Chapter Text
What Solomon’s found himself with, after eight-odd years of making pornography, is a houseful of Thomases, Johns, Williams, and Henrys. Would a Bryce be asking too much? A Sebastian, maybe? Kyler? It’d cut down on the wrong numbers he dials when he’s pulling shit together for a new clip. On his first try he calls the wrong John, has to listen to Irving trabble on for ten minutes before he can make his excuses and hang up. Next is the wrong Thomas, which he realizes when Tommy’s phone lights up, standing right next to him. Sol says into his own phone, “I suppose you’ll not want to horsewhip a lad on camera?”
“Rather not, boss.”
“Worth a shot. Well, see you soon, young’n.”
“You, too, boss. Love you.”
Sol elbows him, laughing, and tells him to shut it.
*
Tommy’s got himself a date, and good for him. The lad spends most of his time inverted on the couch, playing Fallout or watching Criterion. He and Sol play cards some nights, or no-score Scrabble, or they pass the dutch and tell each other stories about their time on the street. Like any user -- ex-user -- Tommy’s social circle used to be wide as a field, and now he does his best to keep from stepping foot outside except to go to work. To Sol, it bodes well that he’s getting out. He hopes the other fella’s nice enough.
Anyway, Sol’s headed back to the studio tonight for a logistics session. He kisses Tommy’s cheek on the way out the door -- and dodges a smack for it -- and then hops in the truck to power it up. The radio in the truck is busted, has been for a little while, so Sol drums on the steering wheel and sings a couple Disney tunes as he matriculates his way out to the Fagin headquarters.
In the dark, the old house is particularly beautiful. Eerie, formidable, obliquely lit; it looks haunted. Maybe it is. Sol waits in his truck until he sees the lights of John’s motorbike pull up the gravel drive. Handsome old rotter, Mr. Bridgens is. Sol glances at the clock to see if they might have some time, just the two of them, before Thomas and Ned arrive, but, alas, this is the most punctual clutch of porn stars on the planet. Not far behind John’s ride comes Thomas’s sensible sedan.
The greetings among the four men are cordial, rife with pleasantries, as if they aren’t all here to discuss a plan for getting Ned done up like a horse so people can jack off to him. John shakes Ned’s hand and inclines his head before asking him, “Have you done this before, young man?”
“He has not,” Thomas answers crisply on Edward’s behalf. “Which is why you’re needed.”
Sol hates this already. “Too late in the day for this, gents,” he tells them. “Let’s run our plans so we can get back to our lives.” The other three men politely concur, and together they shuffle inside and down the hall toward the Red Room.
The Red Room was, at one point, a withdrawing room. When Sol first got his hands on this place, the room was wallpapered with dusty-rose stripes and trimmed with awful little cherubs. Now it’s a dark red, with a stripe of black latex paint that cuts into jagged peaks at an interval on each wall. Sol’s installed sturdy beams in the ceiling of the room for suspension; points of attachment stud the walls. A pommel horse rests in one corner, with a St. Andrew’s Cross beside it. There’s simply no mistaking what happens in this room. It’s John’s domain, largely, but Jopson and his lad are familiar faces in it too.
John strips out of his jacket (leather; broken in; Sol wants to suck the smooth elbow into his mouth) and hangs it on a corner of the whipping cross. Sol watches Ned’s eyes follow him, interested, cautious. Jopson places a hand on the back of Edward’s neck and watches John too.
John leans against the pommel horse, crosses his arms across his chest, and says, “Well. Will our man here be standing or on his all-fours?”
“I was hoping,” Thomas sniffs, “to have him on the floor. But if standing is easier for you…”
“Thomas,” warns Sol, but John muscles past the bitchiness to bring the conversation back in hand. John says, “Kneeling up? Arse-over-ankles?”
“All fours, please, I should think. As I said.”
“How long’ll he be down?”
Sol pipes up, “Shouldn’t be any longer than thirty, I’d wager, beginning to end.”
“That’s a while to be done up the way I’m seeing. Should be all right, though, if we get him into recuperating not too long after.”
For the first time tonight, Ned speaks up for himself. “Perhaps you could show me,” he says. His eyes flit from Jopson to Bridgens, then back up toward the ceiling. “And let me decide.”
What follows is a silent exchange between Thomas and John that makes Sol’s skin prickle. John levels a gaze at Thomas that could mean Get your house in order, son, or Let’s hear this young man out. Meanwhile, Jopson’s lips tighten into a smile and he holds very still for a long, tense moment. And then he inhales, a sharp sound, and he strokes his thumb along Edward’s neck and dips his head to say into his ear, “That was good. That was very good, favori. Thank you.” When he straightens himself, he addresses the room: “I’m agreeable to that.”
“Let’s have him, then,” says Mr. Bridgens, without ceremony. Sol finally exhales. This is his place of business, he pays the lease on it, he fixes the toilets in it, but right now he just doesn’t belong here. He takes a step back to lean against the jamb of the door, arms crossed, and from there he watches the men arrange themselves and confer. Under his breath he mutters, “Bloody United Nations here tonight. Will you yield your time, Secretary? Oh yes, Minister, by all means.”
