nopon, probably, but who knows?
"I forgot. I should have ordered something, I…" Truth is that Mik would rather have called a designer and made them offer him a proper coat. If he had remembered to do so. No way he would have paid for a winter coat he would only wear for a week.
"Easy there, pretty boy; I won't have you crying on my shoulder. I'm sure I can get you something warm and wearable. I travel to Tantal a couple of times a year, let me check what I've got that could work."
Shoulders sagging in relief, Mik nods. "I really appreciate it. I'd like to buy you a drink or two in Tantal, then. If your schedule allows it."
"We'll see. I may or may not have time; depending on—" Minoth shakes his head. "We cross that icy slope when we get to it. Let's find you a proper coat to wear."
Mik is not sure what Minoth means, though he's pretty sure that there is a great variety of icy slopes all over the Architect-forsaken ice desert he is about to visit.
Minoth opens his door and steps aside, letting Mik in.
The rooms do not look much like an actor's dressing room. It's too homely, too… lived in. There are books strewn on all surfaces, boxes stored on shelves and a variety of collectibles: vases, urns and other types of glassware that Mik has no idea what are, but they look valuable.
Walking through what may be used as a living room, they step into a smaller room. It confirms what Mik initially thought: Minoth lives in the basement of Mymoma Playhouse. A strange choice for someone such as him; he can't possibly be that poor? Furniture and decor are of obvious quality and good design. Mik is curious enough to ask. Not directly, it would be skirting too personal. "You sleep here after shows? Must be easier than to travel back home after."
Minoth affords him no more than a noncommittal grunt as he opens a huge wardrobe, quickly sorting through the content.
"I thought you lived here in Fonsa Myma," Mik attempts, more interested now that he doesn't get an answer. He tilts his head and makes that smile, the one that strikes people dead, no matter age, gender, or orientation. Mik has been known to devastate even Nopon with it.
"And I thought people who visited, asking favours, would know when to stop before they cross any lines," Minoth snaps and steps away from the wardrobe. "I heard from others that you were an arrogant arse, but you're a rude one as well, I guess."
Retreat is the only viable option. Maybe adding a pinch of honesty too? Minoth clearly is not one to step back from a challenge, nor is he impressed by Mik's usual wink and smile. Maybe he's not interested in male beauty. Well, Mik can change that. He turns up the charm to the highest level. "They are just jealous because I don't allow them to get up close and… personal. Unlike…" The implication hangs in the air. This should work.
Minoth turns, coat in hand. He lets it fall, coat dragging behind him like a train as he walks closer to Mik. There is a sway to his hips and an allure to the way his lips are slightly parted, like he is ready for someone to kiss him. Mik is blinded by Minoth's apparent beauty for a moment when he looks up at him. Minoth's eyes are deep as a forest lake, that blue-green it takes on a warm summer's day. He is striking.
"I do love a good looking guy. In person. All up close. Especially when he is tall and blond and built like a god," Minoth purrs, stepping even closer, the heat in his gaze making Mik's legs weak. He may not be into guys, but right that instant he is sure breathing is optional, because Titans, Minoth is breathtaking.
"Unfortunately for you, you're not that man," Minoth says coldly, straightening up, any signs of warmth or seduction gone in an instant. He pokes with a finger at Mik's chest. "If you and I are going to get along, don't try this shit on me again. Don't give the 'I'm a gorgeous model, surely you want me'—spiel another try. Understood?"
Gasping, for a second entirely without words, Mik knows when he's been outmatched. He would very much like to give the outrage he feels an outlet, only it would clearly not have any effect whatsoever. Instead he surrenders.
"Yes, sir!" Mik feels like Minoth went right for the gut, and not entirely without good reason. "That was stupid. I was curious, and forgot myself."
"It may work on others, I don't care. If you like manipulating people, fine, just don't do it to me. It won't work anyway; I assume you have noticed what the signs say outside the building here. I'm an actor and a director, Mikhail, I'm used to see acting every day. Good acting. Ask what you like; I'll let you know if you can get an answer or not. It's as easy as that. Don't be an arse."
In a way Minoth is right. It's Mik's second nature… hell, it's his first nature by now… to use his looks to make people do what he wants. It does work. Usually. Feeling somewhat deflated, Mik can only do one thing: "I apologise. It's… how I usually get by."
"Because it's easy, or because you have nothing else to bring to the table?" Minoth picks up the coat from the floor. "Try this one."
Sure, Minoth does not hold back. "And I thought I was rude."
"Oh, Mikhail, you are. You confuse honesty and rudeness."
"Seems to me you master both. At the same time," Mik argues. He takes the offered coat. It is heavy. It's a greenish blue, the exact colour of Minoth's eyes. It is made from a thick fabric lined with something fluffy. There is no label in it, but the quality is better than what Mik has seen from even haute couture brands. "You may live modestly, but this here?" Mik makes an approving nod. "Tailor-made?"
"M-hm." There's a pause. "Yes."
"And?"
"And what?"
"And which tailor? This is gorgeous. What is this fleece made from?" Mik slides his fingers through the fluffy pink lining.
"Kapiba wool. From Torna."
"Torna? Huh?"
"I travel."
"I see."
"Do you?"
Mik laughs. "No, in fact I don't. Why do you travel to Torna; it is not in the neighbourhood? Theatre?"
"No." Minoth's mouth turns upwards at the corners, like he is hiding a smile. "If we get that drink in Tantal, I might tell you."