Work Text:
Sunlight had already started streaming through the clouds by the time that Prim called it a wrap. Gorya rolled her neck and didn't bother stifling her groan, enjoying the chance to finally breathe after staying up all night.
It was a last minute shoot – a holiday feature for a major client that had to be released within the week – and the entire studio needed all hands on deck. Thankfully, with Prim and Min’s strict timetable, Gorya's efficiency, and the models’ amenability combined, they were able to pull it off.
Good thing she wasn't part of the lineup, Gorya thought, her mind drifting to a certain model as she started to unwind. No doubt Shasha would have flirted with everyone incessantly, or messed with her outfit just to get Gorya’s attention. It was better for everyone for the model to be off gallivanting in Paris for Fashion Week, Gorya concluded. With a big deadline coming up, she couldn’t afford any distractions.
Boring, a familiar voice singsongs in Gorya’s mind, and Gorya quickly shuts it down. The lack of sleep was clearly getting to her. She pulls out her phone with the intention to book a ride home, but somehow finds herself scrolling through messages from Shasha. Airport and runway outfits, selfies, even pastries and coffee recommendations – Shasha had documented her trip in Gorya’s inbox extensively, sending Gorya updates and commentary she never asked for.
“When we go to PFW, we should eat here,” Shasha texted her last week, with a photo of a quaint outdoor cafe attached.
“Who says I’m going with you?” Gorya responded before she could think better of it.
“Doesn’t have to be fashion week,” Shasha replied not even a minute after. “We could go to Paris anytime ;)”
Their exchanges went on like that – Shasha flirting while Gorya left her on read, Shasha riling her up until Gorya replied even though she should have known better – and it continued up until the day that Shasha walked the runway.
“Who is the Woman in the Suit?”
“Home-grown Talent Wows Global Fashion Industry”
“Shasha Sashays: Thai Supermodel Takes Over Paris”
Shasha had made headlines, trending on social media platforms and news sites for her walk and her so-called mysterious aura. At the same time, her texts slowed down to a trickle, no doubt preoccupied by posing for photos and shaking hands with the elite.
Despite herself, Gorya couldn’t help but feel proud. Purely professional, of course, even when she actively refreshed her timeline at two in the morning, her heart swelling every time she saw Shasha’s name on the list of trending topics.
“Give your tailor and makeup artist a bonus,” Gorya said, attaching the photo of Shasha's latest look – a sharp black suit paired with a sleek bun and a bold lip that made her look otherworldly. And then, “Text me when you land.”
She didn’t even know why she asked. Shasha had already shared her itinerary (unprompted, as always) and Gorya wasn’t the type to ask for updates, especially not from Shasha. Their arrangement didn’t include check-ins and airport pick-ups, and judging from the two checkmarks staring back at her, Shasha thought the same.
Last seen five days ago.
Gorya exits the messaging app and finally switches to the forgotten ride hailing app. Her eyes stung from lack of sleep, and her neck had gotten so stiff from working all day. What she needed was rest, not a message from a model who probably already found someone new to fool around with in Paris.
Gorya focuses on packing up while she waits for her ride to arrive, but a sweet scent envelopes her before she can make her escape. Gorya’s mood sours even further.
“I’m not playing your games, Bambi,” Gorya says, barely looking at the heiress as she made sure that her tools were complete. “Not today.”
Bambi puts her hands up in a truce, the small plastic bag hanging on her wrist swinging along with the motion. “Down, girl. I just wanted you to give this to Shasha.”
Gorya snaps the styling kit shut with more force than necessary. “Give it to her yourself.”
Bambi shrugs. “Can’t. I’m flying out to New York in an hour.” She deposits the plastic bag on top of Gorya’s kit. “A little something to get her back on her feet faster,” she says, a saccharine smile on her lips as she starts walking away. “And then maybe she can help you get rid of all that… tension.”
“Get back on her feet?” Gorya asks, but Bambi has already slipped into her Benz, leaving Gorya with a bag full of vitamins and an unidentifiable cocktail of emotions.
When Gorya’s phone starts ringing, it takes her a moment before she finally picks it up. “Good morning, khun,” she says, ”can I change the destination? I’ll pay extra.”
So far, the recurring theme when it comes to Shasha is that Gorya should know better.
