An Actor, a Veteran, a Shotgun Wedding by Zero

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An Actor and a Veteran Throw a Shotgun Wedding

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hey, Zero here! Some of you might remember these two guys, after a couple intense projects, I wanted to write something a little bit more light-hearted. Shoutout to Fantasy Weaver and Jamie, for all their assistance for this new chapter in Thomas’ and Pierre’s life and all their invaluable help. And check out Fantasy Weaver’s ‘Cathairsis’ series and Jamie’s ongoing ‘Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force’ if you haven’t.



"You said you spoke French!" Thomas can’t keep it in any longer "You lied to me!".
"I told you I learned a bit from a legionary" his boyfriend’s face is red, the late summer heat, the beer he had earlier, the embarrassment, Thomas doesn’t know for sure.
"You speak la Légion Étrangère French!" Thomas throws his hands up in the air, laughter clinging to every single of his features "Pierre, did we come for vacations or for war?".
"Hey, it’s survival vocabulary! If we’re in an emergency situation we’ll live!" the former marine points his index finger at Thomas as if it was a gun.
"Of course! Excusez-moi monsieur, cessez-le-feu, s’il-vous-plaît. Merci" Thomas drowns in his own cackles, in his barely intelligible French "Tabarnak, Pierre".
"Tabarnak! My boyfriend is a local now!" Pierre laughs and wraps his arms around Thomas’s waist "Excuse me, where can we get the best poutine around here? Would you please help a lost American tourist?".
"We are not getting more poutine. You and I have a high protein diet to stick to, sarge".

Coming here had been mostly Thomas’ idea. Pierre had looked at the hiking routes and camping spots and let himself be seduced into the idea.

Visiting Québec, they’ve made a pact. Two weeks trip. One week under Thomas’ artistic and urban rulership. The other, they feed Pierre’s outdoors and adventure appetite.

Three years together. Their first abroad trip together. Thomas presses his forehead against Pierre’s shoulder. He holds his weight to his boyfriend’s body, resting in it. They’re each other's harbors. His arms are home. Anywhere they are.

Up north. Canada. The city had both in need of nature. Freshwater. Mountains. Air. Rivers. Vastness.

Place Royale and its endearing Notre-Dame-des-Victoires at dusk as they are right now, golden lights and a darkening cerulean sky, stones and bricks and alleys so intimate, as if built for lovers. For them.

Pierre’s hand buries inside Thomas’ nape, at the depth of his hair. The warmth of his hand massaging his scalp, tangling between the locks of his hair. Thomas lets him thread his fingers through it.

"F***, babe, it’s so f***ing long" Pierre laughs into Thomas’ ear.
"We agreed with the art department and my co-lead that it fit the character—this Bohemian, cynical philosophy professor" Thomas smirks "You know I grew it out a bit longer for that role".

Longer is an understatement.

This is the longest Thomas has ever had his hair in his life. The art department tried extensions when the idea that this character had long hair to match the five-days-perpetual-stubble and gold-rimmed glasses look of a disgruntled and wild academic man.

Thomas couldn’t stand the sensation of the extensions during early costume design tests. They started estimating. If Thomas let his hair grow for about six months more, they would be at the length they envisioned for the character. And Thomas' hair does grow very fast.

So here he is now, with his hair longer than he has ever grown it out.

"I know, I know. And you look amazing" Pierre nuzzles Thomas. "But you said filming and editing were already done, and reshoots too, right?".
"What are you getting at?".

Thomas knows already what Pierre is getting at. His hair goes down almost to his shoulder blades. A mass of waves that Pierre can’t keep his hands out of whenever they’re together. He knows what Pierre wants. He reads through the language of Pierre’s hands without fail.

And this is a threat.

"I want to clean up my boyfriend. You know…" Pierre’s hand runs slowly through Thomas’ hair, his lips brushing against Thomas’ forehead "How about this time you let me shave that pretty head of yours? And I mean, completely shave it," he adds, his voice low, lips grazing the shell of Thomas’ ear.

A shudder runs down Thomas’ spine, his body instinctively drawing in closer to Pierre. The warmth spreads to his chest, a slow pool of heat that settles in his lower abdomen.

Completely.

Pierre had been after this for months. The playful requests, the teasing, the subtle hints that were more than hints—he wanted to see Thomas bald. And for all the deflecting and laughing Thomas had done, he’d never agreed. There was something about it that unsettled him.

Maybe it was the control. Maybe it was the vulnerability. Maybe it was just his pride—he couldn't quite put his finger on it. But he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

"HA!" Thomas laughs and deflects right away "You know what? I’ve decided I’m saving myself until marriage."
"THOMAS!" Pierre grins, amused and taken off guard by the answer.
"You’ll get to shave me bald—shaving cream and razor and all—after we marry" Thomas holds his left hand in the air, where Pierre can see his empty ring finger, a provocative smirk on his face "Those are my terms."

The former marine’s gaze does not stray from his. He tilts his head, as if considering it. A spark at the depth of his ocean eyes.