“Tss,” he hears, and when he turns toward the sound Mr. Bridgens is giving him a half-smile. “We can hear you, Solomon, lad, you haven’t turned ghost just yet.” The comment makes Ned squeeze his eyes shut to stifle a laugh, and Jopson grins in turn.
Sol’s ears tingle with embarrassment. He grumbles, “I know,” and hugs himself tighter.
And then Ned’s down on the floor. Mr Bridgens asks him, “Hands or elbows, lad?”
“Hands,” comes the unison reply from the other two men.
“Hands, it is. Show me you can move your fingers when you’re flat like that, if you would.” Sol cranes his neck to watch Ned fan and wriggle his fingers. He’d never even considered. As John carries on, he places his hands on Ned to position him the way he needs him while Thomas looks on with his mouth crinkled to repress a snarl. John says, “Spine straight, now. Right, like you’re doing a push-up. Right, you’re engaged but you’re relaxed, that’s just how I want you.” One hand slides under to support Ned’s middle, and the other follows the plumb line of his spine to the bob of his sacrum. “I’m letting go now,” says John. Edward inhales. “I want you to stay just like you are. Breathe regular. Stay there while me and your man chat for a bit.”
When Mr. Bridgens steps away, Ned stays very still. Sol watches him, watches him measure his breaths. An absolute dream, is Ned. He was made by god to be on film. Even before Thomas reeled him in to be his little chaton, Ned was a caliber performer: serious; obedient; brimming with soul. Sol still sighs for the days when he could trot his Nedrick into a room with nearly anyone else and watch the two -- or three or five -- of them get on in an instant. These days, Edward is a snip of hair in Jopson’s locket, a memento that keeps them two closely bound together in their own funny type of love.
Jopson’s voice cuts through Sol’s thoughts, tart as a pin-stick. “Is that everything, Mr. Bridgens?”
“Will you have him in any kind of harness?” John asks in reply. “Around his middle, like.”
“A saddle, you mean? Hardly. A bit on the nose, isn’t it.”
“I meant more,” he grasps the soft sides of Edward’s flank, “round here, for support.” He turns his eyes upward and nods toward the beams along the ceiling. “We could rig a bit of rope up there, make it easier for him to keep his form. Take some pressure off his wrists, knees, what have you.”
Jopson takes his time considering. Sol rolls his eyes. “That’s enough, Thomas,” he pipes up. “You’re the one asked for guidance. Sooner you agree, the sooner you get to stuff your princess back into the car, away from all us brutes.” Ned smiles over his shoulder; Sol throws him a wink; Jopson huffs, tucks his hair off his forehead, and gives Mr. Bridgens a curt little nod.
“Very good,” John says. He takes Ned firmly by the chin and repositions him into the proper posture. “Let’s come down to his legs.” He crouches by Ned’s backside and taps the sole of the young man’s shoe. “Will he be in shoes?”
“No. I was planning for him to be nude, in fact, but since I’ll be needing a harness for him I suppose that’s out the window.”
(Sol scrubs his face with his palm and grinds his teeth.)
“I’ll be getting these off, then. Cooperate with me, petal,” he says to Ned. The shoes come off easily, and once they’re gone John experiments with Ned’s flexibility. “Hold yourself still for me, lad, I’m going to see if you can bend a way.” He takes Edward’s ankle and draws it up toward his arse. “Is that too much?”
“No,” Ned answers. “No, sir, it’s good.”
“Burns a bit, does it?”
“A bit, but just here.” He breaks position to indicate his upper thigh, then settles his hand back on the floor. “Not at the joint.”
Sol can see Thomas’s eyes gleaming. Whenever he’s trying to hide his smile, Jopson’s cheeks dimple, betraying him, just as they are now. He says to Edward, “You look very alluring that way, pet. A work of art.”
John nods, satisfied. “We’ll get him wound up round here,” he says as he gestures a circle where Ned’s calf is pushed against his hamstring.
“And what gauge of rope would you recommend, Mr. Bridgens?”
“No,” John says. “Tape for this one. It’ll look better; it’s got less bite, too. No digging in and risking circulation problems.”
Jopson once again looks aggrieved. “I’m capable of --”
“Tape,” Sol repeats, the final word on the subject. “Next.”
John eases Ned’s foot back down to the floor. When he pushes himself back up to standing, his knees pop, and he snorts out a self-deprecating laugh. “What is it they say?” he addresses the room. “It’s not the getting down, but the staying down?” That pulls a chuckle from Sol, too. He sees Thomas’s shoulders relax. John continues, back to business, “You’ll be wanting to show him off proper, but I won’t rig his knees any wider’n shoulder-width. That suit you?”
“It should be fine, thank you.”
Together, the two men gaze at Edward in silence for a long and pregnant moment. Sol watches their eyes rake along Ned’s form like a pair of claws.
