Work Text:
James stared down at his reflection in his coffee. Black, no cream, no sugar, never his first choice. Not even in his top ten. He took a sip, grimaced, and wondered when Francis Crozier’s opinion had come to mean so much to him.
It didn’t, he told himself. Not really. Only that Francis was one of the best working photographers in their field, arguably in the history of Erebus Images, and James had found a strand of grey in his hair this morning.
He shouldn’t have been a surprise, forty was looming on the horizon, ever closer with each passing day, but James was a model. His appearance was his life’s work, and any change meant change for him. He could see it now, Little not meeting his eye from behind the camera when he took him off the roster, the transfer over to a smaller, quieter agency, the long, endless line of department store photoshoots, fluffy advertisements featuring the once beautiful James Fitzjames bundled up in a flannel and puffer vest, a father of some sort maybe, aging gracefully but aging nonetheless. Salt in his hair, perhaps now trimmed, with a beard to match.
A handsome, older man. A beacon of masculinity, surely.
James stared at his reflection and gripped his mug tighter.
The cafe door jingled, and in stepped Francis, his cheeks flushed from the cold, wearing a leather jacket that always looked too light for this time of year, but maybe it was thicker than it looked. Maybe it didn’t matter because it suited him so well, not that Francis cared an ounce for fashion. At least, not on his own body.
He spotted James and gave him a quick nod before moving toward the counter, the rough pull of his voice audible even from James’ far corner. He watched as Francis dug his wallet out from the back pocket of his jeans and tried not to feel stupidly put out by the whole scene.
Masculinity fit him like a glove. How wonderful that must be. How easy.
Francis walked over, a matching steaming mug in hand. Black, no cream, two sugars. A hidden bit of sweetness. He sat down and blinked at James' drink.
"Oh," he said, "I wouldn't have ordered if I'd known."
"No, no! This one's mine."
"Yours? Something without enough sugar to do in a small horse?"
"I can enjoy more than one type of coffee," James sniffed.
Francis raised an eyebrow, and James hunched into himself, looking away with a frown. "Honestly, rather reductive of you, don't you think?"
Francis sighed and leaned back in his chair.
"If you invited me here to debate coffee, James, we may as well have had this meeting in the breakroom. Or better yet, not at all."
"Of course I didn't ask you here to chat about coffee, don't be ridiculous."
Francis made a go on gesture, and James promptly went back to staring down his drink.
"James."
James took a sip and winced. Good christ but was black coffee awful.
"James."
He set the cup back down, his reflection rippling. Unrecognizable.
"Listen, I don't have time for your little games, so you have nothing—"
"Wait!" James' head shot up and he reached for the man across the table, suddenly terrified he'd up and leave. That he would leave and James would stay and slowly crumble into nothing with each step. Francis, god bless that damned man, only glanced at his outstretched arm and raised both his eyebrows.
Francis, god damn James to hell forever, stayed and waited.
"I," James croaked out, "have a proposition for you."
Francis stared at him. James stared back then, upon realizing, scoffed.
"No! God, no, not that, Francis, christ. I'm saying, I want to work with you. Do a shoot."
Francis continued to stare at him, though something in his face relaxed. "You do realize, James," he said, leaning forward onto his arms, "that sounds even more crazy than you propositioning me. You hate my work."
James would unpack that later. "I do not."
"I think I once overheard you telling Le Vesconte that my work tried too hard."
"Well, I—" He wasn’t wrong. James had been derisive, and loudly so, when they first met. Francis didn’t seem angry now, wasn’t the type to wait for the perfect moment to stab this little knife into James’ chest, but his words stung nonetheless. Mostly, he hoped Francis didn’t dwell on those days. James regrouped, fixing Francis his favorite winning smile. "Perhaps I hadn't yet seen you for the great photographer you are."
"Hm."
"Well?"
"Well, what."
"Will you, then? Work with me?"
"Oh," Francis said, then sat back in his chair. "No."
James gaped at him as he took a sip of his coffee. "Francis, you can't be serious."
Francis inclined his head as he put his cup down, "Oh, I think you'll find I'm plenty serious."
"Why?"
Francis had the gall to roll his eyes. “I’m not gonna make you an itemized list, James.”
James sputtered as Francis, nightmare of a man, tossed back the rest of his coffee and pushed back his chair. He wasn’t leaving but the message was clear. Get it together, Fitzjames, I don’t have all day.
The problem was Francis had always had that uncanny ability to see through him. He’d meet James’ million-watt smile with disinterest, used to openly sneer at the creative meetings when James would echo his support for Mr. Franklin. Francis had hated the very thing that made James good at his job, made him useful, and James hated him for it. Or used to, before Blanky’s accident, the month and half at rehab, and the tentative, stilted apology Francis gave him when he returned, James too stunned to do anything but nod in reply. They weren’t friends, they were barely even coworkers, but they were civil.
James could give Francis the truth. Just enough to see that he was serious and, hopefully, no more.
