Cathairsis (Part 1) by Fantasy Weaver

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As a writer, I know my stories come off as blatantly sensual. I do not hide that fact. So, after "By the Chains That Bind Thee", I want to continue that exploration of intimacy that so many people with trichophilia have. I also wish to integrate the aspects of BDSM which I am surprised (pleasantly so) that I am not the only one who sees its seamless integration into the haircutting scene. BDSM is a part of who I am as a person; there are many ways in which one can experience it, and this story will highlight the parts which I as the author find myself more entranced by. This is by no means a real retelling of events; this is fictional, and any resemblance to anything real is purely coincidental. All characters are eighteen years or older. All events within the story are done with consent.

Any mention of characters from other stories are from my own roster.

In this series, we follow Aden Verity, a photographer whose specialty lies in his meticulous arrangement of scenes with people, and his love of scenes without them, never allowing his clients to be taken by surprise with his camera, allowing them to show the emotions they want to convey, not the ones they wish to keep to themselves. However, when he accidentally captures a man in a nightly picture, his interest is piqued. Enter Rah Hemlock, a night-shift barber with a rather unconventional clientele inside the walls of his establishment, "Cathairsis", and a personality strongly in line with the leather he dons on his back. He has a project, and his eyes are set on seeing it done by a troubled Aden, who cannot help but feel that Rah has an ulterior motive in mind -or could it be that Aden is the one who suddenly has a desire for the unknown?

Every chapter is a picture, a transformation, a metaphorical poem and a song, an art piece and a story, a push and pull between Aden and Rah, between the comfort of the known, the tried and tested, and the discomfort of the new, the intriguing and the intimate. A collection, an anthology, of people and their desires, at their most raw and unveiled, culminating to a conclusion that Aden does not wish to dwell on, and one which Rah is convinced will happen, no matter how hard the photographer tries to deny it.

Please enjoy.

Catharsis:

noun: catharsis; plural noun: catharses

1.The process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.

-Fantasy Weaver.


Note

1: Some foul language ahead

2: Some adult content ahead


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Prologue

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The world had quieted down.

The streets were empty.

The sky, nothing but a canvas of stars.

But they couldn’t be seen here, not under the yellow haze. That was okay though. All that mattered was that they were there, behind the smog. Behind the smoke. Behind the light.

It was cool. Humid. His breath fanned out in front of him. The pavement’s cold seeped through the cotton of his jeans.

It was peaceful. Sat in the middle of the street. No one bothered him at this hour. No vehicles to crush his form where it lay on the asphalt. None to break the silence.

Only the camera shutter to offer any noise.

One. Two. Three takes. Twenty. Thirty. Sixty. On it went.

The clash of cool and warm.

His mind was blank. Devoid of any thought. Devoid of any voice of reason. He lost himself to the tide, to the serenity of no longer being in control of his own actions. Let emotion dictate.

For once. Surrender to the night.

And like an unpermitted voyeur behind a door, he didn’t even stop himself when the stranger shattered the idyllic scene. Didn’t stop his finger from pressing, from capturing it.

He was beautiful.

That was the first thing he thought when he spotted him.

He screams of depravity.

That was his second thought, tagging just behind the first.

‘I want him to violate me.’

The third thought, like the growl of a hungry wolf, threatened to swallow him whole.


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Cathairsis: A Photographic Anthology

xox

Picture 0 â€" The Man Under the Streetlamp

XXXXX


Aden always was more comfortable behind the lens of his camera. Never one to be in the picture, but the one taking it, framing it, adjusting the lighting to make the subject stand out, look their best. There’s a mindlessness to the task of preparing for a singular picture, from placing the various elements of the stage to making sure the colors were just so. Just right. It took time, patience, and an eye for the beauty in all things.

Nighttime photography was one of his favorite things to do. There is a calm, a certain sort of quiet contemplation only the night can bring. It can be from the twinkling stars that appear in the velvety black sky, the swaying grass in the gentle breeze. In the city, it’s when the street lamps turn on, when little moths and bugs gather around the incandescent bulbs and the people go back home to sleep. The contrast of loud, bustling sidewalks and roads full of noisy cars, to the deserted street, quiet and eerie, was what he loved.

