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Jean has about a thirty seconds’ pause to breathe, to wipe the lens of his camera clean from whatever might have landed on it before the next model sets in front of the backdrop, ready to give him everything she’s got. She takes a few breaths, shakes herself before her gaze rises from the floor to Jean, who’s already looking at her through the viewfinder. He zooms in a little until her face is clear as the day, the smile already tugging the corners of her mouth up. Jean smiles, too, encourages her.
“Great,” he comments enthusiastically, and she smiles so effortlessly; so easily it feels like this isn’t the first time they’ve seen each other. It feels almost intimate, this what they have.
When she flirts, she flirts with the camera, and Jean only responds to keep her going. He compliments her and she smiles a smile that millions of people are going to see and not be able to look away.
Well, it could also be because of the skimpy bikini she’s wearing. There’s enough fabric to keep her covered but not nearly enough to hide her golden brown skin that looks warm and soft even under the bright white studio lights.
“Amazing,” he says, just like he’s said a hundred times before, and it’s not that he doesn’t mean it, but by now it’s as practiced as her smile that never falters, never cracks.
She adjusts the bikini strap on her neck, and Jean stops shooting for as long as it takes one of the assistants on the set to sweep her hair a little off her face, to run a brush over her nose and then move out of the way as Jean lifts the camera on his face again.
In fashion, the seasons are always one step ahead; he’s shooting a line of swimwear in the middle of December, and come summer, he’s going to shoot a catalogue full of winter wear, which doesn’t make much sense. But fortunately, it isn’t his job to understand fashion any more than necessary, which is funny in a very not funny way, because it was fashion that got him interested in photography in the first place. The story goes, as he tells it to people; his mother always brought the newest issue of Vogue home when he was a kid, and he would go through it in deepest boredom, admiring the photos of the models that looked like they were entirely from a different universe; time; existence.
How the story goes, in reality, and this is what he never tells anyone; is that the magazine was Sports Illustrated, Swimsuit Issue and he didn’t need boredom as an excuse to flick through it in the nearest convenience store whenever he had a chance. That was, whenever his mom’s eyes were elsewhere. Sure, he liked the photos for more than one reason, but what stayed after he got out of puberty, raging hormones, inexplicable need to masturbate more than three times a day, and grew up, was his curiosity and interest in the art of the photography.
He also wanted to take pictures of hot chicks in bikinis, but that is the other part of the story he never tells anyone.
He zooms in, then zooms out a little, makes sure her face is clear and sharp before the shutter clicks in a series of snaps, and she tilts her head a little to the side, her eyes playful; challenging; bright and sharp like the night sky stars, yet at the same time they’re hazy and dreamy and inviting. The camera flirts back as the shutter snaps again.
A few hours later, deep into the afternoon, when the light outside has already hid away for the day, the models start slowly filtering out of the studio, their chatter filling the place momentarily. It rises in volume the more people join it, and Jean pays only half attention to it, avoiding any and all conversations that might try to reel him in. The voices fade as the models disappear down the stairs and out to the street through the heavy door, and their muffled voices carry through the second story windows before they’re completely gone, and the buzzing in Jean’s head finally starts quieting down, too. He loves these moments after photoshoots; the lingering taste of adrenaline and excitement, the smell of someone’s perfume in the air, the quiet moment he has only for himself as he starts packing his equipment away. He turns the lights off, locks the door behind him, and after making sure about a dozen times the old, creaky door to his studio is and stays closed, he makes it down the stairs, out in the crisp December air. It’s raw, cold enough to take his breath away for a second as it hits him in the face, until he’s buried himself a little deeper in his jacket, his scarf hiding half of his face. His ears turn red as the weather gnaws on the tips of them.
There’s a small café round the corner, and it’s half-and-half the extremely cold weather and the exhaustion of the day finally kicking in that drive him in there. He’s walked past it often, but has never before set a foot in. He’s more of a Starbucks guy, as in he has too much money on him to buy coffee that costs less than seven dollars.
