After several lackluster attempts to sketch, work on his social media, or develop the new concept charm that’s been floating around his head, Ashton throws in the towel. He heads up the stairs to the garage and slips inside quietly, fully intending to stick to the shadows and just observe the goings-on. He’s successful, at least at first, since the Remingtons are actively engaged in the shoot when he arrives. Ashton doubts they can see much of anything past the set’s edge, not with those floodlights in their eyes.
The two-story-high garage has been transformed. The overhead lights are off and there’s an enormous, dark backdrop hoisted behind Link's car, which is being used as a prop. Enough photography equipment is present to make the place look as if a movie is being filmed, and there’s rock music playing. The photographer himself seems pleased, calling out instructions and praise when Link and Sam easily comply, posing and smoldering at the lens, one shot after the next.
The siblings are wearing dark, coordinating outfits: an evening gown for Sam and a casual suit for Link. It’s just a blazer over a collared white button-down shirt, slacks, and dress shoes without socks, which seems odd. Must be some sort of fashion statement Ashton doesn’t understand.
Despite the simplicity, they look incredible. Link especially, of course, is ethereal and flawless under the flattering lights. Professional and smooth, they shift and angle their bodies like real models, and while Ashton’s seen their print work many times, he’s still awed to discover how natural both of them are atdoingit.
Someone calls for a break, and Ashton’s luck runs out the second Link steps past the focused, glaring lights. Link blinks twice, adjusting, and then immediately makes eye contact. He grins deviously, and before Ashton can really understand what’s happening, Link's shrugging him into an almost identical blazer pulled from a giant rack of clothing, some lady with a powder puff is dabbing away at his face, and the lights are now inhiseyes.
Naturally, he protests the entire way, but Link has apparently decided that he’s done taking no for an answer, brushing off Ashton’s self-deprecation and declaring that this is part of the P.R. contract he signed in exchange for the artwork.
He’s bullshitting, of course. No one signed anything, but the pleading look on Link's face can’t and won’t be denied. Not to mention, the pure, almost childlike joy that lights up his lovely green eyes when Ashton sighs and relents is (probably) worth the embarrassment that will certainly come with being immortalized in a photo alongside two seasoned superstars. He tells Link as much, but Link just laughs and claps him on the shoulder.
“Get used to it,” Link says. “You’re one of us, now.”
While Ashton mostly just hovers awkwardly behind them as Link and Sam position themselves attractively against the car, he does manage to takeonepretty stellar shot where he doesn’t feel entirely out of place. Link has to practically shove him onto the hood to convince him to do it, but once he’s there, theverytalented photographer snaps a momentary Blue Steel that impresses even Ashton himself.
“Male modelin’ sonuvabitch,” Link says proudly. “Hot damn! Knew you had it in you.”
Ashton blushes, but deep,deepdown, he feels proud. Another new experience in the books, thanks to Link.
Apparently, the Remingtons handled the interview portion of things prior to shooting, so after the photographer declares them wrapped, they’re done for the day. As Ashton returns the blazer to the coat rack, Link pulls him aside and asks if he has any plans for the remainder of the afternoon. When Ashton shakes his head in the negative, Link grins and tells him to hang out for a second, darting off down the stairs to wash the makeup from his face and “grab something” from the kitchen.
As Ashton lingers and watches from the sidelines, the crew swiftly packs up the set. They return the garage to its usual bright, industrial state, disappearing with all of their cameras and equipment as if they were never there. The transition is almost startling, even more so upon the realization that for Sam and Link, this is fairly routine.
Link reappears less than ten minutes later looking fresh-faced. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a large, covered basket hanging from one arm. He’s smiling widely and winks when he catches Ashton’s eye.
“Hey gorgeous,” he says. “You ready?”
Well, hewas.Glancing down at his buttoned dress shirt and slacks, Ashton frowns. The professional vibe might’ve come in handy for the shoot, but now it feels like too much. “Will I be overdressed?”
