adventchallenge 2010: 5/25 (for alice_montrose)
alice_montrose's request: Male model/fashionista, winter-themed photo shoot. Bonus points for hot photographer. extra bonus points if there's flirting and/or (half-)naked sex involved.
I did not follow the prompt to the letter, sadly, but I hope you enjoy the results anyway. *snugs*
for December 5th, 2010 (alice_montrose)
Thomas arrived at 11:30am precisely. It took Mercutio Laurence almost two minutes to answer the door, but since Thomas had dealt with this model before, he didn't take it personally-just held his coat collar tighter to keep snow from landing on the back of his neck, and shifted his camera bag strap with his other hand. When Mercutio opened the door, he seemed wary. Then he saw Thomas's camera bag-closed-and seemed to relax. "You're Walsh, right?" he asked, shifting against his tall white door frame, blue jeans and dark skin a picturesque contrast to the frame and snow fluttering through the air between them.
"Yes." Thomas's fingers itched to adjust the lenses, click the button, take a picture. Mercutio's feet were bare and manicured; his sculpted chest was covered by a fitted cream sweater that unfurled from under his Adam's apple; his brown fingers curled against the door, barring entrance, yet inviting in their casual grip. Thomas felt plain standing in front of him, a mouse in man's clothing, and shorter than usual because the front door was raised a step from the small porch. But Thomas was used to feeling lesser physically-his clients were models, like Mercutio; and designers, celebrities, magazines, shows. He was a face in the background and obscured by a camera if at all possible. He shouldn't be surprised Mercutio didn't recognize him as the photographer from his new clothing line photo shoot; no one ever recognized Thomas. "Yes," he said again, making himself get through the niceties of the job. "But please, call me Thomas."
Mercutio nodded and let him in with a smile, which changed his whole demeanor. "When Pam said you were coming today, I freaked out," he admitted, closing the door behind Thomas. "I thought it was next week. Sorry my house is a mess-show's in a month and I literally got back from New York yesterday. Are you thirsty?"
Thomas shook his head. "No. How much did Pam tell you?"
"Uh, some guy would take pictures of me for an afternoon?"
"Pretty much, yeah," Thomas said. "Just go about your business like I'm not here. I'll take pictures for a few hours, then leave as quietly as I came."
"Will I get to see the pictures before they go up for auction?"
"Pam will go over them with you, yes, if only so the charity isn't embarrassed by certain shots, or accidentally gets on your bad side by auctioning off pictures you don't want public."
Mercutio shrugged. "I'm pretty hard to piss off-I've posed for naked shoots before."
"Well," Thomas said, glad to finally be able to lift his camera out of its case, "you are under no obligation to be naked today." He hung the empty case on a coat rack by the door, then hung his coat beside it. When he turned back, Mercutio was grinning. Thomas snapped his picture, adjusted the lens, and snapped another at Mercutio's surprised expression.
"Uh," Mercutio seemed to shake himself. "Shoes off in the house."
Thomas toed them off, camera still at the ready. Another snap of the shutter: Mercutio, bemused.
"Alrighty, I guess we're starting." Mercutio pointed down one of the sunlit hallways leading away from the wide front room staircase. "Studio's that way." He strode down the hall. Thomas took the opportunity to get Mercutio framed by the hallway and sun streaming from a left wall window onto his tight, short curls and tapered waist. Then he followed: quiet, intent, invisible.
Over the next three hours, Thomas lost himself in the angles, light, and shadow-the capturing of Mercutio Lawrence. He was looking for the essence of the man, the joy and passion, the purpose-not just because those were what would sell, but because that was his passion in his work: seeing through to the heart of people. Periodically, Mercutio asked if he was thirsty, hungry, wanted to use the bathroom. Thomas shook his head "no" each time, and took pictures as Mercutio's uncertainty became disbelief, then amusement. Thomas captured images of Mercutio sifting through fabrics in his large studio's back room; Mercutio sewing, head bent low over the machine and careful fingers feeding black chiffon through the path of the flashing needle; Mercutio editing his designs in a sketchpad with an assortment of colored pencils splayed out on either side of the book, fabric squares taped in beside each elegantly angular drawing; Mercutio sitting by the window, pausing in his fabric contemplation of a half-finished skirt to stare out through the falling snow and into his own thoughts.