He had taken so many takes on the same street, just lightly wet with a passing shower, the warm yellow light of the steel lamp bathing the darkened road in its golden glow, the bluish light of a neon sign from a closed café adding a hot-cold clash to the entire scene. It was peaceful.

It was only when Aden had begun to go through the hundreds of photos, in the confines of his little house, that he noticed something breaking the peace.

At first, the thing was a blurry shape in the dark. But as he scrolled through the different takes, one of them finally stood out.

Random people out at night weren’t uncommon. He had to edit out these night owls from many other photographs before this; that’s just how unimportant they were to the scene. Nothing a blending brush in Photoshop couldn’t get rid of. But that was for ordinary people.

Not him.

How long had he stared at that one good picture he had of him, only God could tell. The street was the same, the lighting, the wet pavement, but a lonely figure stood beneath the street lamp, mid-motion in a long, confident stride to the other side of the road, caught in an ephemeral moment.

Aden didn’t like ephemeral photography. He had an aversion to it. Something about the way people looked caught in their daily lives bothered him. It’s the realness of their eyes, the raw emotion. How one can almost see into their soul, if they just look long enough. Fears, vulnerabilities, passions, he could see them all, and he didn’t like knowing people that well, especially for a photo. People want to look their best in pictures, not tell their life story through their face. It’s why he obsesses over preparing a scene with a client. It’s why he likes to shoot scenes without people. The emotions of such a scene hit different when there’s no one there to look at.

For some reason, in this one, the stranger didn’t feel out of place.

He wasn’t looking into the camera. Head held high, staring straight ahead of him to the other sidewalk, hands stuffed in the pockets of a tight leather jacket, ripped jeans tucked into knee-high boots, hair tied into a messy half-bun on his head.

Aden couldn’t even see his eyes from the angle of the shot. Uncharacteristically for him, he decided to just…leave the stranger in the photo. At least, for this one. He would use another shot to add to his portfolio, one without the man. After all, he was very strict when it came to consent of being in a picture, and without this stranger’s written or verbal agreement, he couldn’t let himself use this shot for anything other than personal use.

He stared at the man in the picture. He stared for a long time.

Thoughts entered his mindscape, rendering him unable to tear his gaze away for the man’s arresting figure.

XXXXX

As luck would have it, Aden wouldn’t have to wait long before he encountered the man again, on the very same street he had taken that initial photo at.

He had been minding his business, working from his laptop on the pictures from a recent wedding shoot (all staged of course; he would have it no other way), drinking a creamy cappuccino on the terrasse of the same café from his streetlamp picture. In a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, Aden caught sight of the stranger in the night scene, passing between two groups of people on the sidewalk, barely two meters from his own table.

His gut twisted at the sight of him, and Aden, shocked to find his heart thrumming hard in his throat, found himself wanting to follow the man.

There was no precedence for such behavior from him. He avoided people on most days, never mind fighting the urge to invade their private lives. Yet here he was, eyes flicking undecidedly between his laptop and the retreating ghost of his photograph.

Aden wouldn’t be able to tell anyone why he had caved under the pressure. He had no suitable, reasonable answer. One would think his primal instincts would have kicked into gear knowing what the man from his picture looked like (if his personality matched, Aden thought it would be best to keep his distance), but no. No. One moment he was sipping coffee, the next, he was walking - jogging - to keep up with the mystery figure. Had he paid for his coffee? He couldn’t even remember.

For a moment, Aden thought he might have lost him in the six p.m. crowds that always milled about the downtown area at that time. Men and woman alike passed by him, blocked his view, and generally bumped into him - or was it the other way around? The man turned his head this way and that, scanning each side of the street, the alleyways, the crowded entrances to pubs and bars…

All that meet his eyes were throngs of people. The ringing in his ears he hadn’t noticed until now faded. In its stead, voices, laughter, the honking of cars in the street.

A sigh rose up from his lungs. The world came back into focus. His heart, which had been thumping uncomfortably fast in his chest, slowed down.

Perhaps it was better to have lost sight of him, he thought, just as his fretful organ returned to its normal resting rhythm. To get so worked up for a single person ought to have struck him as alarming. When had he started doing that? He shook his head. This passing intrigue for a person he didn’t even know would dissipate as soon as he got home. He would delete the pictures he had of the guy. He would erase him from memory.