Popping the trunk of his car, Link sets the basket inside and slams it shut. He makes a face, scrunching his nose as if Ashton has said something patently ridiculous. “Can’t be overdressed if there’s just you and me to see it!” Rounding his car the long way (apparently just to invade Ashton’s space), Link leans in close and murmurs, “Besides, you look damn good in anything. But if you’re worried, you can always take it off.”
Ashton and his heated cheeks are smart enough to know when they’re bested, so he smiles, nods, and parks himself in the passenger seat of the car.
As it turns out, Link packed an entire picnic spread earlier that morning, just in thehopesthat Ashton would be free and willing to share it with him. He’s bossy when he’s getting his way, though, so after a short drive and messy park job next to the river, Link makes Ashton sit on a rock and close his eyes while he lays out the spread. Grateful as he is for such treatment, Ashton even offers some light complaints from behind his hands, just to make his inevitable appreciation of the “big reveal” even better.
Turns out there’s no need to use his acting skills or exaggerate his delight—Link's setup is impressive. There’s an assortment of Ashton’s favorite snacks and sandwiches, oven-warm slices of pie, and multiple beverages: tea spelled perma-hot, soda and beer to stay ice-cold. Link even charms the blanket they’re sitting on to keep away bugs, and that’s alotof magic— a lot ofwork—for what’s supposed to be a relaxing afternoon off.
Sliding down from the rock, Ashton sits cross-legged by Link's side, glancing briefly out over the moving water. He resists the urge to make a cheesy crack about how the view is beautiful and the river is nice, too. “This is extraordinary, truly. Thank you, Link. You must be drained,” he says softly. “Between the magazine feature and this—I don’t know what I did to deserve all of your energy.”
The heaping forkful of pie being shoveled towards Link's mouth comes to a halt in mid-air, Link's mouth hanging open as his eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Do?” he echoes. “Shit, Ash, I’m the one trying to score time with you.” When Ashton just peers skeptically back at him down the length of his nose, Link sighs. “One of these days, you’re gonna believe me,” he says, shaking the fork until the pie falls off, landing on his paper plate with a plop.
“Eventually,” Ashton replies, scooping it up with a finger and lifting the sticky bite to Link's mouth, raising an eyebrow in suggestion.
Eager despite his apparent disbelief, Link opens and wraps his lips around the digit, holding eye contact as he sucks every trace of filling from his skin. Ashton is suddenly very glad they’re sitting, and that one of the cloth napkins Link packed with the picnic is currently draped across his lap.
“Yeah,” Link says, breathy and quiet as he releases the finger and licks his lips clean. The background noise of the rushing river isn’t anywhere near enough to drown out Ashton’s heart racing in his ears, and his skin feels hot despite the fall chill.
“Perhaps sooner rather than later,” he amends, smiling, which has Link positively beaming in return.
Silly as it might sound, Ashton didn’t necessarily realize that this type of thing—all of it, every bit—was something he was missing in his previous relationship. When he and Whitaker wentout,it was for business, or at most, Whitaker’s pleasure. Even the martini bar where Ashton broke his ex’s heart and set the stage for the horror show that followed was known to him as a place ofbusiness. Not a “date night” spot or even just a place to call “theirs,” but somewhere that he and Whitaker went to network, to recruit the upscale sort of clientele his ex preferred.
That’s just the way things were. Most nights spent at the martini bar (or anywhere) with Whitaker were filled with mingling and chatting with others, talking aboutwork.Rarely, if ever, did they go out as a couple with the primary goal and intention of simply enjoying each other’s company. Though it’s true that those nightsdidoften end with some form of carnal encounter, that certainly didn’t make themromantic.
In fact, when Ashton scours his memory, it’s peppered with an assortment of supply-closet-hookups and back-alley-gropefests, much more than it is anything resembling “romance”. The closest thing to the dictionary definition of “date”that Ashton can even come up with are the times when Whitaker ordered takeout ahead of his arrival and put it on the good china so they could eat before having sex.
Having spent these recent weeks with Link, having experienced true chemistry and attraction, havingseenfirsthand how beautiful close friendship can be, those memories feel almost cringe-worthy.Howcould he ever have mistaken whatever was between him and Whitaker for the real deal?
