Chapter Text
It was supposed to be Seonghwa’s big break.
Years of lab tech shifts and mailing his portfolio to every rag in the city had led him here, to Paper Magazine. It didn’t pay much, and it wasn’t even really a magazine, just a folded black-and-white poster printed out of a garden apartment in Tribeca. But it was his first cover story. He needed everything to be perfect.
The Mr. Coffee maker gurgled on the counter as Seonghwa packed his bag, his breath clouding in front of him. The Bowery warehouse he rented was freezing eight months out of the year and boiling the other four. Even with a floor-length fur coat thrown over his pajamas, he still couldn’t get warm.
At 8 a.m. sharp, the clock radio clicked on. A modulated electric guitar pulsed through the vaulted room, followed by a distinctive baritone:
I am the son and the heir,
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar…
Water boiled over the beige range, industrial and too big, like everything else in the loft. He dropped in two packages of ramen, then added the seasoning to his thermos with a raw egg and a scoop of peanut butter.
(Wooyoung called this “apocalypse food,” which Seonghwa did not appreciate. As if chickens would survive an apocalypse.)
He stirred the sauce, dropped the noodles in with tongs, and wedged the thermos into his bag between a box of film canisters and two cans of New Coke. Steam rose from his coffee. He took a sip, then reached for his camera.
It wasn’t his fault.
When you say, it's gonna happen now…
It was the damn warehouse. The ski gloves.
Well, when exactly do you mean?
It was gravity. The Earth’s need to drag him down every chance it got.
See I've already waited too long…
Seonghwa watched as his only camera slipped out of his padded fingers and hit the polished concrete. His dreams shattered along with the plastic, like the Challenger space shuttle disintegrating off the coast of Cape Canaveral.
His eyes flicked to the wood-grain clock radio. Twenty minutes.
In ten seconds flat, he’d tugged down his satin pajama pants and stepped into yesterday’s jeans. No time to change the shirt. The gloves hit the concrete. He tied his hair back in a loose ponytail and ran, a plan beginning to form.
A yellow hoist beam hung over the old nineteenth-century industrial door. He yanked the rope, and the corrugated steel rattled upward. Outside, he let it slam down like a guillotine, padlocking it to the iron hook set in the cement.
Broken glass crunched underfoot as he hurried through the Bowery toward East Side Pawn. He passed the white awning of CBGB, where Wooyoung once fucked a Beastie Boy, then the heart of skid row, where he’d taken the photograph that landed him the job with Paper. Between the flophouses and repurposed industrial buildings, a developer had begun construction on a condominium. Bad news for the neighborhood.
He crossed Houston, eyes catching on a sun-faded poster taped to a telephone pole: SAY NO TO CRACK AND OTHER DRUGS. He tore it down and shoved it into an overflowing trash can before opening the door to the pawn shop.
Mahogany shelves held odd sculptures and vintage hardshell suitcases, Samsonites and American Touristers in every shade of blue and red. On the far wall, one of Seonghwa’s black-and-white portraits of Wooyoung hung beside a flickering neon sign that read LOANS.
“Mingi, I need your help,” Seonghwa said, rushing to the counter.
Mingi looked up from the ring he’d been inspecting, pushing up his head-mounted magnifying glass. “What the hell are you wearing?”
Seonghwa caught his reflection in the glass gun case. The fur coat gave him the silhouette of an ostrich. His gold shirt gaped open, exposing the neck tattoo he usually kept hidden in daylight. His gaze flicked to the cuckoo clock mounted above the rifles.
“I only have five minutes,” he said quickly. “Do you have a working camera?”
“Not for your shoot with Paper?”
Seonghwa’s nostrils flared. “Mingi, I am going to jump off the warehouse roof if–”
“Calm down, I’ve got one.” Mingi ducked beneath the counter, resurfacing with an old Asahi Pentax Spotmatic from the sixties. Fully mechanical, with warm, soft rendering—nothing like Seonghwa’s automatic Nikon F3, rest in peace. “You heard from Wooyoung today?”
“Does it function?” Seonghwa asked, ignoring the question. He glanced at the clock again. Two minutes.
“It works,” Mingi said. “But it’s cursed.”
Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “I’ll pay you when I get paid.” He grabbed the camera and shoved it between the sweating Coke cans.
“I’m serious,” Mingi called after him. “I tested it when that old hag brought it in, and–”
Seonghwa was already halfway out the door.
“I owe you one!”
Three blocks later, and right on time, he reached 98 Bowery, a former textile warehouse that had been converted into an artist space. The front room was a large gallery where names like Basquiat and Goldin showed before they made it big. A pretty blond receptionist sat behind a plywood desk, flipping through a copy of Interview magazine.
“Morning, Yeosang,” Seonghwa said. “He’s not here yet, is he?”
Yeosang shook his head without looking up. “Lucky you.”