And yet there she was, standing outside the model’s condo at seven in the morning, the bags underneath her eyes as heavy as her luggage, all because she felt… some kind of way. It was normal to check on her, Gorya reasoned. Shasha was still her colleague after all, and if the most narcissistic, hedonistic brat she had ever met had been worried enough that she would ask Gorya, of all people, for a favor, then she must have been really unwell.
Gorya rings the doorbell, the plastic bag crinkling in her grasp as she waits for Shasha to open the door. The longer she stood there, the dumber she felt. Shasha always demanded her attention, and the one time she wasn't asking for it Gorya came knocking at her door. Was Gorya overstepping? Was Gorya being pathetic?
Gorya had almost lost whatever impulse had brought her to Shasha’s door by the time it was opened. The model stands in the doorway, blinking at Gorya in surprise. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and her lips that were normally plump and glossy are pale and dry. She’s wearing her favorite tanktop, the one that Gorya enjoyed because it hugged her curves perfectly, but also hated because it was so tight that removing it was always a pain in the ass. Gorya couldn’t help but notice how loosely it hung on Shasha’s frame now.
Gorya’s chest tightens. “What the hell happened to you?”
Shasha closes the door a little as if to block Gorya’s view, managing a smirk even though she looked like a strong gust of wind could knock her over. “Missed me already?”
“Shut up,” Gorya says, and makes her way in. She drags Shasha into the condo and gestures at the couch. Shasha rolled her eyes but sat down obediently. “Are you fucking dying?”
Shasha laughed. Gorya hated how weak it sounded.
“It’s just a bad flu,” the model said. “The doctors said I just needed to rest and take some medicine.”
Gorya stills. “Doctors… as in, more than one? You were in the hospital?”
Shasha shrugs. She lays down on the couch and covers her eyes with a sleeping mask. “Jetlag’s a bitch.”
“Bullshit. Jetlag doesn’t land you in the hospital.”
“Could,” Shasha rebuts. “Did.”
Gorya huffs in frustration and leaves the living room. She stomps towards the kitchen, carrying the takeout containers that she had picked up on the way over. She grabs a pair of utensils from the right-hand drawer and a cup from the overhead shelf. Gorya was in the middle of ladling noodle soup when Shasha walked in, nearly making her spill hot fluid all over herself.
“Careful,” Shasha says, reaching above Gorya to get another bowl. “Don't want us both out of commission now.”
Gorya doesn't acknowledge her, but she brings their bowls to the dining table and sits across Shasha. She had seen the model in person just three weeks ago – had taken her on the same table that they now sat at, even – but now she couldn't bring herself to look at her.
Gorya was annoyed. At Shasha – for still playing her stupid games even when she looked like she could pass out any minute from now. At the noodle soup – for being so hot that Shasha had to rescue her from it. And most of all, at herself – for being at Shasha's condo in daylight, doing things friends-with-benefits wouldn't do.
Gorya's grip tightens around her chopsticks. This meal wasn't a prelude to sex. This wasn't the morning after. There was no professional or casual reason to excuse what she was doing.
“It was really cold when I was in Paris,” Shasha says, putting Gorya's internal meltdown on hold. Her voice was low and calming, the way it always sounded when she let herself be sincere for one minute. “Towards the end of the trip, I was already feeling kind of shitty, but some back-to-back shoots came up. You know how it is.”
She looks at Gorya sheepishly, and Gorya did know what she meant. For stylists, shoots often meant four am calltimes and a luggage heavier than their own body weight. For models, it meant four am calltimes, diets, and straight up dehydration at times, whether intentional or not. For Shasha who was just starting to make waves internationally, there was no way she was going to decline any opportunities, no matter the cost.
“I spent the entire flight home knocked out,” Shasha continues. “When we landed, I was so lightheaded I could barely walk. It was my manager who decided to bring me to the hospital.”
Gorya looks at her then. The hot soup had brought some color back to the model's cheeks. She looked soft in a way that Gorya had never seen before, and it made Gorya ache to do something, to offer some sort of comfort or apology. She pours her a glass of water instead.
