Work Text:
The first thing Katsuki notices about Model 8 is his waist.
"The fuck," Katsuki mutters as he looks at the fit of the shirt in front of him. It had been perfect on the mannequin—the lines smooth and the lay flat—but suddenly it looks like garbage. He barely glances up at the model as he barks, "Arms up!"
The model obediently lifts his arms, holding them out from his body and parallel to the floor. Katsuki watches the play of fabric and frowns as the problem becomes obvious. He pulls the soft tape measure hanging from his neck and wraps it around the model's natural waistline, and is unsurprised at the number he finds.
"This model is too big for this outfit," he tells Jirou. "Who the hell stuffed him in this?"
"You did," Jirou deadpans.
Katsuki tosses a glare over his shoulder. Jirou offers an arched eyebrow and her clipboard, which has all of Katsuki's distribution choices meticulously labelled on a handwritten sheet. He snatches it out of her hand and, sure enough, outfits #3 and #14 are next to model #8.
"Shit," Katsuki mutters. "He's supposed have nine, not fourteen. Fourteen is for shitty hair."
Jirou takes the clipboard back and dutifully changes the numbers. It isn't a big mistake, but Katsuki's show is in less than three days, and the pressure is beginning to weigh on him. He is substituting coffee for sleep and he's traded in his contacts for glasses, which he rarely wears out in public.
"Take that off before you rip a seam," Katsuki tells the model. "And Jirou—go find shitty hair before someone starts taking in nine. Remaking an entire shirt is the last fucking thing I need."
.
The second thing Katsuki notices about Model 8 is his hair.
"I said I wanted sleek," Katsuki snaps as looks at the model's head. The sides of his skull are shorn short while a riot of green curls sprout from his crown. Mina has put so much product in his hair that the strands are saturated, gleaming wetly in the bright light.
"You said slick," Mina retorts. "Which I did."
"On what fucking planet are those the same thing?"
"Your planet, apparently." Mina sighs heavily. "Look—I can redo it, but it'll take half an hour and he'll have to skip make-up."
Katsuki looks at the reflection of the model in the mirror. The third and fourth thing Katsuki notices about him are his plain face and his freckles. The fifth thing Katsuki notices are his eyes, verdurous and vibrant. They crackle with uncontainable energy—like caught fragments of green lightning—and are beyond striking.
"He doesn't need make-up," Katsuki says, turning away. "Just get that mess pulled back like the rest of them."
"Sure thing, boss," Mina chirps.
.
The hour before a show begins is a crunch. It goes too quickly and too slowly, filled with small adjustments and last minute disasters. Model 3's left pant leg needs to be hemmed an entire quarter inch; the tie for Model 4 is on the wrong hanger; and Model 7 trips over a cable so spectacularly Katsuki is surprised his jacket remains in one piece.
Then, by a benevolent miracle of the universe, every thing comes together the instant an event assistant sticks their head backstage and yells, "Two minutes!"
"Showtime," Jirou murmurs.
Dressed in Katsuki's third collection, all ten models line up just out of view of the runway. Some of them—like Kirishima, Kaminari, and Tokoyami—have been affiliated with the Ground Zero brand since its conception. The others are temporary. Katsuki's eyes unintentionally stray to the green-haired, green-eyed model with the thick waist and too many freckles. Katsuki remembers looking at Model 8's average height and broad shoulders on paper, months ago when he was developing his pieces, and had wondered how the numbers would translate into a person. He thought Model 8 would be caught on the wrong side of stocky; instead, every inch of Model 8's muscular body screams power and confidence.
This is the sixth thing Katsuki notices about Model 8. He has no time for anything else because less than a handful of seconds later, music starts to pour from the speakers, and the Model 1 struts out onto the runway.
Katsuki doesn't breathe for the rest of the night.
.
After a show, Ground Zero takes a three day sabbatical, a tradition Katsuki implemented after he started his brand. It allows his team to celebrate their success and gives them time to deconstruct. That way, when they return to the office, they can move onto their next project with clear minds.
Katsuki spends the first day of his sabbatical at his parents' house. He makes dinner with his dad and talks shop with him mom. Day two and three are spent sleeping. Katsuki turns off his phone and crashes, barely leaving his bed as he catches up on missing sleep.
He returns to work on the fourth day with a black coffee in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other, settling into an armchair in the lounge area. His assistants—Jirou, Yaoyorozu, Aoyama, and Sero—trickle in after him. Jirou and Yaoyorozu are pink in the cheeks from their beach vacation; Aoyama has a new pair of bright purple leather shoes; and Sero is still hungover, wincing at the natural light coming through the wide windows.