The stairwell door shrieked open. Seonghwa climbed the rickety iron staircase, past a room full of televisions tuned to static, their blue glow spilling into the hall, then another where a woman with a bleached mohawk was spray-painting a refrigerator door. His studio was near the end, a windowless brick box caged in by unfinished drywall. Two softboxes he’d salvaged from the dumpster behind JCPenney lit a seamless white backdrop. On the opposite wall, a green Formica counter held a hotplate and a wire basket stuffed with Neoguri and Chapagetti.
He dropped his bag onto the sagging loveseat Mingi had hauled up for him and pulled out the Spotmatic. Lifting the rewind knob, he popped the back open and threaded a roll of Tri-X into the take-up spool. Advanced once, twice. He shut the panel, then wound until it caught.
Knuckles rapped on the doorframe. Yeosang peered inside. “Your model’s here. He’s cute.”
“He’s a model,” Seonghwa said dryly. “Send him in.”
The models he was used to working with were all like Wooyoung, androgynous muses who frequented both AREA nightclub and skid row, flowers pushing up through cracks in the concrete. But the man who stepped inside looked like someone Seonghwa normally wouldn’t be in the same room with. Black suit, patent leather Oxfords, and the long black coat and slicked-back hair of a 1920’s Five Points gangster.
Short for a model, but what a face.
“Choi San?” Seonghwa extended a hand. “Park Seonghwa.”
San’s gaze dipped to the tattoo at Seonghwa’s throat. His ears turned red first, then his neck.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, his small hand trembling in Seonghwa’s larger one.
Seonghwa turned away. It was easy to forget how regular people reacted to him when he rarely went above 14th Street.
“Thirsty?” he asked. “Want a Coke?”
“That’d be great.” San blew out a long stream of air, like he’d been holding it in since the stairs. “Sorry. It’s my first, like, arthouse shoot. I’m nervous.”
The tab cracked. Bubbles hissed.
“Arthouse?” Seonghwa handed him the soda, suppressing a grin.
San’s eyes widened. “Oh god. Was that offensive?”
“Depends,” Seonghwa said, leaning against the wall beside the loveseat. “Do you think art is offensive?”
“No,” San replied quickly. He took a sip and grimaced. “This New Coke is terrible.”
Seonghwa let out a breathy laugh. “I know. I can’t find the old kind anywhere.”
San set the can down and slid the wool coat from his shoulders.
Seonghwa’s eyebrows shot up.
The suit jacket underneath had no sleeves. San was broader than he’d expected, thick through the arms and shoulders despite his stature. When he stepped closer, the air shifted with him. Tobacco and vanilla, like the black clove cigarettes Wooyoung chain-smoked outside the club. He leaned past to drape his coat over the sofa, his waist narrowing sharply.
He glanced back and caught Seonghwa staring.
Seonghwa choked on his soda.
“You good?” San asked, looking genuinely concerned.
“Fine.” Seonghwa coughed, trading the can for the camera. “Occupational hazard.”
San blinked. “What is?”
“Models.”
San’s dimples flashed. Cute.
“Let’s get started,” Seonghwa said smoothly, lifting the Spotmatic as San stepped onto the white backdrop.
The shift was immediate.
His spine lengthened. The nerves drained from his face. Where before he’d been shy, he now looked predatory—eyes narrowed, one brow raised. Diffused light caught the planes of his face, smooth and geometric, as though he’d been carved from marble.
Seonghwa hovered a hand over San’s forehead.
“May I?”
San’s throat bobbed. “Of course.”
Seonghwa pulled a few strands of hair forward, framing his face. His palm drifted lower, squeezing San’s bare bicep. Goosebumps formed beneath his fingertips.
“Relax,” Seonghwa murmured, dropping to his knees. “One foot in front of the other.” He peered up through the viewfinder. “Don’t pose. Bounce your weight back and forth.”
San obeyed, shifting as though walking in place. He lowered his chin to find the light, then his arms changed. New muscles popped up, as if to add visual interest.
The uptown-meets-downtown crowd couldn’t do that.
Seonghwa’s index finger found the shutter-release, waiting for the right moment.
Click.
San froze mid-step, hands loose at his sides.
Seonghwa smiled. What a professional. “You can keep moving. I’m not shooting long exposure.”
San didn’t move.
Seonghwa lowered the camera. “Keep bouncing. I’ll chase you.”
He didn’t even blink.
Seonghwa frowned. Was this the model version of method acting?
“San?”
Seonghwa stood, and still, San didn’t move. He stepped closer—close enough to smell him again, to see the fine horizontal lines banding his neck. Freckles dotted his throat like spilled coffee, or a shattered camera.
Seonghwa waved a hand in front of San’s face, then snapped his fingers. Dread prickled the hairs at his nape.
Swallowing, he placed a palm over San’s muscled chest.