Shasha smiles. “Flu, dehydration, and some fucked up electrolytes on top of an even more fucked up sleep cycle.” Shasha shows the back of her hand, the residual bruising from an IV line still evident on her skin. “They pumped me with vitamins and fluids and discharged me after three days.”
“And now?” Gorya asks, finally breaking her silence. “How are you feeling?”
“Definitely better than when I was at the airport. And this is helping a lot,” Shasha says, a soft smile on her lips as she stirs her noodles. “The vitamins, too.”
Gorya stabs at her food. She couldn’t believe she almost forgot.
“The vitamins are from Bambi.”
The statement makes Shasha's eyebrows rise. “Since when did you two become buddies?”
“Since when did you?” Gorya blurts out. “You were in the hospital and I had to find out from her, of all people.”
Shasha chuckles. “You're not exactly my emergency contact, Gorya.”
“And she is?”
The vulnerability in Shasha's demeanor disappears completely. She leans on the table with her signature smirk in place. “Careful,” the model warns. There's a defensive edge to her voice, and it's completely different from how she said it in the kitchen. “Bambi’s my friend, and you wanted to keep it casual. Our benefits” – Shasha says, pointing at the space between them – “don't include… whatever this is. I'm not some toy for you to ignore then piss on whenever you feel threatened.”
“That's not –”
Gorya chokes up and she cuts herself off. She places her palms on the table, taking slow breaths to ground herself. She hated that this was an argument. She hated that her pettiness kept clouding what she really wanted to say.
Once Gorya had regained her bearings, she tried again. She keeps her tone level, hoping to convey the concern that she felt. “It's not about Bambi, okay? Why didn't you tell me that you were sick?”
Shasha slumps in her seat, the defensive posture from earlier melting away. “For what? For you to remind me that we're just fuck buddies? It's not like you care about me like that.”
Gorya feels like she’s been slapped. She had spent the entire week sulking, imagining that Shasha had found herself some shiny new toy, meanwhile Shasha had been in the hospital, believing that Gorya wouldn’t have cared enough to know.
Of course she would believe that, Gorya thinks. Gorya had always emphasized that they were just friends-with-benefits, even when Shasha had been clear that she wanted more. Between the two of them, it was Gorya who kept moving lines and crossing them, all the while pretending that Shasha was the one who was stringing her along.
And that’s how they got here. Gorya had pretended so well that Shasha thought even just telling her that she was sick was crossing a boundary.
Enough, Gorya decides, and she reaches for Shasha's hand.
“If something like that happens again, tell me,” she murmurs. She runs her thumb gently against the discolored skin. “I care at least that much.”
It takes some time before Shasha responds, and Gorya tries her best not to lose her resolve. When Shasha turns her palm over and interlaces their fingers together, Gorya looks away but doesn't withdraw.
“Okay,” Shasha says. “Next time.”
“There better not be a next time.“
Shasha smiles. “Guess you'll have to take care of me at my next fashion week, then.”
“Fine,” Gorya says, only pulling her hand away to cover the yawn leaving her mouth. “But we're flying first class. And we’re not doing evening shoots unless absolutely necessary.”
Shasha frowns, glancing at Gorya's kit in the living room and then back at the stylist as she connects the dots. “You came from a shoot? Have you slept at all?”
“I'm okay,” Gorya says, yawning again as the adrenaline crash hits her like a truck. “I'll go home after we eat.”
This time, it’s Shasha who reaches for Gorya’s hand. Her dark brown eyes are big and pleading, so different from the seductive gaze that Gorya had grown accustomed to. The model tilts her head slightly.
“Stay?”
After what was probably the best sleep of her life, Gorya wakes up with her arms wrapped around Shasha. Normally, she would have scrambled to put some distance between them, but today she stayed.
She watches the rhythmic rise and fall of Shasha’s chest, feels the steady beat of her heart against her palm, and presses herself closer.
This is Shasha, who always puts Gorya’s feelings first, who keeps showing up for her even when Gorya keeps pushing her away. Shasha, who shifts in her sleep and pulls Gorya’s arms around her tighter.
Gorya is used to reminding herself that she should know better when it comes to the model, but as she lets Shasha's breathing lull her back to sleep, Gorya finally accepts a simple reality.
She doesn’t know any better because what she does know is Shasha.
It’s difficult to get any better than that.