Photograph

We keep this love in a photograph
We made these memories for ourselves
Where our eyes are never closing
Hearts are never broken
And time's forever frozen still.

Photograph, Ed Sheeran -

 

He sighs, looking down at the ticket he holds between his reddened fingers. The air is cold, brushing harshly his hair, caressing with icy tears his skin as if wanting to rip it open - opening his skull to drink blood from it.

It is just inhuman to drag him there - but it is work and he needs the money that will come after covering this wicked event; the queue is long in front of him and the snow falls, merciless, on top of his skin - white like ashes that are burning his flesh, blistering it more than the camera hanging from his neck is scratching the back of his head with the heaviness of responsibilities, obligations, bills to pay that are waiting for him back home (where he is longing to be, under soft blankets, curling next to his dog). It is not just the wait under the burdening flakes but that this assignment has nothing to do with his field  - he covers political issues, he is not in charge of entertainment; but here he is, freezing to death in order to take a few pictures of a dancer whose name he doesn’t even know and a show he doesn’t even care about.

He is relieved when he sets his feet inside the building - the wind is on his nape but his hands have stopped trembling and he feels like defrosting, water running from his coat, wetting the elegant floor of the hall. The light from the chandelier is warm and welcoming and the room is all dark, waiting for the performance to begin. He sits on a soft couch and waits, unamused, bored already - his eyelids feel heavy and the atmosphere around is so dim, so calm, he wants to sink into it and stay here forever, warm and cozy. He is about to doze out, too weary from all the work he has been doing in such a freezing day when he is suddenly startled by a loud shrill of the music that has started to play, coming from the speakers above his head.

The stage is lighted and he is on the center, staring at the crowd - his eyes are fierce and determined, Seungyoon sees it all beyond the magnifier lens and, for an instant their glance collide in the air, he looks at him and he wants to take the shoot but his fingers are unable to move, to click and he feels how he reels him in when he first move, leaving him gasping, staring at him only, captivated by his dance flowing - he has never seen anything like this before, a body moving so in sync with the music, floating, ethereal and graceful, describing the song with every moves that are beautiful on their own, expressing all the emotions, entrancing him, transporting him into a world of fantasy, to his own imagination, a taleteller explained with dance steps, an explosion of colors and light and something else that is sublime and that shines in his eyes everytime he beats at the same rhythm as the song, blooming like a river, a wavering sea. 

But it’s not until he starts dancing with the girl that Seungyoon snaps, out of a revery made of him moving throughout a haze. He carries her effortlessly, a magistral choreography made with elegant prances and swirls so carefully executed that it seems out of a dream; they recreate a fairy world where they are the protagonists. She is lifted as if weightless and he holds her in his shoulders like an angel - both dressed in pure white, tiptoeing on the stage, barefoot and it is incredible, captivating, they fly with each leap across the stage, pirouettes so lithe, balanced, skilled, mastering all the dance. Seungyoon has never seen something alike, something capable to leave him speechless - he gasps, entranced, whenever he takes the girl to shuffle her in the air, twirling and swirling: lacy, dainty, perfectly.

And as beautiful as she is, Seungyoon can’t tear his eyes from him; his gaze is behind his every move; he is the star of the universe that this scenery is - and with every new movement he arouses Seungyoon in ways that are hard to describe, heating his chest with slow-motioned steps down the floor, tongue cooling his lips and a finger tracing his torso, leaving him panting, wantoning, looking for more (it is worse than if he ripped his shirt opened, showing the muscles beneath it and that now, under the soft light, are only slightly insinuated, just a silhouette of what Seungyoon can already sense on his lips, and he relishes into what he can see, feeling how every single shimmy  he does stirs ashes inside his core).

If he could, he would keep this moment inside a photograph, where it would always be the same, a second captured, a pressed instant, evergreen,  in his pocket, where it would remain, forever still, but his fingers are numb, wilting - when the music is over and everything it’s quiet again, there isn’t any picture made to be sent to his editor, to be published.

He has a problem. He will lose his job if he comes empty-handed tomorrow - trying to explain himself is just ridiculous, a delusion that no one is going to believe in because what had happened is stupid, a beautiful mistake (he stares at his hands, still on the camera, startled at his own weakness, at how everything has gone wrong due to just a pretty face taking away his breath, his determination).