No heartbeat.
He didn’t know what made him do it. One moment he was reaching for the rotary phone, the next, he was watching his hand float up, as though it belonged to someone else.
Holding his breath, he forced a fingertip between San’s teeth.
It works, Mingi had said. But it’s cursed.
Seonghwa pulled his finger out, now slick with spit, and got back on his knees. Veins stood out along San’s arms and throat, though no blood pulsed through them.
One more shot, then he’d call for help.
Click.
San jerked back into motion, shifting between one foot and the other as though no time had passed. It was Seonghwa who was frozen now, staring up at him in shock.
The power drained from San’s posture.
“Was that… okay?”
Seonghwa cleared his throat. “Excellent. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
San brought his right foot forward and tipped his chin up, offering a new angle.
Click.
Frozen again.
This time, Seonghwa kept his eye to the viewfinder and let himself look.
He took in the subway map of tendons in San’s neck, the artful taper of his waist and the way the light pooled in his collarbones. He’d seen a body like San’s only once before—during a short-term contract with the Met, photographing sculptures from their permanent collection. Perfect, intentional forms, displayed in a fractured world. He’d stolen a small one for Wooyoung to pose with, then let him keep it as payment.
In his defense, the Met stole it first.
He glanced around the room, but there were no statuettes, no wardrobe changes. In his haste, he hadn’t brought a single prop. His thumb worried the fur at his cuff.
An idea began to take shape.
He crouched and pulled his tripod from beneath the counter. The base of the Spotmatic found the screw. He spun the camera clockwise, then adjusted the legs, refining the angle while San stared blankly ahead.
The old fur coat slipped from Seonghwa’s shoulders.
His pulse thudded as he stepped onto the backdrop, though San’s heart remained suspended. He inched closer until the fine hairs at San’s nape fluttered with his breath. He let his coat fall over San’s broad upper half, guiding the weight of it down his arms.
Then he stepped back, wound the lever, and set the timer.
He moved quickly, positioning himself just out of frame. He reached for the edge of the fur, lifting it so it stirred around San’s frozen body.
Click.
San turned sharply, eyes widening when he found Seonghwa beside him.
“How did you get over here?”
Seonghwa reset the camera, face composed.
“Arthouse magic.”
Click.
Seonghwa floated around San like a ghost, freezing him with the shutter and thawing him out just as quickly. He shot the rest of the roll, then rewound it and loaded a fresh one, thinking he could do this all day.
He liked his life. But as he looked at San, closer than he’d ever looked at anyone, he caught himself wondering what it would be like to be a woman on the other side of 14th. The woman, the one who got to have this man. San probably spoke to her in a soft voice and brought her flowers when he came over. She was probably a ballerina for the NYCB, a slender beauty who could make jjajangmyeon from scratch and fold herself into impossible shapes.
And she almost certainly did not have a neck tattoo.
One shot left. Seonghwa slowed the shutter speed, hoping to capture every frame of the coat falling in a single exposure.
Click.
San blinked, the only sign he’d been unfrozen. Seonghwa stepped away from the tripod, walking behind him. He lifted the fur from San’s shoulders.
San turned his head, their faces only an inch apart.
“Did you get what you needed?”
Seonghwa’s gaze dropped to the creases in San’s neck. “Yeah.”
He cleared his throat and stepped away, packing up the cursed camera.
“Maybe I’ll see you around?” San said behind him.
Seonghwa huffed a quiet laugh. San looked like he belonged on the Upper East Side, or worse—South Street Seaport. Seonghwa’s friends would eat him and his prima ballerina alive.
“Maybe.”
He picked up San’s coat from the loveseat and held it open. San slipped his arms in without breaking eye contact.
“Let me walk you out,” Seonghwa said, fingers lingering a moment too long.
They crossed to the stairwell, San peering curiously into each room like he was visiting a zoo. Most of the studios were occupied now, a storm of artists preparing for their upcoming residency exhibit.
The iron stairs sang beneath them. Seonghwa tilted his head toward San. “So what’s the story about?”
They stepped into the first-floor gallery, where Laurie Anderson was setting up for an upcoming performance piece, United States Parts 1–4. A massive synth droned beside her, repeating a single note until it warped into something like laughter. Above her, projected words read:
I DREAMED I HAD TO TAKE A TEST
IN A DAIRY QUEEN ON ANOTHER PLANET.
“What story?” San asked, distracted. Laurie was speaking into a microphone now, pitching her voice to sound like a robot over the human sounds of the synth.
“For Paper,” Seonghwa said, holding the door.
“Seonghwa,” Laurie boomed in her altered register. “Transportation, politics, money, or love?”
He glanced back at her as they stepped outside. “Transportation.”
“They’re doing a series on gay models,” San said.
The door slammed shut, and the ballerina Seonghwa had imagined jumped off the GW Bridge.