"Interesting" he cups Thomas’ cheek softly, a barely-there touch "I accept these terms. We should get married then."

What.

The words hit Thomas like a slap, a pulse of panic buzzing in his chest.

"Pierre. What…" he stammers, a hot, sharp, nervous laugh bubbling in his throat. "Wait—no, I wasn’t serious…".
"I know you weren’t, but I am!" Pierre takes Thomas’ hands in his own. "We’ve talked about this before! How I feel about you. I love you. With all my heart. You…" the pause is filled with vertigo as if filled with certainty, the intake of breath for both courage and a prayer, his grip around Thomas’ hands stronger, firmer, as if he needed to anchor himself to him, to ground himself "Thomas, I… I can picture it. I just see it so clearly when I think about it… I just imagine…" he shakes his head, rephrasing, correcting "No, I dream of growing old with you. I want you by my side. I want you to stay with me. I want to share my life with you."

Pierre’s words hit Thomas like a wave. His heart stutters, a ripple of anxiety flickering beneath the surface.

Stay with me.

The thought lingers. The sudden shift in the air between them, the quiet certainty in Pierre’s eyes. It’s like his heart is about to explode with something, and for the first time, he doesn’t know how to laugh it off.

A thousand emotions, words, thoughts burst inside Thomas, battling each other for attention, shutting him down to a stunned, mute statue of himself, until one emerges victorious:

"F***. OH NO! Don’t you dare propose to me before I propose to you, Pierre Laballette!"

Thomas’ competitive streak gets into full gear. And Pierre knows this man, he can tell exactly what is about to go down, and how much of a fight his boyfriend is going to put up.

"Thomas, don’t give me that nonsense! I love you! There isn’t a part of you I don’t love!" Pierre is as exasperated as he is adoring "I am ready to marry you right here, right now, if you are".
"And so I am, you absolute idiot!" the actor huffs and laughs "But no way in hell I am going to let you get down on one knee and offer me a ring until I ask you to be my husband first!"
"Okay, okay. We both buy rings and suits and flowers and champagne…?" his boyfriend starts the world’s least specific wedding list in the world.
"Okay. But getting married in Canada—with the paperwork backlog in the U.S., customs forms, notarized documents, and let’s not even start on taxes…" Thomas grounds himself for a moment, holding his hands up in the air, his producer neurons lighting up and thinking "And we would have to phone lawyers. There’s no way we can make it in time…".

But as he thinks about the logistics, something else hits him. The fact that they were actually talking about getting married. Right here. Right now.

F***. This is real.

Pierre’s smile, his voice murmuring his name, cuts through his racing thoughts, and Thomas realizes—this wasn’t just some far-off hypothetical. This is happening. Right here. Right now.

"Thomas," Pierre calls his name again, snapping him out of his daze.
Thomas starts running his mind through this. "Okay. I’m making calls. I’m calling Fedor."
"Fedor?" the other quirks and eyebrow "What for?".
"Fedor was a priest once", Thomas swipes his phone out of his pocket to message him "I’m sure he can still officiate a wedding".
"No, he can’t! Thomas!" Pierre brings a hand to his forehead.
"Please, it’s Fedor we’re talking about!" Thomas scoffs and rolls his eyes "He’ll be more than willing to marry us, regardless!".

Pierre laughs. His gaze never leaves Thomas’ face, the focus on his brow, the rush, the lovesick foolishness in his eyes and his smile as he talks and argues with his friend and walks in circles as he usually does when he makes a phone call.

The realization dawns on him as he watches his boyfriend. Yes. They’re doing this. Their own way. This is happening. The light-headedness getting to him, as a pleasant, feverish feeling he always gets, without fail whenever he thinks about Thomas.

"We also need a photographer!" Thomas starts searching as soon as he hangs up his first call "Okay, this one isn’t too far away, I’m calling him".

The veteran reaches out and hooks his hand with his boyfriend’s. Thomas looks up at him, surprised by the sudden touch, and immediately lets him read his lips: I love you, as he waits for the call to connect.

"Hey, is this Aden Verity?" Thomas smiles as he calls, nervousness, delight, insanity, all possessing him at once.




Location. Château Frontenac. Florist. Just for the boutonnières. Photographer. Secured and paid. Suits. Azure blue complimented with a burgundy tie for Pierre and a three-piece deep-sea green paired with a bronze tie for Thomas. Rings. Matching gold bands, simple, classic. Vows. Written and reviewed and rehearsed. Priest. Found (kind of).

Thomas and Pierre mentally and verbally go over the preparations one last time the next morning. Thomas as if he was producing a play, aesthetics, sound, schedules, rehearsals. Pierre as if this was a mission, all about logistics, contingencies, terrain, clear communications.

In an absurd, unexplainable way they work, they pull this off. The same way they approached Thomas’ first lead character where Pierre was the marine consultant, the way they explored each other’s angles and brought the role to life together in the play where they met.

