Page 34 of In Frame
Wasit that awful, if Leo knew about it and offered willingly? Did that make a difference? Should it?
Or was that suddenly worse, because Leo felt the need to make the offer?
“What would work best? More candid, I’d guess, so nothing looks staged? Not that I’m going to make you go out of doors and crouch in my bushes.”
Sam had never exactly done that, though he hadn’t been above hiding behind cars or lurking outside nightclubs. More fractures, more love, more impossibilities. Getting too familiar, that canyon in his chest. “You, um. You in that robe would actually be awesome. Being comfortable and self-indulgent, at home…maybe in the kitchen, or out on your balcony, up here…”
“Oh, absolutely.” Leo sparkled at him: turning necessity into play, complications into kindness and conspiratorial scene-setting. Real magic hid in that grin. The kind that didn’t deny gravity and pain, but took up and wove potential crash-landings into other possibilities, brighter strands of hazel and blond, English Breakfast tea with sugar, imagination and exploration. “It’s rather fun, isn’t it? Sneakily setting this up. A secret. You and me. Any advice about my hair, or other wardrobe tips, or suggestions about posing, from the art director’s point of view?”
Sam snorted, tugged him closer and bit his ear because that felt right too—Leo beamed as if that’d been exactly the desired reaction—and retorted, “This director definitely thinks you’re a piece of art,” which came out completely nonsensical but made Leo laugh, barefoot with an armful of elaborate robe.
He wanted to say more. He wanted to say whatever came to mind, whatever he was thinking, no matter how ridiculous. He liked being ridiculous around Leo.
He found his phone. The camera was decent; not the best possible quality, but it’d do. He’d gotten used to adapting, improvising, catching a moment, working with what he had.
He ignored several emails about when he might get around to submitting the rest of his work—photos, a quick write-up—from the premiere and after-parties. Jameson had grown progressively more annoyed at his lack of response, but would take whatever Sam sent in; they both knew how much a firsthand account, and pictures of Colby Kent out in public in that rainbow-lined suit-jacket, were worth.
He refused to think about Jameson, or the tabloid covers, or the whole ugly snarl of his job. He wanted to think about Leo: currently somehow both classy and adorable, hair rumpled and standing up attractively, bundled up in decadent fabric but letting it slip open in front, playing with a robe-tie apparently just because, flipping it around and making it spin.
Sam’s heart spun around too, a loop of fondness and need and awareness that left him dizzy with roller-coaster desires.
Leo looked up and smiled. “Balcony first, while we’re up here?”
“…yeah.” He had to clear his throat. “Yeah.”
On a London morning, bathed in barely-risen sun, he caught Leo Whyte laughing and half-dressed in blue and gold brocade extravagance on a sliver of townhouse balcony. He caught Leo Whyte sipping tea, barefoot, gazing out over gardens and rooftops; he caught Leo yawning and stretching, swinging arms up. He caught Leo pensively quietly happy, smiling down into a teacup.
That last one would sell copies. It was also one Sam wanted for himself alone.
Leo was a genius actor. Could flow into sun and shadow and find the perfect angle. Could pretend readily that the camera wasn’t there, stepping easily into a performance: as if he’d genuinely wandered out onto the balcony for a morning cup of tea and not noticed a photographer. And he could do all that while giving flawless angles, head-tilts, interesting expressions.
Leo’s face was always doing something. Sam had thought that at the premiere, and thought it again now. Even at rest, he was fascinating to watch: in motion, thinking, feeling. Open and vivid. Shared with everybody who wanted to join in.
Sam, trying to capture that vibrance—and to make it look as if he’d snuck up someplace, maybe the balcony next door, and snagged one of the best vantage points of all time, all without giving away that Leo knew he was there—took shot after shot. Sunrise, color, Leo’s bare legs. Leo sharing a moment with the tea, warming both hands.
Leo did glance over at him occasionally and grin. Sam couldn’t not grin back.
He loved the art of it. He loved the glint of light on porcelain—the old-fashioned teacup had been Leo’s idea; pale pink roses blossomed over eggshell white—and he loved the interplay of time and place, hints of older eras in Leo’s robe and the teacup, side by side with Leo’s naked toes and the moss-green flutter of curtains from the open balcony door.
He wanted to do a series in black and white. Timeless and elegant. But with a pop or two of color: striking turquoise or deep ruby or royal purple. Those forest-toned curtains or the pink of roses. Hazel in wide eyes. Leo Whyte was made of color and deserved color.
He wanted to see versions made larger, on display. He wanted to see what he could do with more fabric, more motion, Leo outright looking at the camera—
He wanted to turn the art of the moment into somethingbigger. In a gallery. Where everybody else could see it all too: the textures, the contrasts, the story in lighting and angles and better focus.
He wanted—
None of that mattered.
Because he couldn’t.
He had his family. He had bills to pay. He had no formal training. He had no reputation aside from the one in his present profession, which wouldn’t translate in any way to an actual art-photography career.
He pictured that, or tried to. Himself laughed out of galleries. No phone calls ever returned. No more jobs that’d at least bring in money, because he’d missed the next big celebrity scoop while trying to make himself someone else. Nothing he could offer, nothing he could do or say.
Never good enough for someone like Leo Whyte.
He wasn’t good enough now. Except that Leo had somehow wanted him. Had chosen him, out of everyone, as worthy of this.