It was as he was turning on his heel that his eyes found him.

Tunnel vision. Across the street, Aden recognized the renovated façade of what used to be a brick building housing a salon. He hadn’t realized it had closed, nor had he seen when the new storefront had appeared; it was all angular, flat black concrete and a greyish-white, large brick base with shining, new glass windows.

He crossed quickly, not heeding the voice in his head telling him to go home. Any remnants of the cozy little salon that used to be in the building’s place had vanished; gone were the lacy white curtains, the fake flowers in little vases, the welcoming sight of plush couches with colorful cushions. Above him, in off-white lighting that probably shone warm yellow in the dark was the name of the establishment in harsh black and gold writing:

"Cathairsis"

Aden felt his eyes drift to the swirling black and white barber pole to his right. To the left, the large window that gave a view of the inside was covered with the same intense print and the logo of the shop: two pairs of scissors, two clippers and two straight razors, lined in a row forming three X’s. His mind caught up to the name, a play on the word "Catharsis". That was an unusual word to be using to make a hair-related pun for - he checked the pole again - a barbershop. Why not something like "Cutting Edge" or "Razor’s Edge" or…he wasn’t very good at puns, and it’s late, so he didn’t force himself to find any more.

The stranger from his pictures had entered the door, on which opening hours greeted him, as well as various papers and stickers one usually finds on the door to any retail establishment. Surprisingly, the barbershop was only open from six to midnight. Aden’s brows furrowed. What kind of barbershop was open at night?

More shocking than the business hours was the notice that hung just underneath:

"Cathairsis does not provide children’s cuts or teen cuts. One must be 18 or older for service."

‘Odd’, his mind provided. He looked back at the inside of the shop, trying not to arise suspicion while doing so.

It didn’t take long to find his stranger. The man was standing by a workstation and passing a cloth over the barber chair. He looked much the same as in the picture: his leather jacket had been removed, showing a simple black tee over inked arms, ripped jeans tucked into the same polished black boots that stopped just bellow the knee, and hair as black as night pulled into a bun.

Oh? But Aden spotted something he hadn’t been able to see on his picture. As the stranger turned his head to the right, Aden found himself fascinated to see bare scalp. A side cut? Or shave, in this case, would be more appropriate. You don’t see those too often.

The man’s eyes flicked to Aden.

As nonchalantly as possible, he walked away from the window. Down the street. Not turning back.

But even as he slipped into bed that night, hours later, his hands were still shaking.

Those eyes were the most expressive he had ever encountered in his life.

XXXXX

"Okay…let’s do one where you’re holding her belly."

It was a slow day. He had one shoot today and it was going smoothly. Too smoothly. Aden was taking a picture of a man in his late thirties and his wife of the same age. They had confessed far too much about their love life and how they had met each other in high school - the real sappy boy meets girl romcom kind of stuff. Good for them, but Aden was just here to take pictures, not be witness to their entire life’s story.

They were expecting their first baby, and the wife was well along if her pronounced gut was any indicator. It was seven thirty in late May, the perfect time for the coveted "Golden Hour" lighting so many people wanted in their pregnancy shoots. They had chosen the wife’s parents’ backyard garden as the setting, with its multitude of various flowers and grasses for the springtime renewal that worked so well with the theme.

The reason Aden thought it was going so smoothly was because there hadn’t been any tears yet. That was the kind of stuff he didn’t take pictures of, even if they were the happy kind. The pictures become too real then. And that’s not what he was good at. He was good at creating a certain emotion with his scenes, picking and choosing what a viewer will feel, not subjecting them to the reality of the moment. The couple here would be able to see their happy faces and their love in the photos certainly, but the other stuff…

The stress he could sometimes see flickering in their eyes, borne of their nerves as new parents, that, he would keep away. Was this the right time for a baby? Were they even ready for this life-changing event? Would money be tight? What would their future child turn out to be? Would they be good parents? Would they keep loving each other as they do now after the child’s arrival?

Aden could see all of it. But people don’t want to see that in commemorative pictures.