There’s a small bell above the door that tings lightly when he pushes the door open, and it announces his entry to the few people inside. None of them pay attention to him apart from one curious pair of eyes that quickly return to whatever they were reading before, but Jean’s greeted with the inviting smell of coffee and cinnamon (smells like Christmas, he realises), the lights inside dim and warm. The place looks very cosy; welcoming, and with the low ceiling and only a handful of chairs and tables in the place, it feels separated from the busy, loud world outside. It feels like an island in the middle of the sea, where time stand stills and the loud roaring of the waves, washing over the shore don’t quite manage to break the peace and quiet.
The floor and the walls are all covered in honey-coloured wood, which reinforces the idyllic, frozen somewhere in the past sensation Jean’s having right about now. He feels like he’s walked into an old time tavern, although the people inside look nothing if not modern. Someone is tapping away at a laptop, an Apple product, Jean is sure; the person looks like a dictionary model of a hipster. They’re writing something furiously, the steady tak tak tak of the keyboard echoing the space around them, and Jean drowns in his thoughts for a moment, digs up a memory of a time when he wanted to be a screenwriter; the dream squeezed in between other daydreams of whatever it was he wanted to be at different times in his life. A famous artist was one of them, until he realised that photography was easier, and he stuck to that.
“Hello,” someone greets him, but Jean’s far too busy drinking in his surroundings to react other than with a half-hearted ‘hi’, thrown carelessly in the person’s direction. He examines the place absent-mindedly for a little longer, plays around with the memories in his head while slowly walking to the counter. He shuffles for his phone in his jacket pocket, squinting hard at some old painting hung aslant.
“What can I get ya?” the person asks before Jean has fully acknowledged him.
“Um,” he mumbles more to himself than to the person, his eyes still elsewhere, until he finally pulls his phone out of his pocket. He takes a look at the lighted screen, no new messages. “I’ll have a, uh…” Then he finally turns his attention to the person standing behind the counter, takes a quick look at him and then at the drinks list hanging on the wall behind the person, and then his gaze wanders back at the guy, with his eyes a little wider. Damn, the guy is hot, and just so happens to be exactly Jean’s type.
He has one of those genuine smiles that reaches his eyes; his warm, kind eyes that twinkle behind his long, dark lashes. They’re the colour of dark chocolate, and they take Jean’s breath away the more he stares in them, and damn if he isn’t staring openly. His skin is the same golden brown as one of the models earlier; warm and soft-looking. Jean’s lips draw into a lopsided grin; a grin much practiced in front of a mirror. He leans against the counter, bites his lip slyly, barely noticeably, but enough to draw a reaction out of the guy; a chuckle.
“What’d you recommend?” he asks, the tone of his voice going from uninterested and flat to ‘tell me everything’. “You look like you know your coffee.” He’s had a long day of photographing half naked women, of course there’s going to be some tension and unreleased frustration. He eyes the guy up slowly, licks his lip almost unconsciously, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He makes sure the guy sees his grin widening, lifts his chin a little. The guy contemplates, or seems to at least, and his amusement is hard not to notice. The guy clears his throat through a barely contained smile.
“Well, the cappuccino’s good,” he says easily. He seems unaffected by Jean’s quite obvious flirting, only smiling politely.
“Yeah?” Jean coos, cocks his head to the side. He won’t give up just yet. “What would you have if you had to choose?” He slides over the counter a little more.
“I don’t really drink coffee,” the guy answers as if it was obvious; he doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “I like hot chocolate, though.”
“Mm,” Jean tries once more. “You got bit of a sweet tooth?”
“Maybe,” is the guy’s reply, but it isn’t the playful, mysterious kind of maybe Jean would’ve hoped. It’s just your plain ol’ ‘could be’ with no certainty on anything.
“I’ll just have a latte,” Jean mumbles and straightens up from the counter. Either this guy is really dense or he’s straight, and Jean decides it’s not worth his time trying to find out which he is. He takes another look at his phone; still no new messages. “With almond milk, thanks.”
“Sorry, we don’t, uh, we don’t have that.” At least he sounds apologetic as he says it, accompanied by puppy eyes. Jean lets out an unnecessarily dramatic sigh, blowing his lungs empty of air before he rolls his eyes theatrically.
“Fine, d’you have lacto-free, then?”
