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“Five changes! Are you kidding me” Peter threw the schedule onto the floor.
“Most of us have three, but there are some fours on the list.” Simon flipped through the schedule for the fashion show. “Paris is always run tightly.”
“I have FIVE!”
“That’s because you walk formal. You end the fucking show. Quit complaining,” Andrew groused.
“He’s left you enough time,” Simon pointed out. “You’re second, eighth, thirteenth, nineteenth, twenty-fifth, which is final.”
“None of which is enough time! Especially nineteen to twenty-five!”
“You’re just slow, Parker.”
The other models made themselves scarce or tried to look busy when Mr. Stark brushed past to stand in front of Peter. He was sprawled in a folding chair, in nothing but his briefs, like all the other models.
“If it’s a problem…” Tony turned to the room and his gaze landed on a different model. “Andrew — I can’t be bothered to remember your last name even though I fucked you two years ago… I think — I know you’re twentieth to Parker’s nineteenth, do you think you can get into formal by twenty-five and close the show?”
“Umm…” Andrew started, swallowing deeply trying to hide his embarrassment.
Tony Stark scoffed. “You’re useless. In bed, too. Now I remember you. I stopped fucking around after you. Got tired of getting bad head. Wasn’t worth the effort anymore.” He made a dismissive wave.
He shouted again so that those who were hiding could hear. “None of you should take more than three looks for a change. I’ve scheduled enough time. I could’ve done everything but formal in two. Formal in three.”
“We’re not all you,” Peter muttered, almost silently, under his breath. He didn’t raise his head from scrolling on his tablet.
“That’s not what Vogue Hommes said when they wrote that they hadn’t seen anyone as ‘electrifying’ on the runway since I walked eighteen years ago. ‘The next Tony Stark’, I believe was the quote.” Tony snorted. “I’ll just call Azza and inform him of the mistake.”
Peter leapt to his feet and brought himself up to (a good four inches below) Tony’s height. “I can’t do it!” he shouted. “You do it! Right now. Go on.” He pulled out his phone and found the clock app. “I’m timing you. Go change from your absolutely amazing look nineteen into the ridiculous piece of pretentious crap you’ve got for your formal offering at twenty-five.”
Tony blinked wide-eyed and pulled his head back. “My what‽” Backstage emptied. Fast. Completely.
“You heard me. You’re whoring out your talent to get pages in the magazines. It’s not ‘innovative’, it’s not ‘breaking’, it’s not any of the things that your PR department will pay them to say. It’s,” Peter took a step forward, “pretentious.”
“You’re off the runway, Parker!”
Peter scoffed. “Call someone forty-five minutes to show, get him styled into this stupid hair and makeup that ruins the classic simplicity of your designs — I swear to god, why do you listen to the stylists that your people recommend? — it’s your fucking house! quit being so hands-off! — and then tell him that he’s got to rehearse FIVE changes before the music starts.”
“I’m not interested in your opinions. You’re a walking mannequin.” Tony tapped the center of Peter’s forehead. “Hollow inside, like all models.”
“Like yourself then, since you started on the runway when you were fifteen! Same age as I did.”
“Yeah, and now I’m forty-two and you’re twenty. A few more years’ experience in the business, kid. Maybe I know a little bit more about setting trends than you do. I’ve been heading my own house for eleven years.”
“And it shows.” Peter said derisively. Tony frowned. Peter explained. “You’re bored. You’re not setting trends, you’re catering to them.” He pulled a Sharpie from Tony’s pocket and picked up the schedule again, x-ing through the pictures. “This, this, this, this, and oh my fucking god, especially this. To say nothing of the formal. They’re unworthy of your name.”
Tony snatched the pages from Peter’s hand and, against his better judgement, glanced at them. He tried not to let it show, but the kid had marked every one of his designs that he hated. Including that goddamn formal.
“I told you!” Peter said, noticing Tony wince. “It’s crap and you know it!”
“Six out of twenty-five looks. Nineteen good ones. Most designers would kill to hit that number.”
Peter shrugged his head to the side. “Well, if you’re okay with it…”
Tony breathed out heavily and dragged his hand through his hair. “Forty-five minutes to show. Like you said. Forty-three, since I’ve had to waste two of them listening to you. What?” he asked, noticing Peter glaring at him.