And Pierre has visited a barber. The legionary French vocabulary is useful for once in the barbershop. And he sports a fresh, sharp, polished crew cut for the day. (Thomas will never tell Pierre how hot it was to hear him ask for the haircut in French, not under confession by a priest nor torture).

"Fedor is here" Thomas checks the notification as he gets out of the shower that morning, immediately another one pops on his screen "And so is Aden, the photographer".
"We contracted Aden for a full-day, didn’t we?" Pierre asks as he checks the time on his watch. Half-dressed, shirt on, slacks on,
"Yes, we did" Thomas puts on deodorant "We’re paying for everything and anything he needs through the day. I am not letting a photographer starve or die of thirst on my watch. I’m telling both of them to come, sending the room number".

Five minutes must pass at most when there is a knock on their hotel room door.

Thomas barely finishes putting on the shirt when both their photographer and wedding officiant arrive.

"Fedor!" he pulls him into a tight hug, right away.
"Thomas F." Fedor claps him on the back with one hand, a grin on his face "Finally settling down, never thought I would see the day".
"Shut up!" Thomas smiles at his friend from acting school.

Fedor has and hasn’t changed. Thinner than the last time he saw him. The dark, almost black hair is still parting stubbornly at the side. The low fade and clean-shaven face. The piercings he got after leaving the seminary in his lip and eyebrow just as Thomas remembers them. His sparkling onyx eyes, the mischief and wit in their depths.

And the young man beside him, honey-eyed with thick wavy hair down past his shoulders, half-pulled back into a bun at his crown…

"Aden? I’m Thomas. We spoke on the phone. You already met our friend, Fedor. And that is my boyfriend, Pierre. Thanks for making time for us today" Thomas smiles at the photographer, as he offers him an extended hand.
"Nice to meet you" there is a smile, polite, the tone formal, proper as he stretches Thomas’ hand.
"Aden, okay, I envision, documentary. Almost wildlife photography" Thomas speaks, his voice frantic, his hands gesturing a camera frame "Listen, I can be a camera whore, but Pierre is a lot shyer for these things and…".
"Thomas, come on, let the man do his job, stop being a control freak for once, will you?" Fedor calls out, overhearing as he removes his motorcycle jacket.
"I am!" Thomas shouts back laughing, then returns to Aden "Anyway, you do you. Get comfortable. We’ll be ready to go in fifteen minutes. If you need anything, Pierre and I are here for you, okay?".
"By the way, Aden. I don’t know if Thomas told you this, but we want you back in the hotel room with us after we’re done. I, huh…" Pierre takes the photographer aside, an emotion, a hesitation to speak flickering in his face "I am giving Thomas a wedding gift".
"A wedding gift? That's what we’re calling it now, dear?" Thomas snarks as he adjusts the collar of his shirt in the mirror.
"Of course. I’m ready for anything." There’s confidence in his voice. It barely trembles on a patient sigh.

Aden nods, his gaze flickering to the end of the suite, his photographer eyes and mind immediately scanning, assessing, observing. He moves further inside the room, claiming a corner for himself near a plug. He starts unpacking his camera, lenses, tripod, checking batteries once again.

The photographer glances towards the window and observes the light. His eyes flicking towards a clock to predict how the sun will move, the shadows will become harsher, the light brighter. His mind mapping the natural lighting sources of the room and where he will need to place reflectors.

Thomas watches him move with fondness and respect. He has always had a soft spot for photographers. Has many friends who work with cameras and…

"Thomas, have you decided what you’re doing with your hair already?" Fedor snaps him out of his thoughts.
"I didn’t know you were a hairdresser, Fedor" Pierre quips as he adjusts the tie in front of the mirror.
"I am not. I am, however, the big brother to four sisters who had dance recitals every single week" Fedor smiles, his confident, easy grin "So, I know these kinds of things".
"I have some photos. I am thinking I want some hair left loose, like the lower half and the rest braided… I trust you, whatever you think will look better" Thomas whips his phone out of his pocket and checks the references in his gallery.
"I have to ask, is this going to be a wedding or a demonic pact? Because, Pierre, my man, you’re marrying a fiend" Fedor glances the other groom’s way as he gets ready in front of the mirror "You have to know that, don’t you?".
"I love you too, Fedor" Thomas blows him a kiss.
"I love that fiend" Pierre smiles at his boyfriend in the mirror.
"Okay. Just had to run a background check, make sure everyone knows what they’re getting into" Fedor raises both hands in the air.
Thomas sits down where Fedor motions him to, moving a chair "So, how’s it going with your Tsar?".
"Again, Thomas?" Fedor rolls his eyes "He has a name".
"You can’t convince me this guy you’re dating does not look like Nikolai II" Thomas remarks.
"For your knowledge, my Tsar, as you call him, is doing fine" Fedor threads his fingers through Thomas’ hair "Thanks for asking…. F***, your hair is so f***ing long, Thomas. What the f***?".
"I know" the actor laughs.

And then and there, Aden makes his first shot of the day.