He snapped some shots of the man holding his wife’s bulging stomach, where they had opted to lift her light blouse up to reveal the stretched skin. They had done takes of the husband kissing her stomach, of them lying in a bed of arranged flowers, even one where they sat near-naked with each other, in nothing but their underwear. That last one, Aden would not be ashamed to admit he had trouble taking. It fell close to being too vulnerable.

It was nine o’clock now, and Aden had just finished showering. He rubbed the kinks in his neck and shoulders, where the strap of his camera had dug into the muscles and tendons there. The hot water had relaxed them somewhat, but aches and pains like this were common in his line of work. That, and eventual back pain. He could look forward to that…

He sat on the couch in nothing but his boxers, laptop on his crossed legs and cup of decaf on the little side table where his reading lamp shone dimly in his living room. He hadn’t touched the numerous photos for the couple yet. That could wait until tomorrow.

Hm. Tomorrow. What did he have for tomorrow? He checked his appointment schedule, finding he had nothing. Ah well, he would have time to work on his various ongoing projects.

He quickly went to check if he had received any emails from his online site. Many of his clients wrote to him through there before calling or making any appointments, and in this day and age, an online presence was almost a must to keep any business running. It was also important to stay on top of those messages, as they could stack up if he wasn’t diligent.

His honey-colored eyes widened. The very first email, the only one at that, that lay on top of his inbox had a very, VERY familiar name.

"Cathairsis - Owner"

Aden took a deep breath. He hadn’t thought of the stranger under the streetlamp for a few weeks. Listening to himself for once, he had deleted the pictures of the man, had pushed any thoughts of him to some dark, dank corner in his mind where useless things like the location of his TV remote and the instructions for how long to cook pasta went. The sentimental gremlins in his head however were now having a blast pulling the memory of the man out from the well of his mind, putting in to the forefront of his brain, where it taunted him with its mere presence.

He checked the provenance of the email. Click. Quick scan of his incredulous eyes…and yep. It was definitely from his site. The universe must be playing some elaborate practical joke on him.

Fine. He clicked the email open and read the details. If Cathairsis had sent him a message, then that surely meant they needed photography services. After all, there was no way that the man from his picture could have known who he was or what he did from a fleeting glance from behind the glass of his barbershop. Aden didn’t believe in fate, but he wasn’t so arrogant to think he’s immune to coincidence.

It read:

"Hello, my name is Rah Hemlock. I’m the owner of Cathairsis Barbershop. I was looking through your site and I find that your photography is beautiful.

I have a project in mind that would benefit from your style, I think, though I have to admit, I’m not comfortable discussing the project in email format, or through the phone. I know I haven’t given any context to what I’m looking to get pictures of, but would it be too much to ask to have an in-person meeting to talk about it?

I understand if you’re busy or if you don’t have the time for an appointment. Thank you for your time."

The email was signed off with the Cathairsis logo at the bottom. Aden focused on the owner’s name. Rah Hemlock. It certainly was an abnormal name, not one he had ever heard being used before. Was this the man from his pictures? He had seen no one else in the shop. Besides, who other than the owner would unlock it at six o’clock on the dot?

More importantly, what kind of photography project was so secretive that this Rah wanted to meet in person to discuss it? Aden had no clue, and no matter how many times his eyes scanned the meagre wall of text, he could not find any indicators as to what it could be.

He pursed his lips to the side, scratching his still-wet chocolate brown hair, loose waves falling down to settle at his clavicle. The man thought about his free schedule for tomorrow.

‘Whatever’ he thought. A reply typed itself out before he could think twice about it, a simple one in which he asked if Rah Hemlock would be available tomorrow for this meeting and where he would like to have it. After, Aden shut his laptop, stored it away, and went to bed.

The next morning, he checked his emails through his phone.

"I will be at my barbershop at 4pm today. If we could discuss the project there, that would be great. Does this suit you? Thank you again."

Aden breathed through his nose, not daring to think this would be anything more than business as usual.

"I will be there."

XXXXX

That was how he found himself, at 3:56pm on a Friday, in front of Cathairsis.

Aden had already tried the door and had come to the conclusion that Rah Hemlock was not inside. Lights were off, the sign in the door was flipped to the "Closed" side, no sign of life met his gaze through the front window. His eyes squinted, trying to make out the shop through the bold lettering that took up much of the glass.

