Work Text:
He's falling apart again.
Though it comes more frequently at home, Nathan's learned that panic follows him like a shadow. He's in the dark room when it happens - his usual hiding place. Their place. He's supposed to feel protected here, in this fortress away from the world. He knows that. Mark tells him all the time that he'll never be more safe than he is in here. And most of the time it does make him feel safe, but right now it's only making it worse.
Because he knows now that no matter where he is, he can never control the force at which the whole world comes crashing down on him.
He's not even sure what set him off, because right now the only thing he can think about is the fact that he feels like he's dying. There are times when he'd say that he didn't care if he were hit by oncoming traffic or died of an overdose or in his sleep, but this is different. He thinks his heart's pumping too much blood, like every artery will fill up and burst and he'll see it all spraying out across the room and all over Mark's pristine white canvas - as long as he didn't go blind first.
He screws his eyes shut. He's terrified. He's far beyond naming 3 colours he can see or whatever the fuck anyway, and all he can hear is the sound of himself gasping through sobs for air.
He's curled in on himself, so tense and rigid that every sob makes him twitch and shake violently. In this moment he's every piece of roadkill; every bird with broken wings; every scared and suffering animal too cold and tired to even crawl into a patch of sunlight to die. He'd sit with them a while, keeping them company. Never helping, because there was nothing he could do. Just watching and waiting with them.
And then, he'd take a photograph for posterity's sake.
He hardly even notices the tapping sound of steel-capped shoes on the linoleum, but he's not too out of it to notice the strong arms that scoop him up - and he knows who's they are straight away.
His heart is still pounding away at a rate of knots, but he melts into the touch. He's crying even harder now, feeling like a disgusting snotty little kid, but he couldn't possibly hold it back. Mark carries him, his head in the crook of one arm and legs dangling limply over the other. The contact might be more comforting if he'd hold him a little closer, but a man has to take care of his Armani, and Nathan will take whatever he can get.
It doesn't last long, because Nathan soon feels himself being set down on the canvas. He knows the drill by now.
The studio lights burn his eyes, already red raw from tears. Still, he looks up and into the camera lens like a deer in headlights, eyes transfixed on the man behind it.
Mark stays quiet the whole time, because he's focused on his work and there's no need for him to say anything. Nathan's still too paralyzed in fear to follow orders anyway, so if he needs his subject to move he'll move him himself, like a ragdoll. Or a puppet.
He pulls the strings, and his vision bursts to life.
Nathan Prescott is alot of things; far from innocent, far from perfect - but he's vulnerable, and from each angle, the light reflects the boy's eyes differently - drawing into the focus another pure, unadulterated emotion.
Pure pain. Pure panic. Pure trust.
Nathan's exhausted himself, eyes dewy and breathing slowing down, his brain pumping out endorphins, and Mark looks through his work, satisfied with the results.
He sets his camera down on its tripod and goes to kneel beside Nathan, leaning in close enough that Nathan can feel the man's breath hot in his ear.
"You're a beautiful model." He whispers, and when the teenager collapses into him he rubs circles into his back and whispers sweet, cliché sentiments to him until he's fully calmed.
Even if this were poison, Nathan would drink it up without so much as a second thought.
Later, when they talk, Nathan only thanks him for being there for him. He doesn't ask about the photographs; he never does. It's not the first time it's happened, and it won't be the last.
He's grateful to have someone who treats him like they care, and he'd do anything to repay him. He'd kill for him if he so much as asked, so what's being his muse for half an hour? It's not even as if he has to pose, and if anything, it's an honour to model for Mark Jefferson.
He's in love, because he knows that whether he's broken down and sobbing uncontrollably or he's doped himself up, spaced out and glassy-eyed, Mark will be there to look after him.
After he's taken a picture.