In the kitchen, the shots were of Mercutio making a salad with fresh arugula, lemon, honey from a hand-labeled jar; Mercutio drinking a glass of water, hips jutting out as he leaned with one hand on the counter; Mercutio reaching for a jug in the back of the fridge, and pulling out pomegranate juice with a private, triumphant grin.
Thomas was surprised when Mercutio pulled down two glasses; he'd thought Mercutio had forgotten his presence at last. "You're trying this," he said, pressing a glass into Thomas's hand, then pouring it half full before Thomas could refuse. "You've been at it for almost three hours with no break. You need to recharge."
Thomas blinked as he lowered his camera, and life without the viewfinder-as-filter revealed itself strange, surreal, bright. "Thanks," he said, feeling dazed as he gently allowed his camera to hang its weight on the strap around his neck. A few sips later, his juice was all gone, and Thomas realized he was thirsty. "Uh, can I-"
Mercutio filled his glass this time, then sipped his own, a thoughtful expression on his face. Thomas didn't ask what had caught his attention-it wasn't him, with a voice dry and stiff from hours of dehydrated silence.
When his glass was empty, Mercutio put it and his own on the table. "Hungry?" He motioned to the salad. "I made enough for two."
"Oh." Thomas felt oddly touched. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to."
"Why?" Thomas felt like a jerk the minute it slipped out.
But Mercutio said, "Anyone who can stand to watch my boring life with that amount of intensity for more than ten minutes deserves way more than just lunch."
Thomas's chuckle surprised him. "Okay," he said. "I'll eat with you. I might take a few pictures though."
Mercutio laughed. "Do you take your camera everywhere? You don't, like, sleep with it on the table next to you…do you?"
"I do, actually." But Thomas didn't feel embarrassed about it, not anymore, and he thought he saw admiration in Mercutio's eyes when he admitted it. It was…nice.
Thomas took a few pictures of Mercutio during lunch, then took his leave quickly so as not to disrupt Mercutio's life further. He felt sad to go, all the same; he had liked being Mercutio's shadow, and even more, liked being the focus of Mercutio's gaze.
*
Three weeks later, Thomas found himself once again at Mercutio's house. He fidgeted on the front step as he waited; Pam had said Mercutio wanted to talk to him about some of the pictures. He was impressed, she'd said. So why was he wanting Thomas to come and have a Talk?
Mercutio seemed pleased to see him when he opened the door, however, so Thomas's hand relaxed slightly on the strap of his camera bag. "You wanted to talk?" he asked, hanging his coat and toeing off his slush-bottomed shoes.
"Yeah," Mercutio said, leading him down the chain of hallways to the kitchen. "I just…" He seemed nervous. "Do you want anything to drink?"
Thomas stopped him from listing the choices with a quiet "No."
"Alright," Mercutio said. His shoulders and chin straightened. "Will you have dinner with me?"
Thomas frowned. "Yes. But you don't need to do that."
"I want to," Mercutio said.
"Oh." Thomas cocked his head, as if through another angle Mercutio would make sense. "But…why?"
"I want to see you the way you see me." Mercutio paused, sighed. "I loved the pictures. I don't know how you-you saw me, not just my face or my brand. And I realized when you got here that day I didn't even recognize you, but you did a shoot of me last Spring. Anyone who sees people the way you do deserves to be recognized."
Thomas flushed even as his finger twitched, aching to capture Mercutio's earnestness.
"Will you go out to dinner with me?" Mercutio asked again, this time leaving no room to doubt his interest.
"Yes. I'd like to." Thomas smiled. "But-why invite me over? You could've asked over the phone."
"I got the feeling you'd be shy," Mercutio admitted. "And anyway, I can't kiss you over the phone."
Thomas's heart stuttered in his chest. "Oh." He fidgeted with his camera strap. "Well, that makes sense then."
"I thought so too," Mercutio said, taking a step forward and lifting Thomas's chin. "Can I kiss you?"
Thomas felt the warmth of Mercutio's fingers tingle down his throat. "Yes."
"Now?"
Thomas grinned. "I'd like that." He felt, knew, when the intensity of Mercutio's gaze focused on him; when Mercutio saw him. The kiss was soft, sweet, grounded him from the shock of that realization: Mercutio saw Thomas, and wanted him.