A sigh made its way past his lips. Absentmindedly scratching his five o’clock shadow (which he had been too lazy to shave this morning), Aden lounged with his back to the black concrete of the entrance. With nothing to do but wait, his mind wandered back to the cryptic email that had brought him here in the first place. Anyone would be intrigued by the odd request. At least, that’s what Aden tried to tell himself.

What could the project be? He tried to assume, but the only hint he could cling to was the fact that Rah had used the barbershop’s email to write to him. Could it be something having to do with his business? Maybe the man wanted some tasteful pictures to put on his shop’s site? Not that Aden had checked, but…anyway. But why be secretive about it, if it was for the shop? There were more questions than answers when it came to this whole situation, and as for the man himself -or who he assumed he was…

Well, he would get his answers soon enough.

As the man from under the streetlamp appeared from between the passers-by.

Aden found his honey-colored eyes drawn to him immediately. There he was: the person who had consumed his thoughts for far longer than he would care to admit. His intrigue was one of detached fascination however, a simple, rational interest for the figure that came up to him, with long strides that reminded him of an animal on the prowl.

The photographer had to blank his face carefully when the man stood beside him; his irises trailed up - and up - to find the same eyes that had glanced at him so intensely the last time he had been here. He was a bit frustrated at how far he had to tilt his head back to regard the man. Tall was a definite understatement, for how high he towered over Aden, and probably everyone else. Dimly, he wondered if the guy had ever had trouble finding clothes that fit him properly. Tall he may be, but he had a slim figure.

Those dark brown eyes were set deeply in their sockets, casting shadows in their depth that did nothing if not make them even more expressive. Right now, they regarded him with their own captivation, carefully guarded, but there nonetheless. A fine dark brow raised incrementally over his right eye, "Aden Verity?"

He tamed his features into a carefully crafted mask of neutrality. Pushing himself from the wall, he held his hand out automatically. "That’s me. You’re Rah Hemlock I assume?"

He took it in his own firm grip. "Yes. Thank you for meeting me here. Have you been waiting long?" Rah reached into the pocket of his leather jacket to retrieve the keys to the shop, and while he did, it afforded Aden a good look at the right side of his head, where the dark hair there had been shaved completely smooth to reveal nothing but tanned skin.

The shop door swung open. "No. A minute or two, maybe. And it’s not a problem, for the meeting I mean."

"Hm. Please, come inside."

He was very direct, Aden thought. Rah had this sort of voice that was soft and low, but that held an edge to it that told of a man one did not want to anger once his patience had worn thin. He followed Rah into the shop and let the man shut the door behind them as he scanned the space. The lights flickered on as the owner flipped the switch behind him, lighting the place up with neutral tones that fit the décor around them.

The barbershop had a singular work station, situated near the back, and a backwash station to wash a patron’s hair to the left. The floor was small, grey ceramic tiles and what once had been bare brick walls had been painted over in matte black. Shelves with products for sale had been integrated into the walls, their backs dark navy blue that barely stood out against the dark brick. Near the window were some dark couches and a glass coffee table, and the back of the shop, in a corner, was a door. Another stood beside it, with a bathroom sign

The workstation was sleek, flat wood, in a lighter, warmer color that contrasted with its surroundings, a matte black, rectangular sink in the middle, drawers sporting indented handles to open them. The same wooden frames lined the big square mirror in front of the chair. Many bottles, jars and tools lined the counter, stacked one atop the other with meticulous intent. Hanging lights illuminated the space.

Rah walked past him, allowing Aden to fully inspect his attire up close. He kept his jacket on, but underneath he saw some shirt with a band logo he couldn’t read splashed in crimson across the front. His pants were different today; form fitting leather, tucked into the same black boots as before. His black hair was loose, swept to one side and falling over the left side of his face flatteringly.

The man sat in that imposingly large black barber chair, his shoulders going past the backrest a good six inches. "Have a seat." A hand gestured to the rolling stool stationed nearby.

Aden did, but not without a questioning glance at Rah. As much as meetings such as these would have Aden leading the flow of conversation and actions, right now, it didn’t feel that way. There was…how could he explain it? Something in the way Rah was acting and how he held himself told so much about him. Aden is a photographer. He’s surrounded by people nearly every day, many kinds of people, and Rah seemed like he was used to being the one in charge.