It didn’t matter that San was gay; they were incompatible. Seonghwa was Halley’s comet, shooting across the galaxy, and San was the Earth, spinning in his safe, life-sustaining rotation.
But it was interesting.
Silence settled between them. Maybe San was waiting for him to applaud him for coming out publicly for a paycheck. Seonghwa wondered if San’s friends threw him a party, if they all came out together, like debutantes. A pigeon landed at their feet, ate two cigarette butts, then flapped away.
San broke first. “Why transportation?”
“Same reason it’s the first section of her show,” Seonghwa said with a shrug. “Freedom and movement.”
San tucked his hands into his coat pockets. “Oh.”
“Do you live nearby?” Seonghwa asked, already knowing the answer. San was too clean-cut to live anywhere south of Midtown. He probably stayed in an apartment facing the Park, with a walk-in closet full of big suits.
San glanced down at his shoes. “No, I’m near the Park.”
“Of course you are.” Seonghwa’s gaze fell to San’s mouth, where only minutes before, his finger had been. “Do you have a calling card?”
San’s eyes snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“So I can send you a few shots,” Seonghwa said lightly. “That way you won’t have to wait for the issue.”
“Oh, right. The shoot.”
Was he imagining it, or did San sound disappointed?
San reached into his breast pocket and handed over a heavy linen card, his phone number and agency embossed on the back. The front held only two words:
𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐍
“Do you have one?” San asked shyly. “In case I find an old Coke somewhere.”
Seonghwa dug through his bag and pulled out one of the cards Barbara Kruger had designed for him as an art trade, a black-and-white photograph he’d taken of Wooyoung’s scratched-up face overlaid with his address in Futura Bold Oblique.
“It doesn’t have your name on it,” San said, frowning. “And that’s not you.”
Seonghwa stepped close enough that San had to tilt his chin up to meet his eyes.
“You’re not going to remember my face?”
San’s brow twitched. Pink spread from his cheeks down to his neck, disappearing into his white collar.
“I’ll remember.”
And even though they were two celestial bodies moving in opposite directions, doomed to meet only once per lifetime, Seonghwa reached a bold hand to San’s forehead, brushing away the strands he’d pulled forward for the shoot. One last touch for the long orbit ahead.
“See you,” he lied, and started home.
He didn’t look back, but he had a feeling that if he did, San would still be standing there, fingertips grazing the place he’d been touched. Even Seonghwa couldn’t deny there was something there. Still, it would never work.
Money had brought them together, and money would keep them apart.
He passed Mingi’s pawn shop, then the new condominium, a towering skeleton ten stories taller than the rest of the Bowery. After three vandalisms—two of which had been orchestrated by Wooyoung, the sneaky bastard—the developers had decided the fence screen wasn’t enough, replacing it with a solid concrete wall.
The warehouse door sprang open. Seonghwa’s coffee had gone cold beside the unwashed pot, the floor beneath still glittering with the shattered corpse of his Nikon. Averting his eyes, he stepped around the wreckage and headed straight for the iron door at the back.
It wasn’t like him to leave a mess. Then again, it wasn’t like him to skip lunch, either.
The air cooled as he descended. At the bottom step, he cut the overhead light, plunging himself into total darkness.
He worked by touch. The first canister snapped open. He found the leader, trimmed it square, and guided the film onto the reel. The second strip followed. When both were ready, he lowered them into the cylindrical developing tank and sealed the lid. Then he tugged the chain suspended from the ceiling, bathing the room in red. (Wooyoung called the basement the Murder Dungeon, but the hooks hanging from the ceiling were for film, not bodies.)
Seonghwa’s breath clouded against the rough stone walls, drifting upward toward the exposed pipes and ancient beams as he started the timer. At nine minutes, he replaced the developer with stop bath, giving the tank a swirl before draining it again and filling it with fixer. Finally, he cracked the lid and lifted the reels.
San unspooled in silver shadows.
A surge of adrenaline rushed through him. He resisted the urge to look closer, rinsing the shining film strips and clipping them to the ceiling hooks to dry. Patience.
Upstairs, he kept himself busy with the mess. He washed the dishes, prepped the coffee pot for tomorrow, and swept the larger shards of the Nikon into a box for Tyree, a friend of Mingi’s who was using trash to decorate skid row. Then he forced down his lukewarm noodles, counting the minutes.
His eyes drifted from the clock radio to the massive print that had impressed Paper enough to hire him. Wooyoung leaned against a dilapidated flophouse, smoking a cigarette with a black eye and his pants pooled around his ankles. In front of him, Mingi knelt in a boxy secondhand suit, a fat black tie slung over his shoulder.
And at the bottom, in pink letters torn from eviction notices:
GREED
IS
GOOD
Seonghwa checked the clock for the hundredth time. Two hours should be enough.
