Henry Townshend (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
21st_sacrament) wrote2012-01-27 04:55 pm
21st_sacrament) wrote2012-01-27 04:55 pm
FIC; Photographs.
Looking through the flip-book in his hands, he's fairly certain Alex hassled everyone they know who owns a camera and has a phone number. It's sweet, really.
It would just be sweeter if it didn't make him want to squirm like meal worms were slowly inching their way up his intestines.
His face is red and he's already tempted to hide, press his face into Alex's warm side because he there's, in all of them, and seeing himself caught on film makes him shyer than nothing else. The pictures themselves aren't bad, he can recall all of the scenes, the where, the who, the why.
The only thing surprising is they're facing him now, memories boldly staring him down, reminding him that there was someone watching, the way the wind caught at his hair and clothes, the soft lines of sleep that hadn't yet left his face one morning, the shine in his eyes when an arm was wrapped around him - all the little moments that come and go captured and highlighted in glossy photographs.
The lighting is awkward in some of them, the angle wrong, the golden ratio completely abandoned, he can tell the project is a hodgepodge from all the tells. He murmurs to himself, pointing at Alex's question and the other man huffs beside him. Alex has steady hands but his focus tends to be a little off.
Alex sags down against him, an arm wrapping around his shoulders playfully and Henry resumes looking. His heart beats a little faster when he sees a close up, his face looking right into the camera, head resting on the inside of his forearm. His hair is tousled, lips faintly parted, beginnings of stubble scattered across his jawline. His eyes are wide and clear, bright against seeming dark lashes and Henry suddenly recalls the lighting in the room of the bed and breakfast they stayed in, how Alex broke through his sleep clogged mind by turning on the lamp by the bedside. He remembers Alex smiling, pressing a kiss to his cheek before ruffling through their bags, dropping to his knees while Henry lay at the end of the bed.
They were checking out that afternoon and Alex had wanted his picture, because Henry looked so content and it's there in that picture, his expression soft and open from walking trails in the nearby woods, countless kisses pressed to his skin.
He turns to the side and kisses the underside of Alex's jaw softly, waits for him to duck down and kiss him proper with a happy chuckle.
The itch under his skin lessens after that.
It would just be sweeter if it didn't make him want to squirm like meal worms were slowly inching their way up his intestines.
His face is red and he's already tempted to hide, press his face into Alex's warm side because he there's, in all of them, and seeing himself caught on film makes him shyer than nothing else. The pictures themselves aren't bad, he can recall all of the scenes, the where, the who, the why.
The only thing surprising is they're facing him now, memories boldly staring him down, reminding him that there was someone watching, the way the wind caught at his hair and clothes, the soft lines of sleep that hadn't yet left his face one morning, the shine in his eyes when an arm was wrapped around him - all the little moments that come and go captured and highlighted in glossy photographs.
The lighting is awkward in some of them, the angle wrong, the golden ratio completely abandoned, he can tell the project is a hodgepodge from all the tells. He murmurs to himself, pointing at Alex's question and the other man huffs beside him. Alex has steady hands but his focus tends to be a little off.
Alex sags down against him, an arm wrapping around his shoulders playfully and Henry resumes looking. His heart beats a little faster when he sees a close up, his face looking right into the camera, head resting on the inside of his forearm. His hair is tousled, lips faintly parted, beginnings of stubble scattered across his jawline. His eyes are wide and clear, bright against seeming dark lashes and Henry suddenly recalls the lighting in the room of the bed and breakfast they stayed in, how Alex broke through his sleep clogged mind by turning on the lamp by the bedside. He remembers Alex smiling, pressing a kiss to his cheek before ruffling through their bags, dropping to his knees while Henry lay at the end of the bed.
They were checking out that afternoon and Alex had wanted his picture, because Henry looked so content and it's there in that picture, his expression soft and open from walking trails in the nearby woods, countless kisses pressed to his skin.
He turns to the side and kisses the underside of Alex's jaw softly, waits for him to duck down and kiss him proper with a happy chuckle.
The itch under his skin lessens after that.