Château Frontenac is truly a grande dame seen from Terrace Dufferin. It overlooks the St. Lawrence River, as if it guarded it. The cliff. The steep roofs. The towers and chimneys reach towards the sky. The grey ashlar stone and the orange brick that lights up the walls, the entire horizon. It’s an imposing view. The hotel is more majestic in person than the photographs could ever reflect.

When Thomas first saw photos of this place, he knew he had to come here with Pierre. It took his breath away.

Now, they’re marrying here, standing here, in this castle that seemed to touch the clouds. And Thomas, f***. There is a quiet part of him that can’t believe, out of all the souls in the world, Pierre is choosing him, his side, his life. And Thomas feels he will cry today, and doesn’t want to, but the joy, the gratitude, the light ache in his heart, it…

"This is ground control to major Tom" Pierre slides his fingers between Thomas’, snaps him out of his thoughts.
"This is major Tom to ground control" Thomas leans in and kisses Pierre, squeezing his hand inside of his.
"You look stunning" Pierre leans in, his hand nestling in his boyfriend’s nape.

Pierre stares at his boyfriend. Fedor’s hair styling skills on display. Thomas’ hair looks beautiful. A Viking braid deeply woven on the top of his head, with plaids on both his temples, joining at the back, secured inside a half-ponytail. The wisps of hair left loose framing his face.

"You’re not bad yourself, all freshly barbered and all" Thomas mirrors him, he brushes the back of the former marine’s head, feels the roughness of the stubble at the bottom of his hairline, sharp, rasping, divine "Don’t you dare cry and make me cry today, Pierre"
"No promises, major Tom".

Fedor motions them to come closer as he signals Aden, checking with him the framing of the view, whether the spot will work for him as a photographer. Aden signals Fedor with a thumbs up. Everything is set.

"Today, with or without God as our witness. We are gathered here today in the breathtaking Château Frontenac to celebrate the love and commitment between two truly remarkable individuals—Thomas Fredericksen and Pierre Laballette…".

The wind off the river is sharp, making Thomas’ fingers feel almost cold in Pierre’s warm grasp. But the heat in Pierre’s gaze steadies him, his thumb caressing his knuckles, his hands, wards off the chills.

Thomas just stares at Pierre. Into the sky inside of his eyes. He does not know if hearts can truly beat in unison, but he feels in his hands that he holds Pierre’s and Pierre holds his and if they’re not the same, they’re as close as it has ever been humanly possible.

"…These two absolute idiots somehow decided this was a good idea. Because they’re in love. Ridiculously in love. And we’re all about to witness these two disasters finally do the thing. Let's do this. You’ve got your vows; you’ve got your rings. The floor is yours".

Thomas takes a deep breath. He knows he needs to give Pierre courage, that the nervousness is worse for him than it is for him. That he has to lead here.

"Let me just say this—I love you, Pierre" Thomas starts, feeling the words choke in his throat, his heart thudding against his ribs "I’ll follow you anywhere. I will love you, fight with you, and absolutely get lost with you. You’ve loved me in a way I never thought I deserved. I stand here today with you, and I realize how much more I have to give you, how much more I want to experience with you. I vow to always be your safe place, your home, no matter where we are. I promise to embrace every part of you. I promise to love you, in every version of myself and every version of you, for as long as we both live".

He gathers his breath. He anchors his touch with more strength against his boyfriend’s hands.

"Alright, Thomas. You’re a fiend, but I love you" Pierre laughs away his nerves "But honestly, you make me better. You make me laugh even when I want to kill you. Thomas, you are the only person who could make me want to commit to something this big. You’ve made me see the beauty in the smallest moments, from late-night conversations to just being in the same room, doing nothing but being together. I never want to stop discovering new things about you, about us when we’re together. I vow to always protect you, to fight for you, and to be your biggest fan. I promise to love you, in this life and the next and in all the lives we get to share, as long or short as they are".

Thomas sees them. Clearly. The tears at the corner of Pierre’s eyes, as breathtaking as the sunlight pouring through the terrace’s iron railings, over the ashlar stone.

"By the power invested in me— well, once" Fedor’s sarcastic smirk cuts through the tension, he sees them both, has seen them for almost the entire three years of their relationship "Thomas and Pierre, you have expressed your love for one another in a way that has touched us all. You have chosen each other, and you have chosen to make promises today that will last a lifetime. It is an honor and a privilege to pronounce you husband and husband. You may now kiss".

Thomas and Pierre both dive into each other. The maps of their lives, their names, their hopes, all intertwining, melting into each others’ lips. Thomas has kissed Pierre many times before. Yet, for all the familiarity of their mouths, of embracing each other, the intensity takes his breath away today.

For a moment, he forgets the world exists. He does not feel the wind tousling his hair. There’s only Pierre—his firm touch, the curve of his lips, the way his chest rises and falls in rhythm with Thomas’ own racing heart.

Pierre’s hand moves to cradle the back of Thomas’ neck, his fingers curling into the wisps of hair there. They both lean in deeper into the kiss, their bodies pressing tighter.

This kiss is just for them.