“Absolutely,” the guy nods, pulling a cup from under the counter. “It’ll be 4.50.” Jean searches around for some change in the pocket of his jeans, eyes the money on his hand quickly before dropping a handful of coins unceremoniously on the counter.
“Should be enough,” he mumbles. He feels a little immature when the guy starts counting the coins, sliding them on the surface and dropping them on his open palm that’s waiting on the edge of the counter. “It’s a, uh, it’s a nice place you got ‘ere.” He coughs, trying not to seem like a total douche, taking a quick a look around. The guy smiles, looks up at Jean for a moment, before he continues counting the money.
“Thanks, my parents own it.”
“Cool.” He coughs, again, scratches the back of his head as the guy open the register and sorts the coins in. Jean follows him closely. “I’m a photographer, have a studio right next door.” He’s not entirely sure why he said it, maybe he just wanted to impress the guy, to patch up some of the damage done on his pride. The least the guy could’ve done was to flirt back a little, not leave Jean hanging high and dry like an idiot; it’s embarrassing.
The guy closes the cash register with a ‘ding’ and looks at Jean with his eyebrows high.
“Really?” he sounds impressed. Well, well, well, look at the change of events. Jean smiles knowingly.
“Yeah, I just, y’know, was shooting a swimwear catalogue for, uh, Calvin Klein earlier.” His chest puffs with pride as he says it, and now there’s something else in the guy’s eyes as he watches Jean intensely.
“Really?” he asks with more emphasis on his voice this time, leaning against the counter himself now. He looks intrigued. Jean nods, shrugs quickly, putting on his best ‘not a big deal’ face. Examines his nails a little; definitely overdoes the act.
“Yeah, I also have a few models coming in tomorrow, y’know.” He checks over his shoulder as if to see if there’s someone behind him, and follows from the corner of his eye as the guy nods slowly and then rests his head against his hands, his elbows on the counter. He turns back to the guy, bites his lip again as his eyebrows knit together. “You know, you have a great face, I bet you’d look amazing in photos.” There it is, his absolutely cheesiest pickup line, but it works. There hasn’t been one gal or a guy who could’ve resisted it. Not like he’s used it too often, but it all counts.
The guy covers his mouth with his hand, his eyes narrowing as if he was in deep thought, and Jean isn’t sure what it means, but then he smiles from behind his fingers.
“Really? Well, I mean, you must know, you’ve probably photographed a lot of people.” He pokes Jean with his words, but Jean has no idea. He just puffs with more pride.
“Oh yeah,” he waves his hand dismissively, again with the ‘no big deal’ face. “I’ve had my share of models come and go through my studio. I can always tell with people.” The guy nods slowly, again, and his gaze is so intense, his dark eyes following Jean like a hawk.
“So, what, you’d photograph me if I dropped by one day?” he asks lightly, pursing his lips. It gives Jean dirty, dirty thoughts, and he distracts himself momentarily by looking at his phone again. No new messages. Figures.
“Uh…” he begins, finally stuffing the phone back in his pocket. He’s not sure of whom he is waiting to call or message him, maybe just anyone. It’s been awhile since he did something else on a Friday night than watch Netflix alone and stuff junk food in his face. He smiles widely at the guy and basks in his attention. “Yeah, absolutely.”
“Would it cost something?”
“Naw, I mean,” Jean shrugs slowly, tentatively, licks his lips, eyes the guy up and down again. He doesn’t even try to be subtle. “Grab a cup of coffee with me someday and we’ll call it even.” The guy doesn’t see the desperate force with which Jean clenches his fists on his sides, doesn’t see the strained panic in his smile as he waits for a reply. His palms are sweating, that’s a given.
The guy cocks his head, lingers in the moment that feels like two lifetimes to Jean, before he finally cracks a grin.
“Certainly,” he agrees easily, and probably sees the relief washing over Jean as he loosens the scarf around his neck. It suddenly feels extremely hot in the café slash time-travel tavern.
“Cool,” Jean says, trying to sound like it, too, but he’s too excited in succeeding with his flirting. His lines might be cheesy but they work. “Can I have your number?” Without answering, the guy pulls a napkin out of his pocket, a pen soon following, and writes a number on it. He extends it to Jean with a smile, and that’s when Jean notices the dimples on his cheeks. Hot and cute.