The air in the basement was thick with chemicals now. He twisted the shower tap in the corner, letting the steam clear the dust from the room. Water rushed down the rusted grate. (The creepy open shower did nothing to dispel the Murder Dungeon allegations.)
Seonghwa cut the negatives into strips of six and chose one at random for the enlarger. The projection came into focus on the easel.
Broad shoulders, sad eyes, and a sultry mouth. He was monumental in the old fur housecoat. A statue stolen from the Met, or a loft with a view of the Park.
San, preserved in light.
Seonghwa exposed the paper and slid it into the developer tray. He waited for the blacks to deepen, then lifted the print into the stop bath.
He hadn’t seen the other shots, but he didn’t need to. This was the one.
His big break.
♱ ♱ ♱
Paper loved the photos, and so did the rest of the city. Two more magazines had already reached out to book Seonghwa and San as a duo: The Face, a British periodical planning a Polaroid-heavy issue on New York, and New York Magazine, which was putting together a trend piece called “The Men Who Own New York.” (Wooyoung had scoffed at that, but Mingi agreed with the editor. They might not own property, but they owned culture.)
Help me make the most of freedom and of pleasure,
Nothing ever lasts forever…
Seonghwa stood at the counter, listening to the radio while he filled his thermos with coffee. He wondered what San would be wearing today. The Face had implied that less was more.
Everybody wants to rule the world…
He tucked the thermos into his backpack along with two enamel mugs he’d swiped from the Pyramid Club, then cut the music.
A shrill ring pierced the silence.
He crossed back into the kitchen, where a banana-shaped rotary phone buzzed in a basket of actual bananas.
“Hello?”
“What do you think about sex work?”
“Wooyoung, it’s barely nine o’clock.”
“So? It’s about work.”
Seonghwa sighed. “It’s performance art. Why?”
Wooyoung shrieked with laughter. “You would say that, you freak.”
Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re the one calling me about sex work at nine in the–”
“How much would you charge for a date?”
“A date?”
“Yeah. Say someone wants to take me to a gallery opening. I show up, look hot. What’s the rate?”
Seonghwa considered it. “I don’t know. What do you charge for modeling?”
“Oh shit, that’s actually a good point.”
“I know,” Seonghwa said with a laugh. “I’m pretty smart.”
“What if I blow him in the studio after?”
“I’d do it a la carte,” Seonghwa replied thoughtfully. He frowned. “Wait, what do you mean in the—are you talking about my opening? Who–?”
Click.
Seonghwa stared at the receiver, wondering what old man Wooyoung was planning on blowing in his studio, then set the banana back in its cradle and grabbed his bag. No time to dwell. He’d just have to make sure there was plenty of disinfectant under the counter.
The warehouse door rattled as he yanked the rope, sending the corrugated steel crashing down behind him. Warm sunlight reflected off the sidewalk in blinding beams, though blackened snow lingered in the alleys.
A few blocks down, 98 Bowery was bustling in preparation for the new group exhibit. Yeosang was bent over a crate of cables, sweat dripping down the back of his neck.
Seonghwa bared his teeth in greeting. (Eddie Plein had made him a set of silver teeth in exchange for getting him out of a jam with the Satan’s Sinners Nomads, and he’d finally gotten them fitted.)
Yeosang recoiled. “You look like Flavor Flav.”
Seonghwa kept walking. “I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment.”
Mr. Magic's Rap Attack spilled out of one of the studios. Seonghwa stepped into his room and set his bag on the loveseat, unpacking the Spotmatic and the old Polaroid OneStep he’d borrowed from Mingi. The bass rumbled under his feet.
He was advancing the film when footsteps made him look up.
San came through the doorway wearing a strange, salmon-pink suit made of thin suede strips woven together like a basket. The jacket hung open, displaying his bare torso. His chest was heavy and defined, casting wide shadows over a muscular stomach that was still soft at the edges.
And he was holding a bouquet of lilacs.
“Hello again,” San said with a dimpled smile. He held out the flowers, each of them a different shade of violet. “These are for you.”
Seonghwa’s gaze flicked from San’s perfect belly button to the bouquet, then back up to his eyes.
“No one’s ever gotten me flowers.”
San tilted his head. “Really?”
In Seonghwa’s experience, men didn’t court other men out in the open. Maybe it was the neck tattoo, or the fact that anal had only been decriminalized five years prior. The closest he ever came was eye contact during a sex show at The Anvil, or a head tilt at the bathhouse after an hour of window-shopping.
Not that this was courting.
“Really,” Seonghwa said. Their fingers brushed as he took the bouquet. He turned, dumped a jar of pens onto the counter, and began filling it with water from the small sink.
“You never called me,” San said abruptly.
“What do you mean?” Seonghwa cut the water. “I sent the photos to your agency.”