When they finally break apart, their foreheads rest together, both catching their breath. Thomas realizes his hands are clutching the lapels of Pierre’s jacket, and Pierre’s thumb is brushing against his cheekbone.

"You okay there, Major Tom?" Pierre whispers, his voice low and teasing.
"Ground control is reporting turbulence," Thomas murmurs, his lips brushing against Pierre’s as he speaks, as he laughs.
"Good," Pierre grins, pulling Thomas close again, "because I’m not letting you land anytime soon."

A quiet voice tells Thomas that as soon as they walk into the hotel room, he knows he will completely surrender to Pierre.




Fedor not only has had the nerve to be Pierre’s accomplice and actually buy these behind his back, but he has also had the nerve to gift wrap them.

"Lovingly, f*** you, Fedya" Thomas laughs as he and Pierre unwrap the gifts from the other actor.

His middle finger moves to its own accord as his gaze flickers to Fedor. Aden stands right behind him, his lens capturing, immortalizing this moment.

It’s all professional grade. The shears and comb pairing set. The straight razor. The foil shaver. The aftershave and lotions.

The hair clippers. Oster Classic 97. Pierre recognizes this machine from his own trusted barber who specializes in military haircuts. The glint in his eyes when he unboxes them. The eager enthusiasm as he touches them, feels their weight.

The fascination in the former veteran’s face does not escape him. Neither does the faint sound of the shutter flickering closed and open, a mechanical eye blinking, watching, remembering.

Thomas is in danger, and he knows it. There is no way Pierre is not going to itch to shave him regularly with these hair clippers now in their power. There is no way Thomas is ever escaping the shaves now.

He is not having hair again in his life.

"Enjoy them" Fedor blows them both a kiss "If you need me, I’ll be having a drink at the bar".

F***.
aim
Their hotel room falls into a deep, intimate silence when the other man walks out of the door. The quiet makes the space seem both larger and the walls to come closer. Thomas can feel the wave of sudden heat coursing through him, expanding beyond his body.

Pierre takes off his suit jacket and tie. He rolls up his sleeves. The floral pattern where there once was the ‘Semper Fi’ when they first met. An almost full sleeve tattoo now. Thomas has seen his partner change. They’ve witnessed each others’ evolutions, held each others' hands.

"Oh God, Thomas" Pierre almost hisses his name as he leans into his ear and kisses him, one hand inside his hair, the other holding the hair clippers.

Thomas is about to take off his own jacket and vest, to match Pierre. But the former marine stops him.

"Let me do that for you" he whispers as he moves behind the actor.

He feels how the weight of the jacket shifts in his body as his partner catches it for him. He folds it in half, not rushing into the motion and places it in the back of a chair near the room’s desk. Then, he steps right in front of him. He guides his fingers as they undo the buttons together. Then, he slides the vest off and puts it aside near the jacket.

Thomas extends his arms and he and Pierre mutually help roll up each others’ sleeves. The sight of the wedding band around the other’s ring finger is stunning, his heart warming up to the image of both their hands adorned, matching.

For a second, as his gaze flicks to Aden, Thomas feels he should say something to him before he bears witness to this, to them. For a second he thinks they should… Explain? Apologize? Warn him?

The alcohol in his blood and Pierre’s lips on his knuckles shut up anything resembling coherent thought. However, Aden nods, silently, his eyes briefly meeting him, telling him it’s fine.

And Thomas decides he has to trust the photographer’s judgement, since he has none at the moment.

"Thomas" Pierre says his name like a prayer, beneath his breath.

And not much longer, his partner is taking him by the hand and leading him to the bathroom. Soon, he is standing right in front of him, near the doorway, where the photographer aims, on guard, preparing his shoot.

Then, Thomas feels it. The proximity. The searing lightness. The flesh-eating fervor.

Pierre holds his jaw, steadies it in his hand.

Click. Buzz.

"Wait! Stop!" the nervousness explodes, the laughter taking over him, as he pulls back, squirms out of the former marine’s hold "Oh God".
"Thomas" Pierre bursts into laughter, the clippers still firm in his grip, he takes a step forward, in his direction.
"We’re not doing this, I just can’t, oh my God, Pierre" Thomas flails one arm in a negative gesture, his other hand covering his face, as if that could contain his manic laughter, his face.

Then, his partner traps him against the sink. He has him bend backwards, arch his back, until his head falls, until his hair is let loose above the porcelain. Thomas can feel the edge of the counter digging into his back. Pierre has him cornered, weaponized this space to suit his needs, to gain the upper hand.

"Do I need to pin you down for this, my husband?" Pierre murmurs, voice low, a promise and a challenge all at once.
Thomas huffs, his lips twitching into a grin. "Big bad marine, aren’t you? Fine. Do your worst."

One of his arms reaches out to caress Pierre’s face with the back of his hand.

His husband.

"Okay, I’ll be good, sarge" Thomas pulls Pierre into a kiss.

Pierre’s hand guides him to face the ceiling, the palm of his hand pressed against his forehead.