“Forgot to introduce myself, I’m Jean.” He wipes his hand quickly on his jeans before holding it out for the guy, who takes it calmly.
“Marco,” he replies. “I’ll get you your latte now.”
The models are scheduled for ten in the morning, and Jean leaves his apartment sometime after eight to have time to set everything up at the studio. The air is chilly enough to frost the hair peeking out from under his beanie in a matter of minutes, his breath creating clouds in the morning air, and the freshly fallen snow crunches under his shoes, reminding him of childhood winters. It hasn’t snowed like this in a long time, not once for all those years Jean has lived in the city. It’s going to be his third Christmas here now, third Christmas spent mostly alone, curled up in the corner of his sofa with some Netflix and eggnog. If he wasn’t busy with work for most of the month, he’d probably feel lonelier than he does now. It’s not all bad; he’ll still get to go home to his family for New Year’s, the only time of the year he dares to take a week off just for himself.
He walks past the café on the corner, the sign on the door announcing ‘open’, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t help but turn around and walk back to peek in through the window, to press his nose against the cold glass. He has to wipe the glass after he does, his breath fogging the surface, and as he peeks in again, he only sees an older woman busying herself, wiping the tables clean. No customers. Jean tries to see someone else, trying to catch a glimpse of certain someone else, when the lady lifts her head from her work and Jean realises not only can he see her, she can also see him. She smiles and with a wave of her hand, Jean pulls back and tries to make a run for it, poorly, only to slip on the icy, non-gritted street. He curses loudly under his breath, barely keeping his balance as he hurries away. He’s not sure, but he thinks he heard the lady inside laughing at him.
At least he doesn’t feel cold anymore as his blood rushes hot on his face, and makes him shine brighter than the nose of Rudolph the Reindeer’s.
He makes it to his studio alive and in one piece, shaking himself out of his winter clothes in the stairs. After unlocking the door to his studio, he pushes it open by leaning his weight on it, places a block of wood between the hinges to make it stay open. He turns his electric kettle on, and starts setting up the backdrop as the water slowly starts bubbling. His jacket lies ungracefully on the floor by the door.
An hour and countless times later of making sure his camera battery is full, he does a few breathing exercises, sips his now cold tea, checks for the last time the battery and his extra battery are both full.
Just before the first models arrive, he checks his phone. No new messages. It’s going to be another Friday of Netflix and takeaway, then. Maybe he prefers it that way; maybe that’s why he doesn’t bother messaging anyone himself. Or maybe he’s just lazy.
He’s expecting only three models today; three, half-naked men posing in nice, tight and low-riding underwear, and that’s what Jean would call a successful ending for the week. For any week, to be honest. He paces the studio, not nervously; that nervously anyway, but to keep himself busy; to keep himself from biting his fingernails as he goes through the routine in his mind. He never knows what to expect from models he’s never worked with before, and with his obsessive personality, he has to have a few plans up at hand, and then another few backup plans in case his original plans fail.
The makeup artist and an assistant are the first ones to arrive, two models soon following, and as they start changing clothes, Jean stops his pacing.
No matter how many times he’s done this; no matter how well-known or appreciated he is in his field of work, he can never stop those pre-work jitters. He can never stop doubting if he really can do this; if he really knows anything about photographing.
It’s only when he gets his camera on his hands; and that thing, it feels like an extra limb to him by now; it’s only then he forgets to worry and realises that this, this he can do.
The first model has a fair skin, his sand-coloured hair wavy, almost to his shoulders that are narrow; boyish. With the young face and the smooth chest, he’s probably not much older than 20. Jean takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the nagging voice that makes him feel old at 25. At least he’s not home tending to bratty kids like most of his friends are at his age. The model’s eyes, extraordinary blue Jean might add, make contact with Jean’s through the viewfinder, and Jean knows if he ever met those eyes outside his studio, he’d be a stuttering mess, unable to ever make eye contact.
But he’s a professional, a notorious one at that, and even in between shots when the model smiles at him, makes a comment about the chilly air with a twinkle in his eye, Jean just smiles back confidently and finds a joke to lighten the mood; to make it feel like it’s just the two of them here, right now. This is their universe and the camera is their god.