When he looked up, San was pouting.
“Yeah, but you didn’t call me.”
Seonghwa set the flowers in the jar. He straightened to his full height and lowered his voice.
“Do you want to talk on the phone with me, San?”
San’s eyes dropped to Seonghwa’s glittering teeth. A flush climbed his neck.
“Maybe.”
Seonghwa ran his tongue along the silver, imagining San’s velvet voice singing down a telephone wire, walking the tightrope from the Park to skid row as the city crumbled beneath it.
They had a word for men like him, who only dipped below 14th for a good time.
Tourists.
“Then maybe I’ll call you sometime,” Seonghwa said, though he knew he wouldn’t. He picked up the Polaroid OneStep, pressing the shutter to eject the dark slide. “Get on the floor.”
San’s flush deepened. He dropped onto the white sheet and leaned back against the wall, watching as Seonghwa sank between his legs.
Seonghwa set the camera aside and hovered his hands over him. Warmth radiated from San’s chest in waves, rising to meet his fingers.
“May I?” he asked, breathier than he meant to.
San nodded slowly.
Seonghwa’s hand ghosted over San’s skin as he opened the jacket another inch, arranging the fabric so it fell in an elegant curve down his bare torso.
“Good,” he murmured.
He ran his fingers from San’s waist up to his armpit, guiding his right arm back and settling his hand behind his head. When he met no resistance, he trailed back down San’s front, tracing the mound of each muscle.
San smelled heady, expensive. A small sound like a whimper sounded from his throat. Seonghwa moved lower, over San’s waistband to his thighs, easing them apart. He lingered there, looking up at San from beneath his lashes as he reached for the Polaroid.
“Now that’s a cover photo.”
Click.
The flash bounced off the white backdrop, temporarily blinding him. San emerged from the white, his dimples first, then the rest of him, shoulders drawn back.
So he liked being praised.
Seonghwa stood, placing the photo facedown on the counter to develop. He snapped another, then another, moving in and out of San’s thighs until the whirr of the motor told him the cartridge was empty.
He set the camera down. “Want a coffee?”
“Usually I do decaf,” San said, eyeing the thermos, “but one can’t hurt.”
Seonghwa twisted the lid. The rich scent filled the small studio. He poured them each a cup, then flipped the first photo.
San’s brow was just barely furrowed, his skin bronze against the white backdrop, though the shadow in the center of his chest had developed into a deep blue-violet. Seonghwa flipped photo after photo, taking in the topography of his body, valleys and peaks all over–
Except for his crotch, which was flat.
San watched apprehensively from the loveseat. “Am I—are the photos okay?”
“You’re beautiful,” Seonghwa said offhandedly, because it was true. “But can you fluff yourself up?”
San set his mug aside and let his jacket slip from his shoulders. Bare-chested, he stretched out on the floor, dropping into a push-up that made muscles ripple down his back. Thick veins in the center of each bicep appeared. His nose kissed the floor, then he lifted himself again, all virility and mass.
He made it through seven before Seonghwa found his voice.
“That’s not what I meant.”
San sat up on his heels, chest rising and falling fast. “Then what did you mean?”
Seonghwa’s eyes dropped pointedly to San’s crotch. He watched San put the pieces together. It hit his chest before it reached his eyes, a flush spreading upward. Horror dawned over his face.
So modest for a model.
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
Seonghwa quirked an eyebrow. “Are you asking me how to get hard?”
“No,” San said in a whine. “I’ve just never… had a shoot like this.”
“An arthouse shoot.”
San frowned. “A pornographic shoot.”
Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “All commercial shoots are pornographic. Do you want me to step out?”
“No.” San’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “I don’t.”
He held Seonghwa’s gaze and reached into his trousers.
Seonghwa stared right back, watching as San rolled himself in his palm. Excitement shot through him. Editorial with a visible erection would be new, provocative, simultaneously sexy and grotesque. Perfect for The Face.
But more importantly, San wanted to be watched. His eyes never left Seonghwa’s as he touched himself, goosebumps prickling his arms. His gaze burned straight through him, as if to ask if this was what he’d wanted all along.
Maybe they were compatible.
San caught his lower lip between his teeth. His hand found a steady rhythm as he swelled, pressing against the fabric. His nipples peaked, his chest trembling with each pass.
“That looks good,” Seonghwa rasped.
An understatement. It looked fucking incredible.
San’s chest was heaving now. “It does?”
“Yeah.” Seonghwa reached a hand between his own legs, adjusting himself where he stood. “Now get on your knees.”
San’s eyes went so wide they looked like they might fall out of his head, but he obeyed, lowering himself onto the backdrop.
“You’re good at taking direction.”
Seonghwa picked up San’s jacket and stepped behind him, holding it open. New lines and ridges carved across San’s back as he shifted. His waistband bit into the soft flesh at his hips, begging to be pinched.