The sharp hum of the clippers settles into a steady vibration against Thomas's skin, a sensation that sends a shiver down his spine.

He watches Pierre, his husband’s focused expression, the way his brow furrows ever so slightly in concentration. The weight of his palm against Thomas’s forehead is firm but gentle, a contrast that sends a delicious warmth pooling in his chest.

"Relax for me, babe. Just breathe" Pierre murmurs, his voice low, coaxing. The clippers inch closer, and Thomas exhales, a shuddering breath.

The clippers hum as they meet his hairline, and the first strand falls, curling lifelessly into the sink. The sensation—electric and raw—sends a shiver racing down Thomas’ spine. Cool air rushes over his exposed skin, vulnerable and foreign. Pierre’s fingers follow in the wake of the clippers, slow and deliberate, a featherlight touch that grounds him as much as it unsettles him.

"Just like that, you’re doing so good, my love" Pierre murmurs.

The hair clippers are vicious. Thomas doesn’t have words to explain but the blades feel invading, intimate against his skull. They chatter closer than ever against his scalp. Hair tumbles down in soft, dark waves. His breath hitches.

The steady hum of the clippers reverberates through the bathroom, their vibration a low, insistent reminder of what’s happening. Thomas watches Pierre, his husband’s eyes sharp with focus. Pierre’s palm steadies him—firm, grounding. Thomas’s pulse quickens, each stroke of the clippers making his breath hitch.

"F***, babe" Thomas can’t contain the flinch through the laughter.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" Pierre says, his eyes flicking up to meet Thomas’, the hunger in his gaze makes Thomas’s throat tighten.
"And you're a maniac with hair clippers" Thomas teases, though his voice is breathless, full of something deeper than humor "S**t".

Thomas covers his face with both hands. Feeling the blood rushing to it. The clippers are deafening as his partner keeps shearing his hair off, pass after pass, moving lower, deeper into his hair every time.

He lets another curse bust out of his lips; Pierre hears him but doesn’t say anything in response. His grin just blooms a little more, a choked laugh in his throat.

Content, thrilled to be shaving Thomas. His husband. From the heights of the room, Aden’s lens hover above them, capturing both in this moment. For a moment, the veteran imagines how they look in the camera. It’s thrilling. And the shot gives him the timing to say it to Thomas.

"You always look good like this," Pierre remarks, his lips twitching in a smirk.
Thomas huffs out a laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting. "You just like me defenseless."
"Maybe," Pierre concedes.

The clippers’ buzz fills the room, but all Thomas can hear is his own heartbeat, loud and erratic in his ears. The heat pooling at depth, the lowest part of his abdomen making him dizzy. The heat below his navel as he feels the former marine denude his head.

"Hands off your face, babe?" Pierre’s voice cuts through the growl of the machine "I need to shave a bit closer around your hairline".

F***. Thomas can hardly remember to breathe. He sighs and uncovers his face. The air suddenly hitting him intensely. If it’s the air, the room temperature or his own body that shifts, he doesn’t know.

Pierre’s free hand goes around Thomas’ waist, holding him from the back, he lifts him from the counter, pulls him closer to him, until he is standing chest to chest with him. Thomas stares into his eyes. Pierre steals a kiss from his lips.

"Okay, I need to get a better angle on the rest of your head".

Thomas nods and stands up straight. The head Pierre has over his, leaving him at perfect height to continue shearing him. He stares at both of them, their joined reflections. The front and temples of his head are stubble. The finest, palest bristles he has ever had.

It makes him shudder, to see his scalp so exposed, so clearly when he looks into the mirror.

His gaze wanders from the mirror to the floor and the porcelain sink. It’s buried underneath a mass of hair. The copper, gold undertones of the locks shimmering underneath the bathroom lightning.

Thomas catches a glance of Aden pointing his camera from the back of the mirror, he smiles and stares right into the lens, through the mirror.

"How’s the barbering going here?" Fedor returns to the room, his presence announced by footsteps and a light knock on the open bathroom door "Oh f***, you’ve definitely f***ed up that sink. Look at all that hair".

Thomas flips Fedor in the mirror, doubling over in laughter. Pierre complains about the sudden movement and pulls him back straight up, as he was. Holds him still and resumes passing the hair clippers.

"Looking good, Tom" Fedor smiles, the tone as cutting and teasing as it is fun, brotherly.
Thomas wordlessly insults him in response.

His boyfriend switches the clippers for the straight razor, the blade gleaming under the bathroom lights. He lathers Thomas’ head with warm foam, his fingers trailing through the thick layer.

Pierre presses a kiss to Thomas’s nape. The first stroke of the razor is slow, deliberate. Thomas feels the scrape, the faint tug, and then the cool absence left in its wake.

The rhythmic scrape fills the quiet between them. Thomas can hear the familiar sound of the shutter. The camera breathing in the moment between them.

The scent of shaving cream thick in the air. His touch is steady, reverent.

The first glide of the razor is smooth, the scrape against Thomas’s skin making him shiver. Pierre’s eyes flick up to meet his own in the mirror, and the tenderness there makes Thomas’s chest tighten. He swallows hard and grounds himself through his breathing.