“Francis,” James began. “I’ve come to a realization. I think I have gotten comfortable with myself, in a professional sense, and I am…unhappy about it. I want—I need to change.”
Francis squinted at him, tapping a finger against the scratched vinyl of the table. He was looking at James searchingly, and James struggled not to squirm under his gaze. He wasn’t lying. Francis just didn’t need to know more. “And I’m the one who can help you with this?”
“Yes.” That too, despite what he might have said out loud in the past, also wasn’t a lie.
“Was Le Vesconte not available?”
“He wasn’t.” Francis started muttering under his breath at that, and despite himself, James smiled. “But he wouldn’t have been right.”
“Thought you would have loved nightlife. Fit right in.” Francis was fishing, James knew. He was waiting for James to slip into his old self, that defensiveness, the arrogance, but he wouldn’t take the bait.
He shrugged “I do. Just not for this.”
“What did Little say?”
“I haven’t talked to him yet,” James said, “Didn’t want to give him any undue stress in case you said no. You know how he gets.”
“Hm. I still might say no.”
“You might,” James agreed easily.
Francis eyed him a moment longer before sighing and looking out towards the rest of the cafe. His finger stopped tapping and instead he spread his palm flat against the table like he was drawing strength from it.
“Come by the studio on Tuesday. I’m free anytime after eleven, just text to let me know ahead of time when you’re coming. You can find my address somewhere in the system. Or Jopson has it.”
“Francis, than—”
Francis finally did stand up then, pulling out a bill from that cracked leather wallet and tucking it under his cup.
“Don’t thank me yet, James, christ. We both might come to regret this yet.”
—
James was staring up at what appeared to be regular terraced housing and not the understated-but-refined studio he’d been imaging when there was a shuffle behind the door. It opened to reveal Francis dressed down in a crewneck sweater and jeans, a giant, fluffy black dog behind him, peering out from behind his leg.
“Down, Neptune,” he said, and the dog obediently sat, his tail thumping on the floor, still staring up at James. “Sorry, I should have mentioned I have a dog. Hope that’s alright.”
“That’s fine, can I pet him?”
“He’d be heartbroken if you didn’t. Come on in.”
Francis’ studio was apparently self-made, but he supposed that might be fine if the only person one ever photographed was their twice almost-fiancée. Most of the first floor had been converted into a shooting space with the only spots of normalcy being the kitchenette tucked beside the stairs and modest couch pushed up against the right wall. A coffee table sat in front of it, scattered with a few books and coasters. A dog bed sat at its side.
Francis took his coat and hung it on the old-fashioned looking rack by the door. Like the rest of the sparse furniture in the room, it looked worn in and well-loved. It was surprisingly homey.
“Do you want any tea? I just put on the kettle.”
“No, thank you,” James said, leaning over to give Neptune a few scratches behind his ears. His tail thumped louder. James hoped it drowned out how his own heart was beating double time. Maybe he was a bit nervous.
Francis nodded before walking over to the far side of the room, Neptune at his heels. “Alright then, tell me what you had in mind.”
Okay, maybe he was more than a bit nervous. Maybe he’d spent last night doomscrolling because he was too keyed up to sleep and now there was most likely too much concealer under his eyes trying to combat the issue. And if he’d spent most of the morning dry heaving over the toilet, that was his business.
James followed Francis, looking over his set up with a distant sense of panic, wondering how to even answer that question.
“What did you have in mind, Francis?”
Francis, in the process of looking over his options for backdrops, shot him a look over his shoulder, unimpressed. “James, please tell me you’ve put at least some thought into this.”
“Of course I have, I’m not some amateur,” he shot back, nerves spiking into irritation.
James had put too much thought into it. He’d been agonizing over whether to bring the singular dress he kept tucked far back in his closet for so long that he’d nearly missed his bus. The dress remained firmly at home.
He walked up to a rack of clothes Francis had tucked under the overhanging staircase and thumbed through it. A suit, a suit, another suit. Lovely colors, rich jewel tones that he knew would complement his skin tone, Francis knew his stuff after all, but all he could see was the same silhouette that had been staring back at him for years. Something inside him twisted.
“Ah, I had to guess a bit at measurements, but Hodgeson has a decent selection, so we could always–”
“No,” James said, voice tight.
Behind him, the crinkling of paper backdrops stopped.
“No?”
“I said I wanted something different. You didn’t listen to me.” He turned just in time to see the look of shock on Francis’ face solidify into something much harder.
“Maybe I would have understood better if you hadn’t been so damned cagey about the whole thing.”
“I was clear enough.” James fought the urge to pace and instead balled his hands into fists at his side.
“You could barely get the words out,” Francis said flatly.
“So you admit you heard the words.” It was petty but he didn’t care.
“Christ, James,” Francis threw his arms up. Behind them, James registered the soft whistle of a kettle beginning to boil, but he could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears. “If this is how you treat all your photographers, I’d hate to see how Ned puts up with you.”