For awhile, the others are chat casually about what they did with their time off. The topic inevitably shifts to the show and the after-party, which is always a real who's who of their industry. Katsuki barely listens. He has always been terrible with names, and when he refers to his peers, it's often with an unflattering moniker.
Unbidden, the memory of the green-eyed model crawls out of Katsuki's subconscious and he asks, "Model 8. What was his name?"
The thoughtless question wasn't directed at anyone but Jirou, who is closest to him, stutters, "Wh-what?"
"From the show," Katsuki clarifies, shifting his attention away from his empty paper cup. "What was Model 8's name?"
"You—you want to know his name?"
"No," Katsuki drawls sarcastically. "That's why I'm asking."
"You never want to know a model's name," Sero chimes in. Katsuki looks away from the disbelief written on Jirou's face to find that everyone else is staring back at him. "Like—it took you almost a year to use Kirishima's actual name, and he's the face of the brand."
"So?" Katsuki glares. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's just weird for you, that's all I'm saying. Almost as weird as you not already knowing who he is."
"He was in the news a lot last year," Yaoyorozu interjects before Katsuki can fling an insult in Sero's general direction. "He was a famous baseball player who got an injury that ended his career."
"And by famous, she means legendary," Jirou supplements. "He was a power pitcher who trained under Yagi Toshinori. He broke the world record for fastest pitch three times."
"When the hell did you turn into a baseball nerd?" Katsuki snaps as he remembers the shift of muscle in Model 8's back and the sheer size of his biceps. It isn't uncommon for athletes to shift into the world of modeling, considering their established popularity and their physiques. "I asked for his name, not his damn life story."
"Midoriya," Jirou says. "His name is Midoriya Izuku."
Katsuki grunts in acknowledgment before leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes. He knows his assistants are baffled but he has no motivation or reason to give them.
He just wanted to know Model 8's name.
.
It's been a week since the show and the brand is throwing its customary wrap-up party. There are about fifty people in total on the rooftop; most of them are employees of Ground Zero or models. Champagne drinks shimmer beneath the soft string lights and several caterers mingle expertly through the crowd, offering trays of finger food. Katsuki picks a skewer of spicy meat from such a plate and—when he looks back up—Midoriya Izuku is in front of him.
"Hey," the baseball player turned model says. He's wearing straight leg jeans and a white t-shirt with plain text stretched over his pectorals. Tuxedo, it reads, and Katsuki doesn't know if he's amused or offended. The shirt leaves his arms bare, exposing a puckered line of tissue at his right elbow.
The scar is the seventh thing Katsuki notices about Model 8. It must be the injury Yaoyorozu mentioned.
"Hey," Katsuki returns.
"Your assistant said you wanted to talk to me?"
Katsuki glances over Midoriya's shoulder. He immediately makes eye contact with Sero, who gives him a slick grin and a thumbs-up. Katsuki glares.
"My assistant is full of shit," Katsuki says.
"Oh." Midoriya's smile falters. Confusion colors his face. He tilts his head inquiringly, long curls falling across his forehead. There's more volume and life to his hair when it isn't drenched in product or forced back by Mina's expert hand. Katsuki wonders if the strands are as soft as they look, a thought he forcibly shoves out of his mind as soon as he's conscious of it. "Sorry, I must have been mistaken."
"You weren't," Katsuki mutters as he brings his champagne flute to his mouth and takes a swig. "He's just an idiot who doesn't mind his own damn business."
Midoriya pauses. His green eyes are just as arresting in the dim light of the rooftop as they were in the bright lights backstage. Katsuki feels pinned by such a gaze. It makes his frown deepen.
"That sounds like a story," Midoriya murmurs after a moment. He takes a half-step forward, crowding Katsuki's space and erasing the politeness of the distance between them. "Wanna tell me?"
This close, Katsuki can smell Midoriya's cologne: woodsy and deep and alive. It suits him, like his thick waist and his curly hair, like his plain face, his many freckles, and his green eyes.
"Fine," Katsuki decides, setting his champagne flute carelessly aside. "I'm sure I can make something up."
.
The ninth thing Katsuki notices about Model 8 is the warmth of his skin.
The tenth is the softness of his mouth.
And after that—
Katsuki stops noticing, and begins to know.
.