How could he deduce that? Honeyed eyes gave the barber a quick once-over. Well, for one, the way he sat in his chair, relaxed yet poised, much unlike someone coming in for a haircut; most people sit awkwardly in a barber chair, like the cushions would eat them up if they moved the wrong way. But Rah didn’t look awkward in the slightest. He sat in the seat as he would in an armchair. Then again, he IS a barber.

There was also how he spoke. Aden had thought of it before, but still, just now, how the raven-haired man had suggested he sit…No. He hadn’t suggested anything. He had demanded it. Not even a friendly "please". Business, now, without beating around the bush.

Aden removed his bags from his shoulder, settling them by his feet as he faced Rah. Those were just his initial thoughts on the man, though. Only conversing with Rah would truly confirm anything about his personality.

The photographer decided to take the reigns of conversation back in his own hands, unused to them being taken away. "Rah Hemlock…that’s a peculiar name. Egyptian?"

"No."

Blunt. Immediate. No hesitation. And was that irritation? Perhaps this isn’t the first time he’s been asked the question. Aden brushed over the tense exchange - however brief it may be. "So, you said in your email you had a project you wanted to discuss. Photography for your barbershop?"

For a moment, Rah didn’t answer him. Aden watched those brown eyes rove his sat form, how they shone with…interest? Something else. He fought the urge to squirm under that long stare.

The silence stretched on between them while Rah considered his answer…and took in the photographer’s appearance unhurriedly.

Aden Verity was, how to put it? Put-together. But not in the way someone might be appealing to look at, though Rah must admit that Aden seemed like a good-looking man under his sloppy presentation. Not sloppy. That would be wrong. The man dressed like he was afraid of showing himself as anything more than humble. Loose burgundy sweater and jeans that have seen too much wear on the knees, practical canvas shoes that might have been white at some point, but have turned greyish brown with time.

Put-together. In his area of expertise, certainly. His photography bag and laptop were on the floor, at the ready. Long, dark brown hair pulled into a quick half-bun on his head, waves falling liberally around his neck and shoulders. Out of his face, but no more than that. He was all about wanting to know what his time was being used for in this meeting.

…

Was the project worth his while?

Rah let his eyes stare into honeyed brown.

A single drop of sweat dripped down the other man’s temple.

Aden swallowed. Rah’s eyes had squinted momentarily at him with what looked like satisfaction. As intensely expressive as his eyes were, Aden found it hard to pinpoint what the man was thinking behind them. He could barely keep himself from demanding an answer now. How long would he be stared at like this?

At last, Rah spoke, but none of the words that came from his mouth were the ones the photographer had been expecting. "How comfortable are you with sex, Aden?"

Aden blinked. "Pardon?"

His mouth dried. Rah just sat there, one hand draped over his mouth as he waited for the other to speak.

His head shook side to side as his incredulous eyes focused on those inquisitive brown ones. His mouth opened once, then he snapped it closed. He tried again, "What exactly does that have to do with anything, mister Hemlock?"

"Rah," the man corrected, head tilting ever so slightly at his uncomfortable guest. "And it has everything to do with my project. Now, I’ll ask again, how comfortable are you with sex?"

Aden found himself laughing, softly at first, and then more as the barber kept staring at him. "That’s good. That’s funny." Aden’s shoulders quaked with his chuckling. He slapped his knee lightly, "I think we can start talking about the pictures you want. Do you pull that on everyone you meet?" He said, mouth pulling into a forced grin.

But Rah wasn’t laughing. He was just as still as before. Somehow, this made Aden more nervous.

"Look," Aden started over, brows furrowing, bending forward and gesturing with his hands at nothing in particular. He licked his lips, "I don’t know what kind of photographer you take me for, but I don’t do porn shoots, if-if that’s what you’re looking for." He hated how his voice trembled, and cleared his throat to hide it.

Rah put his hand back on the armrest, a single finger drawing invisible circles on the material. His face betrayed nothing of his inner thoughts, but those dark irises conveyed annoyance and perhaps a bit of amusement. Amusement? Surely not.

Rah’s eyes hardened. "I don’t think my project qualifies as a porn shoot in the way you think it does."