James straightened and tossed back his hair. “I work fine with Little,” he said, words dripping with derision, “I work wonderfully with all my photographers. Perhaps I just thought you’d rise to meet me on their level.”
Francis stalked towards him. “No, what you do is mess around all day. You pretend at serious art. You turn your nose up at anything that doesn’t get you a direct line to fame and adoration while you sit up in your posh studio doing fucking black and white underwear photos and perfume ads!” His face was red, the line of his mouth mean. He was so close now, practically shaking with rage. “You said you wanted a change, James,” he hissed, “forgive me for thinking that meant you wanted me to give your work an iota of worth.”
James reared back like Francis had punched him again. Even then, even in the depths of those alcohol-soaked days, Francis had never said anything so cutting. So honest. Maybe he had, maybe just not to his face. Maybe he’d always felt like this.
In the kitchen, the kettle started going off in earnest, Neptune barking to make sure they both knew.
“You should get that,” James forced out and turned to go, barely paying Francis any mind as he called out behind him, shutting the door firmly on his name.
James made for his bus stop. The door remained closed behind him.
—
James was still in bed, late enough that the late morning had slipped into an early afternoon. He was an early riser by heart, Dundy liked to call him one of those six am jog fanatics, but it was the weekend, he could stand to lie around a bit.
And if it had been a few days since he’d done more than wander from bathroom to kitchen and back, well. There certainly wasn’t anyone around to tell him otherwise.
Dundy had tried, of course. Apparently being best friends for almost two decades had the effect of reading between the lines of his I’m fine texts and calling without even messaging him back.
“I literally just told you, I’m fine,” James had said.
“Uh-huh. And that’s why I can hear your blankets ruffling as you roll over.”
“Well, if you must know,” James said, stopping mid-roll, “I’m feeling a bit under the weather.”
Dundy didn’t even hesitate. “Did Francis get you sick?” They both knew the question for what it was.
“No, of course not.” He let out a pitiful sniff. “It’s not a big deal, Dundy, just something’s gone a bit…off.”
There has been a pause then a long, loud sigh. “Fine, Jas. You’ll let me know if you get any sicker, yeah?”
James had smiled and pulled the blankets further up around him. “Of course.”
That had been Tuesday night, and James was thankful Dundy had a full schedule this week and couldn’t hound him as often. If he knew James was still wallowing, he’d pull him out for a night of clubbing, and James couldn’t think of anything else he’d rather do less at the moment.
His phone chimed, and he groaned. Speak of the devil.
He pulled it off its charger, looked at the message, and froze.
Francis Crozier: Hey
James stared at his screen as another message came in.
Francis Crozier: Still have ur coat
James very carefully put his phone down then immediately picked it back up again. Maybe he should just say burn it and be done with it. Damn it, it had been a gift from Will, though. Maybe Francis could just set him on fire instead and save everyone the trouble.
James wrote back, You can just leave it in the breakroom. I’ll grab it on Monday.
There. Normal enough thing to say.
Another ding.
Francis Crozier: Ok
Francis Crozier: Didnt see u round much this week
James frowned. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather. Just resting.
Francis Crozier: Hm
Francis Crozier: Thats what levisconte said
“Christ, Dundy,” he whispered to himself. To Francis, he typed out, Yes, he’s been checking in.
Francis Crozier: Thats good
Three dots flickered at the bottom of his screen for a moment then disappeared. James watched as they did it again. And again. By the fifth time, he wondered if it was possible to die sick with anticipation. His palms had started sweating.
Finally his phone chimed.
Francis Crozier: Also wanted to say im sorry
All that for six words? James tried not to grip his phone too hard as he wrote back, It’s fine.
To his surprise, the reply was almost immediate.
Francis Crozier: No. its not
Francis Crozier: I was being stupid. I didnt mean any of those things James
James was still deciding what to type when more messages poured in.
Francis Crozier: Ive always like the parfume ads
Francis Crozier: n the underwear ones to I guess tho little dramatic for me
Francis Crozier: perfect for u then i supose
Francis Crozier: christ this is shite james what im badly trying to say is that you have worth. N im sorry
James stared at that final message until he could feel it behind his eyes.
With shaking hands, he typed, I appreciate that, Francis. I really do. It means a lot.
He stopped, debating. He bit his lip. He continued. And I want to apologize, too. I *was* being cagey with what I wanted. My own insecurities getting the better of me. The suits you picked were quite nice though. At another time, I would have loved them.
Francis pinged back.
Francis Crozier: Thats ok I should have asked to dunno why I didnt
Francis Crozier: If I can ask now what were u thinking of then? Just curious
James hesitated. Wasn’t that the million dollar question, the root of this whole issue. Slowly, so slowly he felt like he was watching himself move from across the room, he got up and walked to his closet. He shuffled some hangers around until he could get to the back and pulled it out, turning again to lay it flat on his bed.
Forcing himself not to think too hard, he opened his phone camera, snapped a picture, added it to a message with no text, and pressed send.
