Work Text:
Louis tugs on the sleeve of his ACNE knit jumper and frowns at the unknown number. He answers his phone cautiously, “Yes?”
“Is… this… Louis Tomlinson?”
”Who’re you?” he drops a ripe, green grape onto the silver plater and twists a 9500 thread count egyptian cotton napkin between is fingers.
“This is Marc speaking— I have—”
Louis stands up and dusts his fringe, “Marc?”
“Yes, Marc Jacobs. Of Louis Vuitton.”
Louis attempts to stifle a snort, “and of Marc Jacobs. Don’t forget you’re behind that.”
“Of course! Marc Jacobs of Marc Jacobs—”
Louis cuts him short, “Well, what do I owe this pleasure of speaking to you, Mister Jacobs?”
“I was wondering if you’d be interested in being the face for my Fall/Winter 2014 campaign. We’ve worked with some famous faces, and—”
“Marc, I’m honored you’d like to enslave my impeccable bone structure to help recharge your dying brand, and I have worked with Juergen in the past, but I honestly don’t think I can lower my standards or self-esteem knowing that the only purpose of me being apart of the Marc Jacobs brand is so that I can be plastered on the walls of first year Uni fashion students’ mood boards from glossy Tatler ads.”
The silence is as thick as Lindsey Wixson for several moments before Marc clears his voice, “Oh.”
“You see what I’m saying?” Louis gently rests his Dior Homme denim clad ass on the edge of an ottoman, picking up and throwing down a lavender macaron.
“Well— I— I am— am quite shocked,” he stutters.
“Marc, let me cut you a deal: you can invite me to the front row of your show to garner some attention, but I can’t promise you that I’ll look remotely interested. I’m from fucking Doncaster, not a Sofia Coppola film.”
Before Marc has a chance to respond, Louis ends the call and throws his phone onto the couch.
“Who was that?” Elber says, rounding the corner into the lounge.
Louis let’s out a chuckle, “… Marc Jacobs!”
They laugh until they die.