The BALLS boys have been wrangled—some might say trapped—into posing for a sexy charity calendar to raise money for some of the organization’s underfunded support programs. They were promised snacks and low lighting. What they got was glitter on the floor, a fog machine left over from Halloween someone definitely shouldn’t have plugged in, and Margaret Anne’s unflinching vision.
Mr. January:
West stands in the center of the studio, arms stiff at his sides, wrapped head to toe in shiny red satin ribbon like a disgruntled present no one asked for but everyone secretly wants. A giant bow sits on his hip, slightly off-center in a way that makes him irrationally furious. The photographer is asking him to “smize,” and West is seconds away from flipping the guy off with one festive mittened hand. “You know I used to shoot people for a living, right?” he mutters to Riggs, who’s trying (and failing) to fluff the bow without making it worse. “Now I’m a slutty Christmas ornament.”
Margaret Anne, sitting just off camera with a thermos of chamomile tea and a look of absolute delight, claps her hands. “Oh sweetheart, you lookprecious. Like joy wrapped in testosterone.” West groans audibly. The ribbon itches. His left butt cheek is numb. There is absolutely no way this photo doesn’t haunt him for the rest of his life—or end up on a T-shirt Nash prints without permission and adds to the gift shop's inventory. But when the flash goes off and he hears the guys hollering support from the sidelines, something in his chest eases.
West never thought he’d be asked to pose for anything that painted him in a remotely sexy light,especiallynot after losing his leg. But here he is, half-wrapped in satin ribbon like a perverted Macy’s display, his prosthetic leg propped on a folding chair while Margaret Anne beams at him like he's just cured arthritis. He stands beside the chair, twisting slightly at the waist so the camera can catch the definition in his abs, the glint of sweat on his chest. There’s a weird dignity in it, somewhere beneath the ridiculousness. He hates how vulnerable it makes him feel, and how weirdly seen. Stiles wolf-whistles from the sidelines. West flips him off without moving his face.
Then it happens. The familiar flash of vertigo—quick, sharp, like falling through an elevator shaft in his own skin. His headgoes dizzy. For a second, his whole body feels like it’s slipping sideways, out from under him, even though he’s still upright. He grabs the back of the chair with one ribbon-wrapped hand and anchors himself, jaw clenched, heart hammering. He rights himself slowly, carefully, like he's pulling gravity back into place by sheer force of will. The camera flashes again. No one notices the moment but him. And maybe Margaret Anne, who looks up from her clipboard, sees him steady, and offers the softest nod a human can give. West breathes out, adjusts his pose, and lets them take the shot. January is his.
Mr. February:
Jax regrets everything.
The diaper itches. The foam wings are crooked. And the flimsy plastic red bow they gave him looks like it came from the clearance bin at a failing party store. He stands in front of a pink satin backdrop, barefoot and furious, staring at the camera like it owes him back pay and an apology. “Why do I look like I lost a bet and the rights to my dignity?” he grumbles.
“Because you did,” Stiles calls from off set. Margaret Anne snorts into her thermos and tells Jax to “aim the arrow like you mean it, sweetheart.” If he means homicide, then yes, he does.
The thing is, beneath the sarcasm, the slouch, and the absolute horror of feeling his ass cheeks touch tulle, Jax kind of gets why they asked him to do this month. February is bullshit, full of fake love and overpriced sugar, and he’s been faking both for years. There's something poetic about it. He draws the toy arrow back, poses like he’s about to snipe someone's libido from across the room, and tries not to think about how exposed he feels. Not just physically—though, God,physically—but the other kind too. The flash goes off. Jax flips off the camera right after, just to balance the universe, and when he hears Pharo chuckle, he aims the arrow at his partner, and lets it fly.
Mr. March:
Pharo glares at the camera like it insulted his mother.
He's six foot four, built like a security breach, and currently squeezed into a pair of metallic green briefs that look one deep breath away from catastrophic failure. Margaret Anne swears the suspenders are “charming,” though they barely make it over his chest. There are gold coins taped to his thigh with double-sided fashion tape that’s already given up. Someone shoved a green felt top hat on his head. It barely fits. Stiles starts humming the Lucky Charms jingle, and Pharo turns his head, very slowly, like a haunted grandfather clock, his eyes shooting golden daggers. The humming stops.
“It’s ironic,” Margaret Anne chirps, patting his arm like he’s not vibrating with restrained fury. “Big man, little leprechaun. It’s cute!”
“I look like a St. Patrick’s Day sex crime,” Pharo mutters, flexing his jaw while the photographer begs him to smile. He doesn’t smile. He smolders, because that’s all he knows how to do when under threat. The camera flash pops. Somehow, the image is perfect. Sultry. Dangerous. Absurd. He doesn’t realize he’s owning it until someone whistles and someone else mutters, “Jesus, Pharo could sell a Shamrock Shake with that look.”
He shifts his weight, the gold coin on his thigh fluttering pitifully. “I swear to God,” he says, deadpan, “if anyone puts a rainbow emoji under this picture, I’m walking into the sea.”
Mr. April:
April is for spring. Renewal. Bunnies, blossoms, soft pastel vibes.
Mandy stands under the lights wearing bunny ears, a white mesh tank top, and a black thigh harness that clings to his long, hairy legs like a dare. The photographer keeps asking for something playful—tilt your hips, wink a little, bite the corner of your lip—and Mandy is giving him exactly none of that. Hisexpression says, “If one more person tells me to act cute, I will snap this carrot in half with my bare hands and then leave.”
Off to the side, Tex fans himself with a copy of last year’s charity flyer, his voice pitched low and full of sin. “I didn’t know Easter could be horny.”
Mandy shoots him a glare that could peel paint. “Keep talking and I’ll put a carrot where the sun don’t shine.”
It gets a laugh. The tension breaks. A little. But inside, Mandy’s chest is tight.
The mesh tank exposes every inch of his burn scars—his left shoulder, collarbone, the angry ridges that cut down his ribs like melted wax. He knows no one’s saying anything. He knows Riggs would punch anyone who even flinched. But it doesn’t matter. That old echo rises anyway, that voice that hisses, “No one wants to look at you. You’re too broken to belong in something sexy.” The camera clicks. The light flares. Mandy wants to flinch but doesn’t. He holds his pose. He lets the shot happen. He breathes through the throb in his chest that’s more memory than pain.
And when he looks over at Tex again, the proud look on his partner's face makes it all worth it,almost. But it gives him the strength to stand still as the photographer snaps a few more pictures.
Later, Tex helps him out of the harness in the locker room and says, quietly, “You were the best one up there.” Mandy doesn’t answer. But his ears stay on a little longer than they have to, and he doesn’t argue when Tex asks if he can keep one of the proofs.
Mr. May:
May turns out to be far sexier than anyone expected, and it’s all Nash.
He strolls onto set wearing exactly nothing except a pair of battered garden gloves and a large potted plant placedjust so. He looks calm. Zen. Naked and completely unbothered, likesomeone who grows his own vegetables andwilldestroy you in a silent staring contest. The moment the camera flashes, he lifts the watering can with the solemnity of a priest blessing a baptism, pours a gentle stream onto the soil, and tilts his head like he’s in a slow-motion shampoo commercial. It shouldn’t work. It absolutelyshould notwork.
And yet.