The photo in question was of a red sundress, something that had once caught his eye in Soho. It was cheaply made and not quite his size, the bright polyblend was probably meant to be a midi skirt, but it fell to just above his knees in a lovely ruffle. It was a bit too tight around the arms, and the sweetheart neck made his chest look somehow flatter than normal, but none of that mattered.
It’d bought it on a whim, tried it on at home, and cried while looking in the mirror. It was the most beautiful thing he owned. Not even Dundy knew about it.
His phone chimed again as he sat down beside it.
Francis Crozier: oh
He bit his lip again. Oh?, he typed.
Francis Crozier: Not bad
Francis Crozier: Just unexpected
James couldn’t think of anything to say back. His hands were shaking again.
Francis Crozier: I think I have something in mind
Francis Crozier: if u wanted to try again
Francis Crozier: dont wanna assume
James, somehow feeling both worse than he did all week and suddenly, incandescently alive, barely managed to write back, I think I want to.
He sent it, then another, with more conviction. I want to, Francis.
The reply was instantaneous.
Francis Crozier: Good
Francis Crozier: come over next sat. I wanna prepare right this tme
Francis Crozier: thank u james
James reacted to the message with a heart, hoping that Francis’ ancient phone would translate it in a way that made sense, and fell back onto his bed with a sigh. He fell asleep with his phone still tucked in his hand.
—
When Francis opened the door again, James had the distinct feeling of being very young and very shy. He’d been up early, checking and double checking that he’d gotten the date and time right. Francis hadn’t ended up making it to the office that week, at least while James was there, and whether that was by design or not, he’d couldn’t say. It didn’t stop his stomach from twisting into knots, but it was the thought that counted.
Little didn’t seem to notice anything was off, but he’d always been the anxious sort, not willing to engage. Back when James and Francis were still at each other’s throats, he’d seem to crumple in on himself like a wet paper towel whenever they truly got into it. Conversely, the day Francis put his hand on his shoulder and gave him a smile, Little had looked like he was going to burst into tears. Later, he’d caught a glimpse of Jopson rubbing his back with a smile while Ned did his best impression of a collapsing cardboard box.
There was really no excuse then for the way he had jumped when Little asked after his weekend plans.
“Just meeting with an—old friend!” He winced then tried to cover up his blunder. “We’re trying on some clothes. For an event—a wedding! His wedding. He’s getting married.” Surely no one had ever been this stupid. Another Fitzjames success story. Three cheers.
Little had just nodded, not even looking up from where he was clicking through the raw files of their session. “That’s cool. Weddings can be fun. I’m a bit of a crier though.”
“Hmm, yes, that sounds…feasible,” he replied, as if that made any sense and wasn’t the world’s shallowest cover up for his escape. “Have a good weekend, Edward.”
Dundy had been less understanding.
We’re gonna try the shoot again, he’d texted while on the bus over.
Immediately, his phone started buzzing. Messaging Dundy had been last for a reason.
Can’t talk now, I’m on the bus.
The call stopped and moments later, a message arrived.
Dundy: YOURE GOING RIGHT NOW?????
Yes, he typed, it was a bit last minute. It hadn’t been, but that was need to know only.
His phone began buzzing again.
Not NOW, Dundy, I promise I’ll update you later!
Two quick pings as the vibrating stopped.
Dundy: UGHHHHHHHHH
Dundy: YOU BETTER
Now, standing again in Francis’ kitchen, hoping that petting Neptune would fix his overwhelming need to pass out, he wondered if taking the call would have helped.
“Coffee?” Francis had one hand in a cupboard and was looking at him so openly. James looked away quickly.
“Ah, no, thank you.” Caffeine would probably only make this worse.
“Alright.” Francis pulled out a mug with a faded logo that read Ross Perspectives. He caught James eyeing it and smiled, lifting the steaming cup up further.
“James designed it himself. We were sitting on his couch when he was doing the first few passes.” Francis smiled a little wider, “A gifted landscape photographer does not make even a halfway decent graphic designer. He was all into, what was it…word art? Or something.”
James felt himself smile back and something within him settled, just a bit. “Thank god he got himself a camera. Man would have been a menace with photoshop.”
Francis laughed. “Christ, thank god for Ann! Someone had to reign him in.”
“Do you think he misses it? Being in front of the camera?”
“Who, James? Not a chance. Even during our shoot, he was too busy trying to talk my ear off about berg patterns to pose for more than half a second. He’s lucky semi-candid was a good look for him.”
James nodded. He’d see those photographs at a gallery many years ago, before his modeling days. A brilliant shock of red hair amongst the ice. A landscape that threatened to swallow the man that loved it anyway. Love all over that barren land and the images that held it. It was the beginning of Francis’ career, and in a different way, Ross’ as well.
“They were fine photographs,” James said.
Francis met his eye. “I’ve fine subjects,” he said before taking a sip of his coffee.
James’ mind went static, and Francis tilted his head towards the studio space. “C’mon, I want to show you something.”