He’s far too deep in it with the blondie to hear the third model hurrying in; he hears a faint apology of being late, sees the guy pulled to the side from the corner of his eye.
“Lower your chin a little,” Jean tells. The model does, and Jean lets the camera do its job. He clicks his tongue, grins encouragingly. “Amazing.” The universe inhabiting the two of them is slowly expanding and making his concentration crack, as he’s almost positive the latecomer is staring at him; he feels the hairs on the back of his neck gradually standing up, and he becomes extremely self-conscious. He doesn’t like people staring at him when he’s trying to do his job; that is, the people who aren’t in front of his camera. He’s not the one they should all be looking at; he’s the gaze, he’s the bystander that merely captures the moment from afar.
“Let’s take a two minute break,” he informs the blondie. As the guy walks off the set, Jean pretends for a few, long moments he doesn’t see the latecomer now staring at him rather openly, and takes his time to wipe the lens of his camera, to set the front lens cap in place. He stalls for another moment until the staring gets on his nerves, and with a deep sigh of annoyance he glances to his side.
Marco raises his hand a little, gives a polite smile that brings out his dimples, and under the bright studio lights, Jean can now see the cluster of freckles splashed over his nose and cheeks. His eyes don’t seem as dark, either, as they did in the café.
He’s sitting down while the makeup artist runs her fingers through his hair; she says something to which Marco replies, but his eyes never leave Jean’s. He’s smiling a peculiar smile, one that Jean isn’t able to decode. It’s nerve-wrecking, in a way.
The studio seems all of a sudden about twenty degrees warmer, although Jean’s skin is breaking on goose bumps, and he musters up a smile, which he hopes looks like one, too, and not a grimace. He’s confused, to say the least, and it takes him surprisingly long to put the obvious two pieces together. Only after he’s done with the blondie; only after he’s done with the second model and the stupid cap he’s wearing (although Jean has to admit, the cocky attitude and a toned body make excellent pictures); only after Marco has strolled in front of the backdrop, wearing nothing else but tight, barely there underwear that hangs dangerously low on his hips… Only after Marco’s made a cheeky remark about their deal, only then Jean puts the pieces together.
Marco is one of his models.
“You could’ve said something last night, y’know,” Jean mumbles, unable to hide the embarrassment from colouring his cheeks with a telling pink hue. He stares down at his camera on his hands, plays around with the settings just so he doesn’t have to look at Marco any more than necessary.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but because he wants to, so badly, and with the intense tingling in his gut, he’s not sure he wants to know what will happen.
“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Marco comments cheekily, his voice a low murmur, guaranteed to keep the exchange just between them two. Jean listens to the quiet chattering of the cap model and the blondie for a moment a few feet away, makes sure everyone else is minding their own business before he looks at Marco.
There he stands, in all his glory, as goddamn sexy and handsome as any model, except none of them have had this effect on Jean before. He looks like a goddamn Greek God wearing modern day underwear, with Calvin Klein written on the waistband. He looks too good, even for a model; he looks like he should be on the catwalk and not in the dusty studio. Not that Jean’s studio is dusty, by any means, but somehow Marco’s presence makes it seem bleak and colourless in comparison.
Marco smirks; he honest to god smirks, looks at Jean from under those thick, dark lashes, his eyes smiling in time with his lips. There’s none of that politeness from last night; this is raw and wild and the kind of stuff that makes Jean’s breathing falter. His eyes fall back onto the camera, his palms already sweating. He swallows something heavy and thick that tastes like anticipation, reminds himself loudly in his mind that he is a professional, and professionals don’t get hot and flustered in the presence of hot, dark-skinned gods that try so hard to get them flustered.
He’s a professional. He can keep it professional, too. And in his pants, definitely. Professionally.
He raises the camera, zooms at Marco until his oh-god-so-sexy smirk is clear through the viewfinder.