His touch is firm, careful, like Thomas is something precious. With every stroke of the blade, he feels lighter. Exposed. Vulnerable. And yet—safe. Pierre’s fingers trail behind, soft against freshly shaven skin, grounding him, reminding him: You’re mine, and I’ll always take care of you.

The rhythmic strokes of the razor ease his racing heart. His partner leaves the top of his head for last. He squeezes Thomas’ shoulder, digs his fingers into the towel, as if checking his readiness. Thomas wordlessly grabs his hand and kisses it. He lets him know he is his, he trusts him.

Thomas feels the razor touch his forehead. It’s landing featherlight, a caress, a kiss. Pierre takes his time. Steadies himself. Then starts stroking. Thomas watches the thin layer of stubble being trapped inside the blade and the shaving cream, dotting it with bits of hair.

His face is covered in it. Pierre’s hands too. Tiny pieces of his hair everywhere.

"There. Perfect." Pierre runs his fingers over his work, his grin one of pure satisfaction. When Pierre finishes, he steps back to admire his work, running his fingers over Thomas's freshly shaven head. "Smooth as ever," he muses, his voice thick with satisfaction.
Thomas reaches up, running his own hand over his head, the sensation of bare skin still new, still shocking. "I can’t believe you did it."
"You love it," Pierre smirks, leaning in to press a slow kiss to his scalp.
Thomas lets out a breathless laugh, tugging Pierre closer by the collar of his shirt. "You're insufferable."
Pierre nuzzles against him, his lips tracing the edge of Thomas's ear. "You married me."
And as Thomas meets Pierre's gaze in the mirror again, the warmth in his chest blooms. His fingers curl around Pierre's wrist. "I did. And I'd do it again."
"Hey, come to the window. I want to check you in the sunlight".

As soon as Pierre grabs Thomas’ hand to lead him back to the room, Aden stops taking pictures and steps aside to let them walk back to the bedroom. He trails behind, a cat-like, trained step typical of photographers like him, to keep his eye and his camera’s on them.

By the window, Pierre holds Thomas by the chin and tilts his face upwards, then one side, the other. Then, he circles him. He presses the foil shaver against the hairline between his ear and nape.

Thomas holds still. He lets the constant humming of the machine relax him.

When he is satisfied, Pierre grabs the aftershave bottle. A note of sandalwood, cedar, a hint of something floral, stinging, pleasant as it touches his scalp, as his partner massages it into his skin.

"You’re the hottest man in the world, you know that?" Pierre speaks too close to his lips and Thomas can smell the wine on his breath.
"You must have never looked into a mirror" Thomas pulls him by the shirt and kisses him, a blurry, instinctual kiss, demanding, hungry for him.

Thomas presses his forehead to Pierre’s. He breathes him in. He feels the back of Pierre’s neck as he reaches to nudge him closer. Their colognes mingled all over each others’ clothes.

"Shower and then we go to the restaurant?" Pierre cups Thomas’ jaw inside his palm and pecks his lips "Shower with your husband, perhaps?".
"If you hop into that shower with me, there is no f***ing way we’re eating or going anywhere" Thomas lets the sultriness out of his voice as he leans in and whispers into Pierre’s ear in response.

His husband pulls him tighter, closer to him. His hands roam, from his back to his nape, to his chest underneath his half-unbuttoned dress shirt.

Thomas bites into Pierre’s lower lip, lost in a haze, in the delectable heat of their bodies pressed against each other. Pierre responds in tandem; a guttural groan being released from his throat as his mouth finds its path to the side of Thomas’ neck.

Then, Thomas remembers. Aden. The photographer. Oh f***.

"Excuse my husband, he is er… like a cat in heat" even as he still retains enough willpower to speak to Aden, Thomas can tell the alcohol is overpowering him, slowly, delightfully.

Aden wants to say something, he can see it, despite the buzz of alcohol. There are words on his lips, but instead of saying them, Aden shrugs, words dissolving. He takes a picture, and the moment is forgotten.

"Are you complaining?" Pierre hooks his fingers around Thomas’ waist and pulls him closer.
"Just stating facts" Thomas smiles as he kisses Pierre in the cheek "Anyway, I’m washing my face quickly and I think I need to change out of this shirt, but I want to keep the suit on for our first meal as husbands…" Thomas catches Fedor in the mirror, eyes flicking to the white dress shirt underneath the dark charcoal suit "... Hey, Fedya, would you…".
"Yeah, sure, borrow my shirt. Anything for the newlywed" Fedor laughs, removing his suit jacket and his tie, then unbuttoning his shirt.
"Thanks, you bastard" Thomas blows a kiss in the mirror to the other actor as they trade shirts "We have a reservation in the restaurant, and yes, you’re included, Aden and no, you’re our guest, we’re paying for this".

Thomas stands in front of the mirror one last time, running his hand over his freshly shaven head. The sensation is strange, new, but Pierre’s warm hand around his feels like home. He turns, their eyes meeting, and Thomas knows—this man will always hold him steady, always keep him safe.