They walked over together, Neptune following quietly as they approached the clothing rack. There were a few items hung in their garment bags, impossible to see inside. While there were far less than the colorful suits from last time, it was enough for a few different options and changes. Considering what James had asked, he was touched.
Francis placed his coffee down on a small table next to the rack and pulled off the first bag. He handed it to James carefully, his face earnest as he lowered his head to meet his eye.
“There’s a bathroom around the corner there if you’d like to change, but…” he trailed off, looking nervous for the first time James could ever remember seeing, “Sophia had liked the bathroom upstairs. It’s the ensuite, but it's more roomy. Warmer. Nicer for…more elaborate wear.”
“Oh,” said James. His heart was doing something funny. “I think I’d…that sounds wonderful, Francis. Thank you.”
Francis seemed to relax a bit at that and gave him another smile, nodding towards the stairs. “Go on then. Come down whenever you’re ready. We can do any final touches here with the lights.”
James nodded again and went up.
The master bedroom was easy enough to find, with both doors of the upstairs rooms left ajar. No need to keep private what was already hidden away. To his right was some sort of office, the edge of a cluttered desk just peeking out, so he headed left.
His first thought was that it was clean. Very tidy. Francis had been a navy man back in the day, he knew, but it had never been more apparent than in his sparse closet, his modest bookshelf dotted through with naval history, and the sharp edges of his deep blue bed sheets, neatly made.
A pair of reading glasses sat on a bedside table next to a tattered paperback. Another dog bed sat beside a singular armchair. A small potted plant was growing tall and vividly green on the window sill.
Francis, unfiltered.
It was all making James feel a bit like a raw nerve.
He moved into the bathroom quickly, scrunching his nose in exasperated amusement at the bottle of two in one shampoo and conditioner on the shower shelf, before unzipping the garment bag and looking inside.
He stared. He placed a hand over his mouth before moving it back to stroke over the cloth within. He barely dared to breathe. With shaking hands, he slowly pulled it out.
It was a dress but nothing like his hidden sundress back home. This was closer to a gown, the long line of it reaching his socked feet. The velvet was a blushing mauve, warm in its whorls and gold detailing, expensive in its weight and feel. Ribbon lined the back lacing. A corset. He set his finger upon the front paneling, the ridges unyielding. A boned corset. Christ.
He held it up to himself in the mirror, eyes scanning wildly, but it wasn’t enough. Very gently, he set the dress down on the counter and began unbuttoning his shirt.
Francis was facing away from him when he made his way back downstairs, fiddling with one of the lights and muttering under his breath, which thankfully gave James a moment to collect himself before clearing his throat.
“Oh, James, you’re ba—” Francis turned then froze, staring, mouth open. James fought the urge to curl into himself.
“Christ,” Francis whispered. James felt himself go scarlet.
“I, um,” his voice cracked and he swallowed, “I need help with–with the back.”
“Oh,” said Francis, still staring. “Oh, of course. Come here.”
James walked over to him, hands clasped in front of himself, eyes downcast. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see Francis’ expression resolve itself into something readable up close.
There was a gentle touch to his arm. He bit his lip.
“Turn around for me.”
James turned, repressing the urge to shiver as he felt the gentle scrape of fingertips against his spine, lingering there for just a second before sliding down to where the lacing began.
“Ready?” Francis said. James nodded. God but his hands were warm, even though the velvet. “Good. Remember to breathe for me, hm?”
“Yes,” James whispered, then gasped when a tug drew the corset tighter around him.
“Good.” Francis said again. His breath was hot at the back of his neck.
Francis worked slowly but with the precision of a man who had done this several times before. Before long, he felt the pull of the fabric tightening against his waist as Francis tied off the bow, then after a moment, those two hands on his waist, gently compelling him to turn. James shivered again and let himself be spun around.
Francis was so close, his blue eyes dark in the studio lighting. They looked at each other, neither of them moving closer or away. Was this how it felt with Ross, up in the arctic? With Sophia, who had all her dresses done up this way before?
“I’m sorry I didn’t have any shoes to match,” he whispered. James’ feet were bare against the hardwood of Francis’ floor, the socks felt too silly to keep on with something as elegant as the gown.
“Next time then,” Francis murmured back. His gaze was traveling down, and James could feel every slow inch of it like a brand.
“Should we get started?”
Francis looked back up then nodded. To James’ shock, he reached out and took his hand, leading him over to a chaise lounge that had been moved from somewhere in the house. He kept hold of his hand as James situated himself on the silky black fabric, only letting go once James wasn’t at risk of tripping over his skirt.
Francis moved back to the camera, looking into the viewfinder.
“Are you comfortable, James?”
“Yes.”
Flash.
James had been a model for over a decade, the flash of photography lights was something he was well acquainted with, but it felt different in Francis’ home, splayed out like this for him.
“Good. Now tilt your head back a little more.”
James did as he was told, knowing from experience the way it drew out the long line of his neck. From the corner of his eye, he could see the way his hair fanned out around him on the cushion back.