Aden leaned back on his stool, reigning in his own irritation. He bit his lip. "Fine. Enlighten me." He crossed his arms pointedly.

Was that a smirk pulling at Rah’s mouth? Aden couldn’t tell, for it was there and gone before he knew it. The man adjusted himself in the barber chair. "You still haven’t answered my own question."

The two men watched the other for a second. Another. A silent tug-of-war to see who would break first. Aden gathered saliva in his mouth. He was starting to regret agreeing to meeting Rah here. An idea of what his project could entail began to slowly take shape in the photographer’s mind, but there were still too many unknown factors, too many unsaid details. If Rah was so insistent on getting his views on sex however, Aden knew this would not be any ordinary nude photo shoot.

He’s done those before, many times. He doesn’t mind doing them, but he explicitly avoids anything overtly sexual, and outright refuses anything that crosses that line. So why was he still entertaining Rah at all?

He knew the answer was a simple one: intrigue. For Rah. How the man had been able to, by his mere presence in a picture, change its overall emotion, how it’s perceived, what it means.

He took a deep breath, eyes closing once as he shook his head. "I’m not going to say what my relationship with sex is to a man I’ve only just met; I hope you understand that."

Rah nodded, eyes never wavering.

‘Say something’ Aden pleaded in his mind. ‘Anything.’ Nothing. A flustered, frustrated noise built in his chest, begging to be uttered in an aggravated exclamation, but that wouldn’t help the situation, would it? Alas, Rah remained tight-lipped, and Aden didn’t want this to take all day. So, he went on without care, "If we’re talking professionally, I do nude photo shoots and have seen naked bodies more than once. It wouldn’t be surprising. But I don’t take pictures of people in the middle of…you know."

"Sex" Rah provided, putting one leg over his knee.

"Yeah." Aden considered his next words carefully. "Is that what you want? Because if so, then no, I’m not going to take this project on."

"Hm…" The barber tapped the armrest lightly with his finger. For a brief moment, Aden was freed from those intense irises, as their owner closed the lids over them. He hadn’t realized until now, but his heart was beating just a little harder than normal in his chest. The thoroughly disconcerting realization should have made him scared, and yet, nothing that had happened so far had put him in any real danger. So why should his heart be galloping like that? Then, Rah’s smooth voice drifted to his ears, and he forgot about it, "The pictures I want are a little more…complicated than that."

"How?" Aden found himself asking.

The other man tilted his head at him, challenge written all over his face. But instead of elaborating, he changed the subject. "Would you like to know why I asked you to take pictures for this project?"

He would. The photographer couldn’t help but be curious, even a little, as to why he, of all people, had been chosen. But Rah didn’t need to know that, did he? Aden thought about it, fingers twisting together on his lap. How many photographers are there in the city? Outside of it? How many more would be versed in this kind of illicit stuff? How many already had the experience to take on the mystery project - one that was sounding a lot more taboo the further they spoke about it?

Why chose Aden Verity?

Rah didn’t wait for him to answer. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out his phone, tapping idly away as he spoke, "I was going to send a message to some other photographer to get my project done, but I stumbled onto your site and found this-"

Rah reached over, passing his phone to Aden. With a glance between the device and the barber’s face, the man took it in his hand and lifted the screen to his eyes.

His heart dropped into his stomach.

Wide honey-toned eyes stared unseeingly at one of the pictures he had uploaded to his online portfolio. There was no way. Aden had been certain he had deleted it. Had he uploaded it to his site by mistake, thinking it was the right one?

It was the picture of Rah under the streetlamp.

At his panicked look, Rah was quick to interject, "I’m not mad. I didn’t bring you here to hound you over some random picture of me or demand compensation or whatever you might be thinking right now."

Aden found it hard to breathe. "…Okay."

The taller man let him sit with that thought for a moment longer. "I’m flattered."

The photographer’s wide eyes found calm, dark brown. "Huh?"

"The picture. I’m flattered by it."

He blinked once. ‘What?’ his mind provided unhelpfully. Thoughts spiralled uncontrollably in his head. How had he mistaken the stupid picture for the one he had wanted to put into his portfolio? He would need to change that as soon as he got home. But then, Rah was flattered by it? Why would he be flattered when he didn’t even know that the picture had been taken by mistake?

