the monitors are liars. they smooth out the sweat and turn the desperate, jagged edge of a human soul into something marketable, something that can be downloaded for twenty-nine dollars a month. but standing here, in the oppressive, humid center of the stage, the lie doesn't hold.
vernon felt the heat of the lamps pressing against the back of his neck, a physical manifestation of the pressure he lived under, but it was nothing compared to the heat coming off link. up close, the boy, the man was a tectonic plate of tension, ready to snap and take the whole studio down with them. when link spoke, those three words i’m right here. they didn’t just hang in the air, they punctured the professional bubble vernon had spent years inflating.
it was a challenge. it was a plea. it was a goddamn tragedy.
vernon didn’t pull his hand away immediately from link’s collar. he let his thumb linger for a fraction of a second too long against the pulse point of that throat. he felt the racing rhythm, the frantic, bird-like thrum of a heart that vernon had helped break. he knew link thought they were being replaced, or that they were failing, or that vernon’s coldness was a sign of disgust. link didn't realize that the coldness was the only thing keeping vernon from falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness for ever putting a camera between them.
“ then stay right here, ” vernon replied, his voice a low, rough grate that felt like it was tearing out of his own chest. “ don't let me look at the screen and see a ghost, link. i don't pay ghosts. ”
it was a lie. a corporate, shitty lie to cover the fact that seeing link hollowed out made vernon want to burn the building to the ground.
he stepped back into the darkness of the editing room the area behind the monitors where he could pretend to be a god instead of a man. every step away felt like a betrayal. he sat back in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and felt the eyes of the crew on him. they were waiting for the tyrant. they were waiting for the man who demanded perfection and didn't care about the cost.
he didn't give them the satisfaction of seeing his hands shake. he shoved them into the pockets of his jacket, his fingernails digging into his palms.
roll camera, he commanded, the authority returning to his tone like a reflex. scene forty-two, take four. action.
on the monitor, the scene unfolded with a new, terrifying energy. link was no longer just a machine ; they were a live wire. when they grabbed their scene partner, there was a raw, visceral desperation in the movement that made the script irrelevant. it wasn't just sex, and it wasn't just performance. it was a man trying to claw their way out of their own skin.
vernon watched, his breath hitching in his throat. he saw the way link’s eyes flickered toward the camera for a split second, not a technical error, but a targeted strike. link wasn't looking at the lens ; they were looking through it. they were looking at vernon.
see me, the look said. see what you’ve made. see what i’m doing for you.
vernon felt a sickening mixture of pride and self-loathing. he had discovered link in that bar, yes. he had given them a career, a name, a bank account. but in doing so, he had turned their relationship into a transaction. he had placed himself in a position where he was the one holding the leash, and link was the one performing for the scrap of affection vernon allowed himself to show through a critique of their eyeline or form.
the scene reached its peak, and vernon didn't look away. he couldn't. he watched the way link’s body arched, the way their muscles corded under the gold-slicked skin, and he felt a phantom ache in his own arms. he wanted to be the one link was holding. he wanted to be the one link was angry at, or crying over, or laughing with in a world where the record light wasn't red.
but the light was red. it was always red.
cut, vernon said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. he cleared his throat, trying to regain his footing. print that. we’re moving on to the close-ups.
he didn't get up to congratulate link. he didn't offer a towel or a glass of water. he just stayed in the shadows, a silhouette in a high-backed chair, watching the PAs swarm the set. he watched Link break character, the way his shoulders slumped the moment the action was over, the way they looked suddenly small under the vast, artificial sky of the soundstage.
vernon picked up his pen and made a note on his clipboard, his handwriting a jagged mess.
masterpiece, he wrote. then he crossed it out until the paper tore.
he knew what link wanted. he knew link was vying for a word, a touch, a sign that the man behind the director’s monitor still existed. and vernon wanted to give it to them. he wanted to walk over there, throw his jacket over link’s shoulders, and drive them away from this place, away from the cameras and the contracts and the shared silence that was killing them both.
but he didn't. he couldn't. because if he became a man, he would lose the director. and if he lost the director, he couldn't protect link from the industry that would chew them up and spit them out the moment they stopped being perfect.
this was the only way vernon knew how to love them : by being the monster that kept the other monsters away.
“ five minutes ! ” vernon barked, his voice echoing through the rafters. “ link, get your touch-ups. you’re sweating through the base. let’s make it look like it doesn't hurt, okay ? that’s what they’re paying for. ”
he looked down at the monitor again, staring at the frozen frame of link’s face. the eyes were wide, beautiful, and utterly shattered.
i’m sorry, vernon whispered, so low that even the boom mic wouldn't have caught it.
he hit the playback button, and watched the crash happen all over again.
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