Flash.
“Look more towards me now.”
Flash.
“Good, James.” Francis’ voice was rough at the edges, curling around his accent. James felt himself blushing again.
Flash.
“Gorgeous,” Francis murmured. His breath caught, the arch of his chest high on the inhale.
Flash.
“Slide your left leg down a bit, off the lounge. Plant it on the floor, out a little more, good. Now raise your right knee just a bit, perfect, James.”
Flash.
His legs were spread like this, not enough to be indecent or purposefully playful but instead provocative, a lively young thing flushed with passion, as fixated on her beholder as he upon her. A woman, poised and proper, with red, bitten lips.
A bride, looking at her husband on her wedding night, color all the way down to her neckline, wanting and wanted all the same. Desire incarnate.
Flash.
“Hands on your thighs now, good. Bring your left hand further up for me. More.” His voice was firm. He knew what he wanted. “More. More, James. Right there, good.”
Underneath the heavy folds of his skirt, he could feel himself starting to get hard.
Flash.
Francis leaned away from the camera, his eyes almost black from behind the lights. “Lovely,” he whispered.
James sat up.
Francis blinked. “James?”
“Sorry, I—” he stood suddenly, bunching his fingers in the fabric to hide his shame. “I just—” He had to pull himself together, he was better at hiding than this. “Did you get everything you needed?”
Francis raised his eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be asking that of you?”
“Me? Then yes, I’m quite satisfied.” He was already moving towards the bathroom. Neptune, who had been quietly napping during the shoot, lifted his head sharply as James passed.
He didn’t look in the mirror as he undressed. He didn’t look at himself. He didn’t trace his fingers over the velvet before he zipped the dress back up into its bag. He didn’t linger.
Back downstairs, the photography lights had been powered down. Francis leaning against the kitchen wall, James’ coat in his hand. He was frowning.
James walked up and shoved the garment bag towards him. “Thank you for the shoot, Francis. I had a wonderful time.”
Francis stared at the bag for a moment, stunned, then back up to him. He took it and laid it carefully on the bannister before turning back to James, jaw set.
“Did you now?”
James forced himself to smile. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. Truly.” That, beyond a doubt, was entirely truthful.
“And that’s why you’re running out the door.”
James looked away. “That’s not it, Francis, I’m just—I need—” He huffed in frustration. Francis needed to know that what happened tonight wasn’t his fault. “Francis. I feel nothing but gratitude to you for tonight. You are everything a model could dream of in a photographer and more. Every minute of tonight I have felt seen and heard and understood. I feel…I felt lucky.”
They stood there, Francis watching him and James bearing it, until Francis sighed.
“At least let me help you with your coat.”
“Francis, you don’t need—”
“I know.” He looked at James, something aching in his expression. “Please let me anyway.”
James let him slide the coat up his arms and keep a hand at the small of his back as he walked him to the door. He could feel the drag of fingers through the fabric as Francis pulled away, and it burned.
“Good night, James,” he said, as held open the door.
“Good night, Francis. Thanks again.”
James walked out and didn’t stop until he heard the click of the door closing. He stopped. He waited. He hoped, stupidly, ignorantly.
The door remained closed behind him.
James went home.
He threw open his closet, shoved his sundress into a bag, and kicked it under his bed.
He didn’t cry at all.
—
The sound of pounding on his door woke James. He blinked into the light of his bedside lamp then squinted at his clock. Not quite midnight, but far too late for anyone to be visiting unannounced.
The heavy knocking stopped only to begin again a second later.
James pushed himself out of bed, groaning. He’d fallen asleep in the clothes he came home in hours ago, and the waistband of his jeans was cutting into his hip in an uncomfortable way. His entire face felt swollen.
As he got closer, there was a voice behind the door, almost covered up by all the knocking, mumbling but urgent. God, had he forgotten something? Maybe it was Dundy, coming to follow up in person after James failed to message him about how he ruined the evening.
He walked a little faster, not in the mood for any of it, and yanked open the door a bit harder than necessary.
“Dundy, what—”
“Jopson, are you sure that the address—”
James stared slack-jawed as Francis, clad in his leather jacket, hair mussed and falling into his face, paused with one fist still raised to stare back at him. His other hand was clutched tight around his brick of a phone, the volume turned up loud enough that even James could hear the gentle, soothing tones of one Thomas Jopson.
Francis recovered first. “The address is good, Jopson. Good night.” He promptly hung up.
“That was rather rude,” James said, still not quite believing this wasn’t some sort of weird dream.
“I’m sure he’s happy to get back to bed,” said Francis. “Can I come in? Or—were you waiting for someone? Le Vesconte? I didn’t call ahead, I’m—”
“No!” James was gripping the doorframe hard enough to make his nails ache. “No, Dundy’s not coming. I…wasn’t thinking. Please, come in.”
James stepped back to let Francis through, closing the door behind them after a quick glance down either end of the hallway. He’d apologize to his neighbors in the morning about the racket.