“You’ll have a bit on him,” John says at last. His voice rumbles through the quiet room.
Thomas answers, “I will.”
“Rope-rigged?”
“Black rope.”
“Lovely. Blinkered?”
“I should think so.” He bends to ruffle Ned’s hair. “Although he doesn’t distract easily. He’s very patient. Aren’t you, darling.” Sol can practically hear Ned’s blood rush to his cheeks to make him glow.
“Noticed that,” says Mr. Bridgens. “Didn’t used to be that way. I remember him as a twitchy little creature when he first came to us.”
Sol pushes himself away from the door and approaches the three men. The logistics are set, and he’s keen to intervene before John ruins this current of goodwill by reminding Thomas that Ned made the rounds -- and not just at Fagin -- before being kenneled at Haus Jopson. “All right, gentlemen,” he says to them, a bit too cheery. “Do we have a plan?”
John answers, “I believe we do, Solomon.”
“Mm,” says Jopson, coolly.
Sol crouches next to Edward and places a hand on his back. The man’s spine is still perfectly straight. Christ, this fella’s core must be out of control. Sol’s soft gut grumbles out of envy. “What about you, Nedders. Ready to get ponied up?”
“I’m ready. Yes.” Edward smiles down at the floor. “M’sieur has me well in hand.”
The sound Thomas makes is the purr of a smug housecat. He snaps his fingers and says to Ned, “Up now, pet. Take your time, please.”
Once Edward is standing he turns to John and inclines his head, a respectful bow. Jopson secures his arm around Ned’s waist and says to John, “Thank you. I appreciate your guidance.”
“Just ask,” is John’s answer. He looks over to Sol. “Is there anything else?”
Sol says, “No,” knowing full well there’s something else. But he’s ready to get back home, back to the couch where he can smoke a bit and rub himself off to a sexy car insurance ad on TV. He can’t do any more mediation tonight between a bitch and a nice old man.
“Very good. Goodnight, then.” Thomas bids them farewell and pilots Ned out of the room, cooing praise in his ear.
John retrieves his jacket from the cross. Sol clears his throat so he can catch his attention and his gaze. John says to him, “Is there something else you’re needing, young man?”
“Fuck.”
In the empty room, the sound of John sliding his jacket back on is loud in Sol’s ears. He closes his eyes and keeps them closed even as he feels John approaching, even as he feels the heat of John’s body close to his. Even as John crowds him back up against the wall. “I asked you a question, Solomon.”
When Sol blinks his eyes open, there’s John’s handsome, craggy face, his pewter hair. Sol’s breath stutters in his chest, and he shakes his head. “No. No, Mr. Bridgens, no, I don’t need anything. I don’t need it.”
“Are you sure, now?”
His head swims with the smell of leather. It would take nothing for Sol to snap his teeth around the unsnapped epaulet. All the same, when he draws in his shaky breath, his answer stays the same. “No. Thanks, but not tonight.”
As he said to Thomas, John tells him, “Just ask, lad.”
“I’ll ask.” Sol’s knees feel heavy and loose. His lips feel full, aching for a kiss or for something to suck. “Safe travels tonight, Mr. Bridgens.”
John steps away, then, opening the space between them, and he gives Sol a nod. “Don’t forget to set the alarm when you lock up tonight, son. All sorts about this time of night.” He claps Sol on the shoulder as he passes him to leave.
Sol collapses, boneless, against the wall and clasps his knees. “Christ in the fucking desert.” He lets himself hang loose for a few breaths, until the room doesn’t feel so narrow. When he finally rights himself he rolls his head a few times, ignoring the sinister crepitations at the back of his neck, and then he stretches his arms expansively over his head. “When will death take me?” he asks through a yawn.
He gives the Red Room one more glance before he switches off the light. He does set the alarm on his way out -- he would have, regardless, but this time he’s quite sure to get it right.
*
Back at the flat, Tommy’s already home. “That bad, huh?” asks Sol once he makes himself at home next to Tommy on the couch.
Tommy answers shyly, “It was lovely. We both agreed, better to end it early when it’s good than let it drag.”
“Sounds like a good’un.”
“He’s fine.”
“When’s he coming over to meet the parents.”
“What,” Tommy laughs and jostles Sol with his elbow. “My dirtbag pornographer single dad?”
“Like I said! The folks.”
“Please fuck off.”
“Shan’t.” He nods toward the TV where a black-and-white movie is going on. “What’ve we got?”
“Breathless. Godard.”
“Ah.” Sol yawns again. “French New Wave.”
“You remembered!”
“Anything for my special little guy.” He reaches over to tousle Tommy’s hair but gets slapped away. Swinging his legs up onto the couch he stretches out on his back and rests his ankles on Tommy’s thigh. “You wanna shoot in black and white sometime, young’un?”
“I thought you’d never ask. There’s nothing I’d like more, man.”
“Just ask,” Sol tells him. He closes his eyes and lets the whine of the TV harmonize with his tinnitus to make a sound that just might lull him to sleep. “Won’t know what you want unless you ask.”