Marco licks his lips, runs his hand through his hair, moves his body in a way that’s intentional. He’s a professional, too. There’s a rush of blood in Jean’s ears, all kinds of lights going on and off in his brain, his skin itching and his mouth running dry. He takes the first photo without really paying attention to what’s happening. It’s like Marco is putting up a show just for him, as if there’s only the two of them and the flirting he didn’t do last night is now all pouring out and it is not intended for the camera. Jean’s brains are almost leaking out of his ears by now. The sweat starting to form on his forehead is the least of his worries, because his blood is running fast and hot and Jean is, after all, a mere mortal with wants and needs like the rest of them. It’s perfectly normal.
That is what he tells himself anyway. He’s taking pictures, he knows he is, because the camera is making sounds and his index finger is starting to ache, but he’s not really doing the professional thing as he is just practically drooling after Marco and his amazing body. It does not help that he knows how to use it, too. Right now, he’s using it as a weapon, as Jean feels his confidence coming off piece by piece with every passing second.
For as long as he can, he pretends he doesn’t feel the familiar pressure in his gut spreading, making his legs shake. He pretends his jeans don’t feel tighter than they did in the morning when he squeezed into them. He’s photographed topless women countless times without as much as breaking a sweat, and now he can’t get through five minutes in Marco’s presence without popping a boner?
So much for professionality.
“Amazing,” he croaks, his voice dry and cracking and he squats a little, pretends to try another angle, pretends so hard (no pun intended) his mind hasn’t dropped into his pants and more brutally, into his dick. It’s now tightly wrapped in between his thigh and the denim and it doesn’t matter how much he’s trying to think of granny panties and cockroaches, he’s rocking a full chub and it’s single-handedly threatening his professional reputation.
Marco is blissfully oblivious to Jean’s uncomfortable suffering, and when he hooks his thumbs under the waistband of the boxers that already look like they’re three inches too low, Jean is about done.
“Alright, great,” he wheezes, snaps a few photos he hopes are good enough and decides to call it a day. “We’re done here.” He straightens but not before he’s turned sideways to Marco, hiding his humiliation the best he can.
“That’s it?” Marco asks, his voice burning with slight disappointment, the same way Jean’s face is burning with embarrassment. “That was fast.” The redness of Jean’s face deepens, and he feels like he needs to defend himself, until he realises there’s no hidden agenda in Marco’s statement. Maybe, although Jean can’t tell at this point anymore. He flashes a pained grin, pops the front lens cap in place and shrugs.
“You can go get dressed now,” he says, more for his own sake than Marco’s. What he’s thinking, though, is ‘please never get dressed and come home with me’. He wanders to the other side of the studio, his boner making itself known on every step, stares out of the window as if in deep thought, and pictures gross things just to stop the blood in his veins pumping so hard and hot. He can’t quite shake the image of Marco burned to his retinas, not that he really wants to, but there’s the matter of walking home without getting arrested for public indecency. The models shout out their goodbyes as they leave, and Jean waves at them over his shoulder.
“So that was fun,” Marco speaks from behind him, giving him a slight heart-attack. At least it takes his mind away from his distress, and he quickly adjusts himself in his jeans before he turns to face the guy; smiling, he is, with dimples and all. “Sorry, did I startle you?” He doesn’t look sorry at all, not the way his eyes run up and down Jean’s body like a predator measuring his prey. Jean hopes for all the gods he can think of that his erection doesn’t catch Marco’s eye. He pulls his shirt lower discreetly; that is, as discreetly as is possible.
How did the tables turn so? Last night this guy could barely stand to look at him, and now he’s eye-fucking Jean not-so-subtly.
“Oh, uh, no, n-not at all,” the words stumble out of Jean’s mouth as if he’s never talked to another human being before. Marco nods lightly, bites his lip, raises an eyebrow; all the same moves Jean has tried at least a hundred times but never did he look that good.
“Neat. So you, uh, wanna grab that coffee now?” Marco asks.
“What, um, what? W-what coffee?” Jean communicates like a car that has a busted ignition.
“The one you—”
“Oh,” Jean exclaims just a little too loudly for what’s normal in a conversation. He didn’t think Marco would even remember. “Yeah, I mean, yeah, of course, sure, why not.”
“So that’s a yes, then?” Marco remarks, his lips turning into a lopsided grin. The bastard enjoys torturing Jean, it’s obvious. Jean tries to regain some of the confidence he always has in store when he’s shooting the models, but it’s hard without the camera in his hands. He has to look Marco straight in the eye, without anything in between them, has to tolerate his turns-legs-into-jelly flirting without anything to cover himself with.