Francis was pacing his living room by the time James caught up to him. He was running a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. Even when he was deep in his cups, James had never seen him quite this disheveled.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he started. “It’s a bit late for coffee, but I have some nice teas kicking around. Kettle won’t be but a moment—”
Francis stopped pacing and turned to him.
“James,” he said. His voice was ragged. Agonized. Something in his expression was cracked and spilling all over.
James frowned, genuinely confused. “You’ll have to forgive me, Francis, but I’m not entirely sure why you’re here.”
“James,” Francis said again and took a step forward. “Of course you know. I’ve come to apologize. About tonight.”
James must have heard him wrong. “You? Apologize?”
Francis laughed, a short, harsh thing, but his face was pained. “Surely I’m not too proud an old man to make you think I can’t own up to my actions.”
“Francis,” James said, helpless, “you’ve done nothing wrong.”
“And eyeing up a colleague—a friend while he’s lying in my studio and making him so uncomfortable that he runs out in the middle of the session isn’t anything wrong, hm?”
James froze.
Francis was seething before him, mouth twisting in the way it did back when he had wanted to say something awful to James. All that anger was self-directed now.
“Stupid. Unprofessional. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to report me to Franklin—”
“Francis,” James whispered.
Francis’ head jerked towards him. His face was flushed. He was squaring himself up as if awaiting the final blow from James, all that naval training sitting in the set of his shoulders. James knew then that if he truly were to say the word, Francis would walk out of his flat, out of his life, forever without complaint.
His eyes were so blue. James had never seen a man so beautiful.
“Francis,” he said again, his voice barely audible even to himself, “I left because I wanted nothing more than to pull you down on top of me on your couch, and I would not take advantage of the only person I have ever trusted enough to show this part of myself.”
They stared at each other. The clock on James’ mantle ticked past midnight.
“James.” Francis’ voice was shot. James shivered.
“Francis,” he said, aching. “Please.”
Francis was across the room in a second, strong hands at his waist pushing and pushing until he was up against the wall, Francis’ mouth hot and hard against his own.
James moaned and wrapped his arms around those broad, leatherbound shoulders. Christ, if Francis wasn’t swallowing him entirely, the fingers digging into his hips, the tilt of his head deepened the kiss. James felt delicate against him, small in a way he never really had been. Held.
James broke away to breathe, and Francis moved closer to kiss at his neck, mouthing at the curve of his jaw. James started shaking. He was already thickening in his pants, the arousal from earlier returning twofold.
Francis bit down, sucking a bruise too high to hide. James choked on a gasp.
“Christ, Francis—”
“I should have never let you walk out,” Francis managed between kisses. “I should have brought you upstairs and had you in that dress.”
“Please, god, please.” Francis shoved his thigh forward and James immediately ground against it, moaning at the feeling of finally getting friction against his cock.
“You’d be a vision in my bed, James. My gorgeous girl.”
James cried out, shaking so bad that Francis had to help hold him up. God. Being Francis’. Being his girl. He wanted it so bad he was going to cry.
Francis pulled back just a bit to search his face, his own mouth red and wet from marking up James’ neck. Whatever he found made him lean in again, nosing against his temple as he whispered, “You like being my lovely girl, hm?”
“Yes, Francis, please, I’ll do anything—”
“Hush, lass, we can’t have you waking the neighbors. I suppose they’ll already be mad at me.”
“Fuck them, I don’t care,” James gasped out, “Take me to bed, Francis. Now.”
Francis chuckled before pulling away. “Bossy, you are. Show me the way, then, miss.”
James all but dragged Francis to his room, pulling them onto the bed as best he could without breaking their kiss. Francis was hot above him, his weight pushing James deeper into his mattress, the answering hardness in his jeans making him dizzy.
James gasped into his mouth and started tugging on his leather jacket. “Off, I want to see you, Francis.”
Francis’ eyes were blown black, but he paused. “Are you sure, James? I’m not as—well. Let’s just say I’m no model like you.”
“Francis, I need you to know that I’ve thought you were devastatingly handsome since the moment you walked into our first company meeting together. I’ve been dying to see you for years.”
Francis blinked, and to James’ infinite joy, flushed even deeper.
“Flatterer,” he muttered but he was smiling as he pressed another kiss to James’ mouth. “Fine. But I want to see you, too.”
James couldn’t remember a time he’d undressed this fast and held such little regard for the clothes he tossed across his room. He lied back and was treated to the vision of Francis Crozier sliding off his undershirt, bare and brilliant before him.
His prick was full and heavy between his thighs, already wet at the head. James reached out and pulled him towards the edge of the bed. He looked up at him, the light of his lamp casting shadows on his lined face.
“Can I?”
Francis tucked a strand of hair behind his ear then cupped his jaw, pressing his thumb into his mouth. James sucked at it as Francis watched.
“Eager thing,” he said as he pulled his thumb out. He grabbed his prick, giving himself a stroke before bringing it up to James’ lips. “Go on, then. Show me.”