I did not follow the prompt to the letter, sadly, but I hope you enjoy the results anyway. *snugs*
for December 5th, 2010 (alice_montrose)
Thomas arrived at 11:30am precisely. It took Mercutio Laurence almost two minutes to answer the door, but since Thomas had dealt with this model before, he didn't take it personally-just held his coat collar tighter to keep snow from landing on the back of his neck, and shifted his camera bag strap with his other hand. When Mercutio opened the door, he seemed wary. Then he saw Thomas's camera bag-closed-and seemed to relax. "You're Walsh, right?" he asked, shifting against his tall white door frame, blue jeans and dark skin a picturesque contrast to the frame and snow fluttering through the air between them.
"Yes." Thomas's fingers itched to adjust the lenses, click the button, take a picture. Mercutio's feet were bare and manicured; his sculpted chest was covered by a fitted cream sweater that unfurled from under his Adam's apple; his brown fingers curled against the door, barring entrance, yet inviting in their casual grip. Thomas felt plain standing in front of him, a mouse in man's clothing, and shorter than usual because the front door was raised a step from the small porch. But Thomas was used to feeling lesser physically-his clients were models, like Mercutio; and designers, celebrities, magazines, shows. He was a face in the background and obscured by a camera if at all possible. He shouldn't be surprised Mercutio didn't recognize him as the photographer from his new clothing line photo shoot; no one ever recognized Thomas. "Yes," he said again, making himself get through the niceties of the job. "But please, call me Thomas."
Mercutio nodded and let him in with a smile, which changed his whole demeanor. "When Pam said you were coming today, I freaked out," he admitted, closing the door behind Thomas. "I thought it was next week. Sorry my house is a mess-show's in a month and I literally got back from New York yesterday. Are you thirsty?"
Thomas shook his head. "No. How much did Pam tell you?"
"Uh, some guy would take pictures of me for an afternoon?"
"Pretty much, yeah," Thomas said. "Just go about your business like I'm not here. I'll take pictures for a few hours, then leave as quietly as I came."
"Will I get to see the pictures before they go up for auction?"
"Pam will go over them with you, yes, if only so the charity isn't embarrassed by certain shots, or accidentally gets on your bad side by auctioning off pictures you don't want public."
Mercutio shrugged. "I'm pretty hard to piss off-I've posed for naked shoots before."
"Well," Thomas said, glad to finally be able to lift his camera out of its case, "you are under no obligation to be naked today." He hung the empty case on a coat rack by the door, then hung his coat beside it. When he turned back, Mercutio was grinning. Thomas snapped his picture, adjusted the lens, and snapped another at Mercutio's surprised expression.
"Uh," Mercutio seemed to shake himself. "Shoes off in the house."
Thomas toed them off, camera still at the ready. Another snap of the shutter: Mercutio, bemused.
"Alrighty, I guess we're starting." Mercutio pointed down one of the sunlit hallways leading away from the wide front room staircase. "Studio's that way." He strode down the hall. Thomas took the opportunity to get Mercutio framed by the hallway and sun streaming from a left wall window onto his tight, short curls and tapered waist. Then he followed: quiet, intent, invisible.
Over the next three hours, Thomas lost himself in the angles, light, and shadow-the capturing of Mercutio Lawrence. He was looking for the essence of the man, the joy and passion, the purpose-not just because those were what would sell, but because that was his passion in his work: seeing through to the heart of people. Periodically, Mercutio asked if he was thirsty, hungry, wanted to use the bathroom. Thomas shook his head "no" each time, and took pictures as Mercutio's uncertainty became disbelief, then amusement. Thomas captured images of Mercutio sifting through fabrics in his large studio's back room; Mercutio sewing, head bent low over the machine and careful fingers feeding black chiffon through the path of the flashing needle; Mercutio editing his designs in a sketchpad with an assortment of colored pencils splayed out on either side of the book, fabric squares taped in beside each elegantly angular drawing; Mercutio sitting by the window, pausing in his fabric contemplation of a half-finished skirt to stare out through the falling snow and into his own thoughts.