As they step out of the hotel room, their hands remain locked, an unspoken promise. Pierre squeezes gently, and Thomas smiles. He knows Pierre will never let go.




Fedor says his goodbyes early, as soon as he notices the photographer getting ready to end the day.

He leaves the rest of the night to the newlyweds to celebrate on their own, despite Thomas’ and Pierre’s insistence they all go dancing later. No, tonight is theirs. Maybe tomorrow or some other day he will join them, but he has to go.

The thing about Thomas, he reflects, is that he doesn’t even know how hard he falls for someone. He loves without even noticing how terribly and deeply he does it.

The summer night sky is starting to light up with stars. The air is getting chiller, he adjusts his motorcycle jacket over his suit.

"As the only person not drunk in horniness and lovesickness, I extend my friends’ apologies for their… behavior" Fedor talks to Aden "Thomas is reserved when you first meet him, then, he is walking second-hand embarrassment that never ends. Still love him like a brother".
"No need to apologize" the other checks the time on his phone.

Fedor stares at the photographer as they walk beside one another towards the street.

He’s hard to read. Fedor heard him snort at some of Thomas and Pierre’s outrageous sarcasm, seen him lust for the filet mignon at the restaurant and smile as they toasted to the newlyweds.

And yet, despite all the grooms’ antics…

"I have to say, Aden. You have quite the poker face" Fedor raises an eyebrow.
"Comes with the trade" the photographer shrugs as he clutches his bag a little tighter, adjusting his grip.
"You must have seen some scandalous scenes, huh? Moonlight as an erotic photographer? Have some artistic nudes in your portfolio?" the other jokes.
Silence. A car passes, its headlights throwing long shadows against the sidewalk. A face flashes in Aden’s mind, unbidden, like a terrorist bombing.
The slightest of frowns tug at the photographer’s lips as it does.
"Yeah, your face is a little red…" Fedor’s lips quirk in what is not quite a smile as he lifts his motorcycling helmet "… maybe ease a bit with the beer for the rest of the night, will you?".

Then, Aden rejects Fedor’s offer to give him a ride home and watches the man ride away on his motorcycle, the engine roaring into the traffic.




"Hey, Aden sent the link to download the photos!" Thomas perks up as he checks his email.

He taps the download link and waits for the gallery to load. Pierre peeks over his shoulder, the eagerness and curiosity as he wraps his arms around Thomas’ neck and kisses him on the temple. The shaved head grown out to a bristly chocolate pelt that is not quite velvet, not quite sandpaper but in-between.

The photographs finish loading.

"The lightning looks very different in the thumbnails, did Aden get carried away editing or…?" Thomas narrows his eyes as he taps a first photo to take a closer look.

Pierre voices it before Thomas can "Oh my God!".

Thomas slides his finger on the screen and views the first dozen photos of the gallery. The heat rushes to his face instantly, as if an atomic bomb was detonated underneath his skin.

Then, he bursts out into laughter. He closes the link on his phone and just lets the laughter out until he is out of breath, until he is choking, until his ribs ache with the constant chaotic movement of his chest.

Pierre joins him, he keeps repeating between bursts of snorts and cackles ‘oh my God’, with hardly enough air in his voice to say it, as if he was pleading to the heavens.

"This is…!" Thomas tries to form a coherent sentence, fighting for breath.
"THIS IS SOME PORNOGRAPHIC S**T!" Pierre shouts between attacks of laughter "Holy—this is actual porn!" he wheezes, tears streaming down his face.
"Oh my God. I’m texting Aden" Thomas shakes his head in shock "Aden, you sassy man".

Thomas types and reads out loud at the same time, while Pierre laughs behind him.

"Hey, Aden! Thanks for…".
"The free porn!" Pierre chimes, cackling.
"… for reaching out" Thomas snickers "However, we believe there has been a mix-up in the download link to our photos, if you can check it out, please? Thanks! Best, T.".
"Okay, but if we got this… hot photoshoot, who got our wedding photos?" Pierre composes himself, gasping for air.
"Oh my God" Thomas snorts and bends over laughing.

On a warm August evening, somewhere else, a leather-clad, bewildered BDSM master stares blankly at his laptop screen. The slideshow flickers: a riverside wedding. Two men crying during their vows. A groom shaving his partner’s head in a bathroom that’s suspiciously well-lit for such an act of debauchery. He blinks. Once. Twice

The shock wears off. Boyish grin turns naughty

Perhaps, he even toasts to the newlyweds. Perhaps he scrolls through his contact list and deliberates whether to hit dial or wait until his next session to ask the photographer to extend his congratulations to the husbands.






AUTHOR’S NOTE: The characters of "Aden Verity" and "Rah Hemlock" belong to Fantasy Weaver. The use of these characters, and their characterization in this work, has been approved by Fantasy Weaver. (Once again, shoutout, thanks, admiration, gratitude, and beyond anything I can say to them for their generosity).

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