“It’s a yes, yes,” Jean laughs nervously, half of the words covered by awkward wheezing. This is why he spends his Fridays mostly alone.
“I mean, if you have other plans,” Marco starts, shrugs his amazing shoulders, brushes his gorgeous hair off his handsome face… Jean blinks, and completely forgets what they’re talking about.
“Uh,” he begins, shakes his head and then shrugs, all in about three seconds. “No, I just gotta, um, pack my stuff, take the backdrop down and so forth.”
“You want help?” Marco asks politely, sweetly.
“Nah, I don’t let anyone touch my equipment.” Jean smiles. Pulls the hem of his shirt lower. “Thanks, though.”
“You mind if I wait here? I saw the, um, shots on the back wall, I’d like to check them out if… if that’s alright.” There’s the guy he saw last night; his face softens, the predator in him all gone and Jean doesn’t feel so awkward anymore.
“No, sure, go ahead. They’re pretty old, but I kinda still like ‘em.”
The bell above the door tings familiarly, and it’s enough to raise the curiosity of the two other people in the café. One of them raises their hand to Marco, while the other has buried their nose back into their laptop before the bell has quite stopped tinging. Jean recognises the person from last night, and he gives himself two seconds to think about time-travelling again.
“How did it go?” It’s the same older woman from the morning, it has to be; the silver strands in her hair give her away, although she’s not holding the rag anymore. She has the same smile as Marco, and Jean comes to the amazing conclusion that this has got to be his mother.
“It went great,” Marco says cheerfully. He looks at Jean and then back to his mom, nodding in Jean’s direction. “Mom, this is Jean. Jean, my mom.” Jean lifts his hand, smiles politely.
“Aren’t you the fella who almost fell outside my café today?” She squints at Jean, fumbles for her glasses on top of her head and pulls them down, pushing them up the bridge of her nose with her index finger. Marco’s eyebrows shoot up as he turns to look at Jean, holding back what is no doubt a laugh. Jean shakes his head, knowing how little it will do to convince anyone.
“You fell?” Marco asks, hardly able to stop himself from bursting into laughter.
“Almost fell,” Jean protests. “They hadn’t gritted the streets yet…”
“He also peeked through the window, poor thing, didn’t dare to come inside.”
“Oh my god,” Marco snorts, unable to hold the laughter back this time. Jean sulks and pouts and looks insulted as best as he can, but there’s no sympathy in store for him.
“Shut up, I just wasn’t sure if the café was open, is all.”
“Right,” Marco says, his face now serious. That is, for about five seconds before he’s laughing again.
“Is fine, no need to be afraid of dear ol’ me,” she coos, amusement drawing her lips into a big smile.
“How ‘bout I just go home,” Jean grumbles, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. Marco grabs him by the arm, still snickering, and Jean’s heart takes an extra leap at the touch.
“I’m sorry, I’m just messing with you.” Marco pouts his lips a little, tries to make Jean smile. “Latte, was it?” Jean grunts in agreement, still sulking a little, but Marco’s hand on his arm is making it extremely difficult.
They sit on one of the tables next to the windows, a small candle in the middle of it making tiny shadows dance across the surface. It has started snowing outside; big, fluffy flakes that fall down so softly, so quietly, that it looks for a moment like they’re just floating in the air. It’s not dark quite yet, although the sun has drifted behind the tallest buildings; it’s the perfect kind of twilight where everything looks magical and quite not from this world. There’s a pause in their conversation, in between Marco talking about his parents and how he sometimes helps in the café, and Jean not quite yet figuring what to say or ask next.
He blows on his coffee, the cup hot against his fingers, stirs it with his spoon, and then looks at Marco on the other side of the table. Marco stares at him, his eyes examining Jean as if he’s trying to find out some secret meaning behind him.
“What?” Jean asks flatly, puts down his cup on the table. The surface feels uneven, rough; barky, even. The tables must be made of real wood, none of that Ikea shit that seems to be everywhere these days. There’s even that resinous smell of forests, although Jean’s not sure if he’s just imagining it.