There is only one thing he can do - to pray hard for it to work, for him to be kind enough to grant his wish. He knocks on the door and waits, trembling as if afraid - but he is not.

He looks softer up close but still seductive, irresistible and Seungyoon has to refrain the urge to do something regretful - his Mamiya burdens his neck and his fingers want to run free over his flesh, capturing every moment in flashes from his compact lens, to use all the films he keeps in the bag around his waist, waste them on him alone; to expose him to an on-the-spot photo-session (so he can have him, so he can memorize all his forms late at night).

“What can I do for you?” he asks, pitched voice that doesn’t match his expression. He glances at the camera and smirks, knowingly, recognizing him - and his face lit up beautifully.

“A picture of you,” Seungyoon replies, holding his breath because he is so nearby, watching him as if undressing his soul, reading his secrets, igniting fires that convulse under his bones.

“And what are you going to give in return for it?” Seunghoon lifts his eyebrows, the same blonde as his kissed by the sun hair, quirky, the smile widening, playfully, tempting, enticing. 

“What do you want?” Seungyoon wonders, unsure, but ready to give him his whole existence - he has just to ask.

“I saw you on the show,” he states, coming closer, “I’ve seen the way you were looking at me,” and his hand is reaching for his cheeks, cradling them - they are hot, soft, thumb dancing on his skin as if in a dream. “I think we can make a good deal out of it,”  he whispers slowly, so close he can count his eyelashes, and he pushes him in, the door bangs behind them.

Most of the pictures he has taken of him are inappropriate - and so he keeps them for himself, decoring his shelves, hanging on bare walls on his room - but a few made it to the printing, under the article that he has also written about the show. Seunghoon laughs while reading it, caressing gently his skin.

“I’ll give you a ticket for my next show. I really like the way you look at me,” he says, making Seungyoon blush adorably - he kisses his rosy cheeks tenderly, ruffling the curls off of his forehead. “Seungyoonie, you are a cutie,” Seungyoon pouts, earning a soft kiss to his plumpy lips. He drags him, though, deepening it and Seunghoon lets him, holding him still.

“I’m not interested in dancing, and I was only doing a favor,” Seungyoon replies, folding the newspaper and tossing it away, his now free hands covering his hips dangerously - at the moment he has better things to do than to argue, he wants to feel him again on him, kissing him ruthlessly. 

“Are you sure?” he wonders, pushing him out of his lap, standing in front of him - the distance itches on his skin -, “your eyes were saying a different story, though,” and there is so much tease in his voice, Seungyoon can’t help but be mortified. And when Seunghoon starts dancing seductively, doing another routine only for him to see, Seungyoon wants to disappear - the air is too hot, and he feels too weak to move, and he stares at him ashamed, following every one of his steps. “See? You like it,” getting closer to him and kissing him fully, though, worth all the embarrassment in the world - Seunghoon is now on top of him, mouth dragging his lips lazily, slowly, tentatively until he tugs him in, inviting him to something more intense (lust colors his stare).

“I can’t believe I let you show my pictures on your gallery,” he complains, taking a look at the exhibition.

All around he sees himself in different moments, different stages. The photos are great, Seungyoon has done an amazing job, capturing him while dancing, practicing or taking a break. There are photographies of pretty landscapes, too: quotidian objects, flowers, and fields; colors and shadows, everything displayed in Seungyoon's characteristic way, as he sees them, as he feels them rise in the universe. They all share simplicity in its beauty and then, there is Seunghoon.

The most impactful one is a fully instantaneous of him, on his back, his hair as blond as the clouds - he remembers the moment; the air smelled like him and they just woke up from an idle Sunday. It is pure and without pretentions, simply lovely; just him in the way Seungyoon loves him the most, the way he has always seen him - it is intense just because it represents all the feelings of Seungyoon, all the adoration he has for him captured in a picture with no colors. 

“It is because it is beautiful,” he says, shushing him with a kiss, his back on the wall next to the hanging photograph.

Maybe it’s true, he doesn’t know - he doesn’t know about photography anyway but loves being Seungyoon’s model, he loves the way he catches him in pictures, the way he stares at him as if he worth it, as if being worshiped, as if he was art and Seungyoon the one destined to capture it.