“Delete everything but the formal.” Peter scribbled through the x-ed out designs.
“The formal’s just as crap as the rest,” Tony admitted, since there was no one back there to hear.
“Rework it.” Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “Or aren’t you good enough to do a baste in forty-two minutes?” Peter challenged.
“Here!” Tony flapped the schedule in Peter’s direction. “Eliminate the five designs you marked. Salvage as many pieces from the five to make one decent look out of them, giving me twenty not nineteen including my reworked formal. Reschedule the models to give everyone three looks. Kick the excess to the curb. You get to tell them why.” Tony yanked the formal’s hanger off the rack. “And you still walk five out of twenty.” He headed out of the models’ backstage area. “Oh! And fix the stylist’s mistakes.” He called over his shoulder as he checked his watch. “In forty minutes.”
Absolutely no one was happy. Not the models, and especially not the stylists. Everyone demanded to know who told Peter Parker to give the orders.
“I did!” Tony shouted from the office, hearing the commotion.
It made no one the least little bit happier, only shifted the complaints from asking who told Peter to do it, to why Peter was the one doing it. Especially after the revelation about Andrew.
Tony shouted again to the DJ to eliminate enough music to accommodate the shorter show. And again for Peter to come to the office.
“Problems, Parker?” he asked, without looking up as he furiously ripped stitches out of the pants.
“Yes! You just took a minute off my schedule!”
Tony laughed as Peter ran backstage again.
“For NOTHING!” Peter shouted louder.
Peter was still scheduled for five looks. It was tight, but doable, especially if Mr. Stark reworked formal right this time. His schedule gained him no friends because his generosity with himself left others with tight changes. He shrugged it off. They weren't also trying to manage backstage at the same time. He’d eliminated four models entirely. All of whom, he reminded the remaining complainers, were standing outside waiting for the opportunity to work. Two of the cut were his friends, but their look wasn’t in keeping with Mr. Stark’s styles, no matter what whoever hired them thought. He knew he’d lost their friendship. He didn’t have time to worry about that. He was still arguing with the lead stylist, who was complaining about the changes. He shouted the question if the remaining three could handle the work. Receiving affirmatives, he kicked the lead out.
Between his tenth and fourteenth looks, which was an easy change, he ran back to the office and paced outside the door.
“You’re wearing a hole in the floor, Parker. What!” Tony shouted.
“Formal!” Peter shouted back. Both of them were far louder than they should’ve been mid-show.
“It’ll be ready by seventeen!”
“Need it sooner!”
“Get the fuck out there Peter,” Tony said, quieter, “that’s your cue.”
“Yeah,” Peter said, rushing for the curtain.
The formal looked completely different by the time Peter got into it. Tony helped him in order to avoid catching the loose basting threads on his fingers and toes.
“Go, go, go!” Tony said, pushing at the small of Peter’s back as Peter was slipping into the shoes.
“For fuck’s sake, Tony,” Peter muttered. “I’m going.”
Peter returned back from the end of the runway and the music shifted cues for the designer bow. Tony walked out and instead of just taking the usual quick bow, he grabbed Peter’s hand and took a few steps out onto the stage.
Tony raised their hands together and guided Peter to take a bow with him. At the end of it, he pulled Peter close. He grabbed Peter by the chin and kissed him. Not a quaint little European smooch on the cheeks, but full on the lips. Open mouthed. With tongue.
It left Peter stunned. Until he saw Tony smirk as they walked to the curtain opening to leave the stage. He ran his fingers up into Tony’s hair, pulled him down and kissed him back. The same way. Only filthier.
“Want a new job, Parker?” Tony asked breathlessly.
“Working for you? Not on my life.”
Tony’s smirk was back as he slipped his hand behind Peter’s waist. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Make sure everything’s ready for the trucks. We have to vacate in an hour before the next show gets here.”
“All right,” Peter said calmly, and then headed backstage, shouting far less than calmly.
“It looked good though, right, Pete?” Tony shouted after him.
“Yeah, Tony. It looked great.”