Seonghwa forced himself to turn away, replacing the Polaroid cartridge. The dark slide rolled out. He cast it aside and stepped back in, recreating the first shot with one key difference. He burned through eight exposures, setting them face-down on the counter one by one.
San relaxed his shoulders, then stretched like a cat, exposing his stomach.
Seonghwa’s mug hit the counter. “Take your jacket back off,” he said impulsively. “For the other spread.”
San let it fall. “Do you want me on my knees?”
“You read my mind.”
Seonghwa bent for the pink suede and tossed it aside. He sank down, hands hovering over San’s waistband.
“Can I?”
San’s throat bobbed. He couldn’t have known what Seonghwa meant, but he nodded anyway, eager to please, or eager for something else.
Seonghwa hooked his thumbs into San’s trousers, easing them down enough to reveal the band of his briefs. Red, with white letters that mimicked Kruger’s style. The skin beneath his navel was prickly, as if he’d shaved for the occasion.
San’s gaze tracked the movement, then dragged back up.
Seonghwa straightened. For a moment, he just looked into San’s eyes, wondering how far he would go if asked, if he’d go full-frontal, if he’d blow him like Mingi had blown Wooyoung. (Seonghwa had told Mingi he didn’t have to do it—Wooyoung getting off wasn’t part of the vision, and anyway, his dick wasn’t visible in the shot—but Mingi had insisted. Greed is Good.)
Seonghwa reached for the Spotmatic.
Click.
San froze mid-breath, chin tipped up, eyes open.
The camera dug into Seonghwa’s face as he studied him through the viewfinder. Professional curiosity, he told himself. Commodification of the body was what modeling was all about.
His eyes followed the sharp line of San’s jaw, the scatter of freckles along his neck. Down further, to where his own hand drifted into the frame.
The viewfinder formed a barrier between them, a degree of separation that removed culpability. He felt like he was watching a film at the Bijou with Wooyoung, cruising for beefy bottoms who preferred slender tops. He squeezed San’s chest, and a moan slipped out. God, he was perfect. Large in some places, narrow in others. Tempting by design.
He rolled San’s nipple between his fingers, wishing he could snap a photo. But the next click would break it and then playtime would be over.
His eyes flicked to the Polaroid.
He mounted the Spotmatic onto the tripod carefully, as though it might detonate, then swapped it for the OneStep.
Two exposures left.
He stepped back onto the white cloth. His hand returned to San’s chest, full with an old breath.
Heart pounding, he angled the camera toward where his hand pressed into San’s skin, firm enough that his fingertips went white.
Click.
Still frozen.
Seonghwa let out the breath he’d been holding, then tucked the Polaroid into his backpack. A keepsake, for when they went their separate ways. His fingers grazed soft fur. (Some yuppie had dumped a bag of coats at the pawn shop after finding out his wife was cheating. The lynx went to Seonghwa, the black fox to Wooyoung, who wore it to the club with nothing underneath.)
Back to business.
Seonghwa draped the lynx around San, then stepped behind the Spotmatic, waiting for the moment it began to fall.
Click.
San’s lungs filled all at once. His hands flew up instinctively to catch the coat. His cock strained against his trousers, creating gaps in the weave.
Click.
San looked confused, his fingers twisting in fur that hadn’t been there before. His mouth had frozen ajar this time.
Seonghwa lowered the camera.
He could see straight through San’s parted lips to the back of his throat, where small, telltale bruises marked his soft palate. Desire cut into him like a knife. He tried looking through the Spotmatic again, but his vision blurred.
Who had San sucked off? Had he done it in the Park?
Seonghwa’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling. He was so hard he could feel it in the base of his skull, buzzing like a lobotomy. He hadn’t gotten the shot yet, and he didn’t know how he would with his body ablaze.
Lips pressed into a firm line, he crossed the room and cracked the door open. The radio had gone quiet; the studios were empty. Everyone must’ve gone out for lunch. He let the door fall shut, then turned the lock.
It was for the shoot, really. So he could focus.
The button on his jeans popped open. He sank onto the loveseat, lifting his hips to tug his pants under his aching balls. Cool air hit his flushed skin. He met San’s blank eyes and felt a flicker of guilt.
Then it was gone.
He jerked off in the studio all the time, and anyway, it wasn’t like San could see him.
He wrapped a hand around himself. Sparks flew, then caught flame. He wondered if San was a moaner or a whiner. His hand quickened, rubbing his cock raw. If San topped he probably moaned—deep, performative sounds to match the muscles.
But he’d bottom for Seonghwa. He knew he would.
Do you want me on my knees?
Pleasure pulsed through him as he stroked himself desperately. His cock was an alarming shade of red, angry at him for not finding anywhere better to put it. He flicked his thumb over the tip, spreading slick, but it was still too dry.