James leaned in, kissing the tip until his mouth was sticky with the salt of it. Francis gathered his hair into a fist, gently, so gently, before pulling James forward. James opened his mouth and let him slide in deep.
Francis was thick, his jaw aching pleasantly as he took him down, swallowing as he hit the back. He let Francis guide him in a slow back and forth, sucking and licking where we could. Spit was running down his face. He could feel his own cock leaking from where it was resting on his thigh.
“Messy girl,” Francis murmured, and James felt himself twitch, pushing himself down a little further on Francis' prick until he choked.
Fingers traced the side of his mouth, pressing against his cheek to feel the slide of himself inside.
“I used to think about this,” Francis said, his voice low and rough, tugging James harder now. “In our meetings, when you’d be yapping on about some new fashion release or something, I’d think about putting this mouth to better use. I thought you’d be such a brat at my feet, whining up a storm. I never thought you’d be gagging for it like this.”
Francis was truly fucking his mouth now, the hand in his hair tight to the point of stinging. It only made him harder, being used like this, being good like this.
“I’m close, James,” Francis panted, hips beginning to stutter. “Where do you want it?”
In response, James swallowed him all the way down and sucked hard. Francis hissed.
“Fuck. Fuck, James, you pretty thing, I’m gonna—” Francis gasped and spilled down his throat. James slid back up, licking Francis clean until he was pulled away. He moved to go in again, just for one more taste, but Francis stopped him with a low laugh. “It’s your turn now. Lean back for me.”
It was like James was back in Francis’ studio, taking direction as he relaxed back onto his pillows and spread his legs, watching as Francis watched him with hunger.
Kneeling closer, Francis took him in hand, and James almost shot off the bed. Immediately, Francis’ other hand planted itself back on his hip, holding him down. Making him take it. James was going to pass out or pass away, he wasn’t sure. The callouses on Francis’ hand were making it hard to think straight.
“Look at you, lass, so wet for me already.”
“Francis—”
“You said you wanted this at the studio?”
“Yes,” James choked out as Francis twisted on the upstroke. “Yes, I wanted it, Francis. It was all I could think about, I would have let you photograph everything.”
“Even this?”
“Yes, this, Francis, fuck me and record it, I don’t care. I want to be yours, god—”
“You are,” Francis leaned in, voice harder now, “I going to fuck you in the dress, lass, right there on my couch. I’m going to open you up next time, see how good your pussy feels around me.”
“Francis, christ, I’m close—”
Francis sped up, and James shook with it.
“I’d fuck you just like this, until you made a mess all over yourself, until you ruined your pretty dress, my gorgeous girl—”
James’ back arched and he sobbed as he came over Francis’ hand, spilling all the way up his chest, thighs twitching as Francis pulled him through it, again and again until James was teary-eyed with sensitivity.
Francis finally let go, leaning down to wipe his hand on his discarded shirt before moving to stand. James caught him around the waist and pulled until he relented with a laugh, lying back beside James and wrapping an arm around him.
“I need to clean you up, darling,” he murmured, and James hid his smile in Francis’ shoulder. “And we should talk about this. I don’t want to mess this up, James.”
James looked up. Francis was looking at him with such adoration that James was helpless to lean in and press a gentle kiss against his mouth. Francis sighed, tugging him closer as he kissed back.
When they finally separated for air, James laid his head back down against Francis’ shoulder. “In a minute,” he said, already dozing off, “I just want you to stay here.”
There was a moment where all James could feel was Francis’ breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest, before a soft kiss was pressed to his forehead. James sighed and closed his eyes.
“Okay,” Francis whispered above him. “Okay.”
—
NEW EXHIBITION AT ADMIRALTY GALLERY
Erebus Images is thrilled to announce their new winter showcase premiering at their central London flagship gallery. Headlining the exhibition is Francis Crozier, multi-award winning photographer of “Icebound” and The Muse Collection, who is debuting his first new collection in nearly four years.
The collection, simply titled “James,” is a series of photographs taken over a year featuring his partner, model James Fitzjames, in a variety of intricate, abstract, and almost fantastical tableaus. His signature eye for color and texture shines in every image, but most striking is Fitzjames, framed beautifully in a variety of unique, handcrafted gowns.
Fitzjames, known for his work specifically within the male fashion scene, had a lot to say about this new direction. “This was something that’s always been within me. I’m not sure if it would have ever come out, or come out in this way that is visible and celebrated, if not for Francis. He’s always been a very talented photographer, and working, and being, with him has only shown me how creating with someone who understands you in a way no one else ever has can be rewarding beyond anything I ever could have imagined.”
Crozier, when asked to comment, only said this. “I’ll let my work speak for itself, but I hope those who visit can understand how much James gives me in return.”
“James” opens December 15th at Admiralty Gallery in central London. Crozier and Fitzjames will be in attendance opening night before setting off on their honeymoon to Florence.
All tickets may be reserved online at erebusimages.com.