Chapter 3
Dylan moves through the next day on autopilot.
He doesn't remember what he has for breakfast, only that it tastes like ash.
The studio is in Millsfield.
They send a car to collect him, but the journey is a blur.
He feels as if he is viewing the world through frosted glass, muted and distant.
He's ushered into a dressing room.
Someone tells him the shoot might end late and hands him a hotel keycard which he fumbles with clumsy fingers.
He's dressed in a sleek black suit, an expensive watch fastened around his left wrist, then he's taken to the studio.
The room is empty save for a stark white backdrop, one camera, and ten people milling around.
The bright studio lights make him want to cower away, but he's too numb to react.
He poses when they say pose, turns when they say turn, smiles when they say smile.
It all feels meaningless.
Time slips away from him.
Dylan doesn't know how long has passed until he hears the director call Viktor's name.
He turns his head.
Viktor steps into view beneath the studio lights, familiar silhouette wearing an identical black suit and tie, familiar gaze scanning the room before settling on Dylan.
Their eyes lock and hold.
That look would normally spark something inside Dylan, but today, all he feels is a sort of static.
His mind knows there should be a reaction, but he feels detached from his body.
Viktor's expression shifts, brow creasing, whether a hint of concern or annoyance, Dylan can't tell.
Nothing in him stirs.
The absence feels like a bruise.
Viktor walks forward and joins him against the backdrop.
As per the director's instructions, they turn to face one another.
He senses Viktor try to catch his eye again, but Dylan directs his unfocused gaze elsewhere, trying to concentrate on the director's words.
They want the first joint shot to highlight the watch on Viktor's left hand by having Viktor hold up Dylan's right wrist.
Dylan stares absently at Viktor's hand.
Three days ago, those fingers were gripped tight at the back of Dylan's neck, holding him down as Viktor pressed his cock into him.
Inch by perfect inch, until there was nothing else to think about, nothing Dylan had to do but lie there and take it.
Something inside him drifts further away.
Viktor's hand wraps around his bare wrist and squeezes.
Dylan barely stops himself from collapsing to his knees.
The pressure lights up every receptor of his touch-starved nervous system, wrenching a small, pained noise from the back of his throat.
Every muted sensation comes flooding back so intensely that it almost hurts.
He needs Viktor to hold him down until there's nothing inside him but quiet.
He wants to sink into him and disappear.
It takes Dylan an entire beat to remember where they are.
Fighting against the fog in his mind, he manages to drag his gaze up to meet Viktor's.
There's a slow-dawning horror and understanding on Viktor's face.
Dylan is too far gone to interpret its meaning.
"Cross," Viktor says, so quiet it's barely audible, even to Dylan.
Slowly, experimentally, Viktor squeezes his wrist again.
Dylan's eyes slip closed.
He sways towards the pressure, his other hand catching Viktor's shoulder to keep himself upright.
Somewhere deep inside, he knows this isn't right, exposed under bright studio lights with an audience of ten people, but there isn't any worry.
There isn't anything at all—there is only Viktor.
"Open your eyes, Cross," Viktor whispers quickly.
Dylan obeys.
He registers a panic in Viktor's gaze he doesn't feel within himself.
"That's the shot.
Hold it right there guys, that's perfect."
Dylan barely hears the director.
All he can concentrate on is the firm muscle beneath his hand and the firm grip around his wrist.
Viktor's face has smoothed out into a regular expression for the sake of the camera, but Dylan can feel how tense he is beneath his palm.
"Great, we got it," the photographer says.
"We can set up for the next shot."
Viktor lets go and steps back.
The absence is like being dropped into ice water.
Dylan is alone again, adrift in a sea of nothing.
He takes an unsteady step back, putting more distance between him and Viktor, eyes on the floor.
Viktor steps casually in front of him, shielding Dylan from view with his own body.
"We will be taking a break," he announces.
The whole room falls silent.
The director stares at Viktor in incredulity.
"That isn't exactly your decision to make."
Viktor's shrug appears casual, but the lines of his shoulders are rigid with tension.
"Feel free to do photoshoot without us.
Your decision."
Dylan has a fleeting thought that he should chastise Viktor for being rude, especially to a sponsor as important as this one, but for once in his life he cannot make himself care.
He doesn't want to be here.
All he wants is Viktor.
"You have ten minutes."
"Twenty," Viktor says.
The command in his voice makes Dylan shiver.
His mind latches onto that tone as the only thing keeping him tethered.
"I should have known you'd be a diva, Orlov." The director waves them both away.
"You can have fifteen minutes and no more.
I assumed you'd behave better than this considering this joint deal was your idea."
Dylan frowns, the significance of those words slipping through his grasp like smoke.
Viktor looks back at him in an obvious instruction to follow.
Dylan convinces his feet to comply.
Viktor waits until they're out of the studio and heading down the empty corridor to slide a guiding hand against the small of his back.
It feels like a brand, the whole world narrowing to that single point of contact.
Dylan has no choice but to let himself be guided.