He looked longingly at San’s mouth. Open and wet, as though he’d planned it this way.
Slowly, Seonghwa stood.
His pants slid down his thighs, cock bobbing with each step, until he was standing on the white backdrop. San was only a foot away, his lips right at crotch height. Tempting, terrible.
Seonghwa inched closer. One more step, and he could have him. No one would have to know—not even San.
Seonghwa bared his silver teeth to no one, grimacing as a bead of precum dripped down the tip. He compromised by pressing two fingers into San’s mouth, gathering saliva from beneath his tongue. He prodded the inside of San’s cheek, humming at the sight of his bulging mouth.
“You’re good at taking direction,” he said.
His spit-slick fingers traced San’s lips. He dropped to his knees in front of him, then leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against San’s as he began stroking himself again.
The room filled with slick, rhythmic sounds. Seonghwa’s free hand tugged at San’s boxers—just for a glimpse, nothing criminal—and a moan escaped him. San was small and delicious, hard and leaking. A present wrapped in a pink basket, only missing a bow.
Seonghwa stopped touching himself to reach for the OneStep, aiming for the gap between fabric and skin. He hovered over the shutter release, but he hesitated.
Only one exposure left. He should make it count.
Seonghwa got to his feet. He aimed the camera with one hand, holding himself with the other.
He knew he shouldn’t.
But San would never find out, and anyway, he’d brought him flowers. It wasn’t an invitation, but it was close—and he was on his knees already. What was Seonghwa supposed to do?
The tip touched San’s open mouth.
Click.
The photo fell to the floor. Seonghwa backed away, his hand a blur as he stroked himself fast and tight. He could touch San everywhere and he wouldn’t know. His big chest, his perfect little dick. Hell, he could probably get away with fucking him.
“Fuck,” Seonghwa muttered. “Fuck–”
He spilled over his fist, picturing filling San’s body instead. He added a second hand, twisting to milk out every last drop. It dripped down and made a mess of the shaft. An aftershock wracked his body, and his knees wobbled.
He staggered back, collapsing onto the loveseat with his hands covered. Compulsive images flashed fast and ugly. Pushing it into San’s mouth. Smearing it into suede. Reaching out, shaking San’s hand like nothing had happened.
He shut his eyes.
A contract. That’s all this was, and he needed to see it through.
He held up his filthy hands and forced himself to stand. The faucet ran. Pleasure and shame swirled together, then vanished down the drain.
The next hour passed in a storm of shutter clicks. Seonghwa shot one perfect frame, then ten more, enough for a full spread. San was frozen for most of it, his woven trousers pressing grids into his knees.
For the final shot, Seonghwa stepped in close behind him. The Lower East Side artist and his Upper West Side muse, putting on a show for the men who really owned New York.
His lips brushed the shell of San’s ear.
Click.
San’s head turned too fast, their noses bumping. Fear flickered, then morphed into something else.
His gaze dropped to Seonghwa’s mouth.
“Did you get what you needed?”
Seonghwa’s hand moved before he could stop it, sliding between them. He patted the front of San’s trousers in a way that might’ve been sportsmanlike, had San not been hard.
“I did,” Seonghwa breathed.
He stepped back abruptly, taking the lynx with him. What the fuck was he doing? He shook his head to clear it, stuffing the fur into his backpack with the cameras.
Ten more minutes of pretending to be a professional, then he could fall apart.
“You dropped something,” San said, already bending for it.
The Polaroid.
Seonghwa moved quicker. He snatched it from beneath San’s hand, pulse kicking. The image flashed as he slipped it into his backpack—the violet shadow of his cock, pressing against San’s pale lips.
Behind him, San seemed frozen in time again, crouched with his hand hovering over empty concrete.
“When did you–” he started, then stopped. “Do you ever show your work?”
Seonghwa zipped up his bag. “We’ve got a group show coming up.”
San looked up at him, still half-kneeling.
“Can I come?”
Seonghwa’s brow furrowed. “You want to come?”
San finally stood, slipping his jacket back on. “Why would I ask if I didn't want to?”
“Fine,” Seonghwa huffed, unzipping his bag again. He handed him a flyer. “Come if you want. It’ll just be a bunch of freaks like me though.”
“I like freaks,” San said, then flinched. “I mean—sorry. Was that offensive?”
Seonghwa smiled despite himself. “I like offensive.”
San glanced down at the flyer. His jaw slackened.
“I see that.”
His own face stared back at him, grainy with the distinctive pebbly texture of Tri-X. Seonghwa’s ghost floated around him, his hands everywhere—tangled in the coat, gripping San’s jaw. At the bottom, the date of the show. And across the top, five words in Futura Bold Oblique:
𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙮
𝙘𝙖𝙣
𝙗𝙪𝙮
𝙮𝙤𝙪
𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚
♱ ♱ ♱