But that was it, wasn’t it? Rah DIDN’T KNOW. Rah must have thought that Aden had seen him passing on the street and had thought the addition of his form would make for a beautiful scene to capture with his lens. That had to be it. Why else would Rah insist on his indifference on the matter of his consent? But somehow, Rah saying he was delighted by the shot was worse than if he had been angry, if only because now, Aden was being painted as an admirer hiding behind his camera, gleefully taking a picture of someone without their knowledge.

A prickling sensation at his neck had Aden realizing he might be blushing at the words left unsaid by Rah’s admission. He quickly began to explain himself to put any misunderstandings to rest, "No, no, no, I’m sorry, I never meant for the picture to-"

Rah lifted a silencing hand.

Aden’s voice cut itself off without conscious thought.

An approving glint glistened in those dark eyes. Aden’s mouth, rendered speechless with a single gesture from the enigma of a man before him, snapped itself closed when he realized it was still hanging open.

What…was that?

Rah put his hand down, gently, slowly, never letting his rich brown eyes leave his own for a second. "You don’t need to explain yourself, or anything having to do with the picture. Whatever reason you had for taking it, I assure you, I’m alright with. Even if you didn’t have it before, you have my consent now for using my likeness."

That wasn’t the problem here. "Yeah, I mean I should have asked for consent, but that’s not…" He drifted off, his tongue unable to form words under that heavy gaze.

Rah didn’t look offended, nor did he look like he gave much care as to whether or not the picture had been taken with an ulterior motive in mind. And suddenly, Aden didn’t care either. Let the man think whatever he wanted. It wouldn’t stop him from deleting the picture as soon as he had a private moment with his laptop. No words he could say would change the initial assumptions Rah made of him through the photograph. The damage - or seemingly lack thereof - had already been done.

He shook himself, scratching the back of his head and tousling the long locks there. He passed the phone back to its owner. "So, you chose to call me because I took a picture of you? That’s it?" It was almost unfathomable.

"No," Rah admitted, lounging back after putting his cell in his pocket, the large chair creaking quietly as he did. "As I said, I thought it was a nice picture. In fact, it’s…the sort of dark, evocative and emotional style I’m hopping to utilize by having you approve of my project."

Aden pursed his lips. "What did you see in it that would make you think that?"

Rah gave his first real smile since they had begun discussing. He had nice, full lips, and a sharp-toothed grin that made Aden think of some rowdy high school boy on the verge of doing something reckless. On Rah, the smile spoke of something far more sinister, but he couldn’t put a name to the feeling, nor did he want to dwell too long on it.

He bent forward to lean his elbows on his knees, regarding the photographer intently. "Surrender."

Honeyed eyes widened a tad. Nightly scenes often felt that way to Aden as well. But for someone to say that to him directly, in that way…

Rah’s lips closed over his teeth as he leaned back, but the smile stayed there all the same. "That’s the kind of emotion I’m looking to capture in a few photos."

Aden watched the man, his heart reminding him of its presence in his chest with slow, strong beats that rattled the breath in his lungs. Now. He had to know now. No more evading the subject.

"What exactly is this project?"

Rah mulled over the question. His eyes trailed the photographers’ form again, examining.

"Are you familiar with BDSM?"

Silence engulfed the shop.

His heartbeat was a rush in his ears, drowning out his thoughts in a thunderous wave. Still, he forced words from his parched mouth. "That’s, ah…bondage and stuff, right?"

A sniff from Rah. "Yes. Bondage and stuff," he emphasised, seemingly amused by Aden’s description. He tilted his head at him, raven hair falling over a leather-clad shoulder. "What about trichophilia? Heard of that, at all?"

The word was foreign to his ears, as though Rah was speaking an entirely new language. He shook his head on a negative. "No."

Again, Rah gave him one of those measured, calculating looks, as if he were pondering his next actions and words in regards to his answers. Aden rubbed his hands together, trying to keep himself calm under the undivided attention, the heavy scrutiny.

At last, Rah came to a decision, tapping a finger to his lips once. "Let me show you where I want the pictures to be displayed. I think that will help you decide what to do with my project. What do you say?"

XXXXX

Constructive criticism is appreciated. I would love to know what people think of the concept for this story and where they think it is headed.

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