In the kitchen, the shots were of Mercutio making a salad with fresh arugula, lemon, honey from a hand-labeled jar; Mercutio drinking a glass of water, hips jutting out as he leaned with one hand on the counter; Mercutio reaching for a jug in the back of the fridge, and pulling out pomegranate juice with a private, triumphant grin.
Thomas was surprised when Mercutio pulled down two glasses; he'd thought Mercutio had forgotten his presence at last. "You're trying this," he said, pressing a glass into Thomas's hand, then pouring it half full before Thomas could refuse. "You've been at it for almost three hours with no break. You need to recharge."
Thomas blinked as he lowered his camera, and life without the viewfinder-as-filter revealed itself strange, surreal, bright. "Thanks," he said, feeling dazed as he gently allowed his camera to hang its weight on the strap around his neck. A few sips later, his juice was all gone, and Thomas realized he was thirsty. "Uh, can I-"
Mercutio filled his glass this time, then sipped his own, a thoughtful expression on his face. Thomas didn't ask what had caught his attention-it wasn't him, with a voice dry and stiff from hours of dehydrated silence.
When his glass was empty, Mercutio put it and his own on the table. "Hungry?" He motioned to the salad. "I made enough for two."
"Oh." Thomas felt oddly touched. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to."
"Why?" Thomas felt like a jerk the minute it slipped out.
But Mercutio said, "Anyone who can stand to watch my boring life with that amount of intensity for more than ten minutes deserves way more than just lunch."
Thomas's chuckle surprised him. "Okay," he said. "I'll eat with you. I might take a few pictures though."
Mercutio laughed. "Do you take your camera everywhere? You don't, like, sleep with it on the table next to you…do you?"
"I do, actually." But Thomas didn't feel embarrassed about it, not anymore, and he thought he saw admiration in Mercutio's eyes when he admitted it. It was…nice.
Thomas took a few pictures of Mercutio during lunch, then took his leave quickly so as not to disrupt Mercutio's life further. He felt sad to go, all the same; he had liked being Mercutio's shadow, and even more, liked being the focus of Mercutio's gaze.
*
Three weeks later, Thomas found himself once again at Mercutio's house. He fidgeted on the front step as he waited; Pam had said Mercutio wanted to talk to him about some of the pictures. He was impressed, she'd said. So why was he wanting Thomas to come and have a Talk?
Mercutio seemed pleased to see him when he opened the door, however, so Thomas's hand relaxed slightly on the strap of his camera bag. "You wanted to talk?" he asked, hanging his coat and toeing off his slush-bottomed shoes.
"Yeah," Mercutio said, leading him down the chain of hallways to the kitchen. "I just…" He seemed nervous. "Do you want anything to drink?"
Thomas stopped him from listing the choices with a quiet "No."
"Alright," Mercutio said. His shoulders and chin straightened. "Will you have dinner with me?"
Thomas frowned. "Yes. But you don't need to do that."
"I want to," Mercutio said.
"Oh." Thomas cocked his head, as if through another angle Mercutio would make sense. "But…why?"
"I want to see you the way you see me." Mercutio paused, sighed. "I loved the pictures. I don't know how you-you saw me, not just my face or my brand. And I realized when you got here that day I didn't even recognize you, but you did a shoot of me last Spring. Anyone who sees people the way you do deserves to be recognized."
Thomas flushed even as his finger twitched, aching to capture Mercutio's earnestness.
"Will you go out to dinner with me?" Mercutio asked again, this time leaving no room to doubt his interest.
"Yes. I'd like to." Thomas smiled. "But-why invite me over? You could've asked over the phone."
"I got the feeling you'd be shy," Mercutio admitted. "And anyway, I can't kiss you over the phone."
Thomas's heart stuttered in his chest. "Oh." He fidgeted with his camera strap. "Well, that makes sense then."
"I thought so too," Mercutio said, taking a step forward and lifting Thomas's chin. "Can I kiss you?"
Thomas felt the warmth of Mercutio's fingers tingle down his throat. "Yes."
"Now?"
Thomas grinned. "I'd like that." He felt, knew, when the intensity of Mercutio's gaze focused on him; when Mercutio saw him. The kiss was soft, sweet, grounded him from the shock of that realization: Mercutio saw Thomas, and wanted him.