“Nothing,” Marco replies, sips his hot chocolate. His eyes don’t give up, though, and Jean squirms in his seat.
“Seriously,” he whines. “Spill it out.”
“No, it’s just… You’re different than I thought,” Marco finally says, whirls the spoon in his own cup, his eyes cast down now. The candle flickers, lets out a little puff of smoke that quickly dissolves in the air.
“Yeah?” Jean asks, swallows. Tries for a lighter tone and grins “In a bad way?”
“Not at all,” Marco admits and looks up at him. “I mean, I just, you were so confident yesterday, but at the studio… I dunno, I thought you might be kind of a douche.”
“But?” Jean raises an eyebrow. He hopes there’s a ‘but’ coming.
“But you’re not,” Marco concludes.
“If you thought I was a douche, why’d you agree to have coffee with me?” Marco shrugs lazily, sips his drink, turns to gaze out of the window with a hazy look in his eyes. It’s not a satisfactory reaction, but Jean doesn’t pry. He dares to taste his coffee, afraid to burn his tongue, but it’s alright. He can’t lie, these people can make their coffee. He takes a sip, swirls the liquid around in his mouth and then Marco’s looking at him again.
“Tastes different,” Jean answers the question Marco doesn’t ask. He nods and smiles shyly.
“I, um, told my mom to get that almond milk you asked for. Taste okay?”
Out of all the nice things people have ever done for Jean, this, by far, takes the cake. Maybe it tells more about the people in Jean’s life than it actually tells about Jean.
“You got almond milk just because I asked for it?” he asks, dumbstruck.
“Well, I mean,” Marco looks down in his drink; he looks embarrassed, his fingers drumming the cup in his hands. “I figured it’s nice to have something for people who don’t drink milk.”
Which translates to, ‘I got it because you asked for it’. Marco doesn’t need to say it.
“You thought I was a douche yet you got almond milk for me. Wow.” Jean clicks his tongue, impressed. Marco rolls his eyes subtly, but he’s smiling.
“I didn’t think you were a douche, I thought you might be kind of a douche.” He emphasises the words, holding his index finger in the air. He shakes it a little, narrows his eyes.
“What’s the difference?” Jean snorts, sips his coffee.
“I agreed to have coffee with you.” He points it out as if he’s won a battle or something; victoriously.
“Fair enough, I s’pose,” Jean murmurs. “Would’ve been your loss anyway, had you not.” Marco lets out a loud ha, but doesn’t say much more. The silence that falls upon them isn’t as uncomfortable as it could be; to be honest, it has its moments. It gives Jean a brief second to spy on Marco, to stare at him for a moment, as he gazes out of the window again as if only for plot purposes. It’s a weird situation for Jean; of all the dates he’s been on, never has he ever been called an almost-douche on the first one or been treated so frankly. The kind of honesty Marco has in him is refreshing, although it kind of intimidates Jean but at the same time, he’s entirely intrigued by it.
“So,” he begins clumsily, and Marco turns his attention from the window to Jean. Jean is extremely sure there is no way he will ever get sick of looking at that face. “What got you into modelling?”
Marco walks him all the way to his building, insisting that it’s only good manners to do so. Jean protests only mildly, worried that Marco might actually change his mind if he were to push too hard. In between Marco’s life story and his reasons to become a model, and Jean’s story about how he got into photography (the made up story, not the one with Sports Illustrated), Jean came up at least a dozen different ways to ask the guy out again. He’s not entirely sure if this even counts as a date, in the traditional sense, but he has every intention of trying to kiss him good night and thus, make it a date. And then set another date.
Marco is talking about something or the other as they walk in the light snowfall, using his hands to explain whatever it is that he is explaining, while Jean is slowly gaining courage to make his move. He’s not sure if he should ask for another date first and then lean in for the kiss, or the other way around, and his time is ticking away as they’re now standing in front of his building, and…
“You know,” Marco begins, or maybe continues, with the little attention Jean has paid for the last five minutes, he can’t tell anymore. “This was fun. And I’m not saying that because I thought it wouldn’t be. Maybe.” He sounds like he means it. The first part, that is. He looks like he means it, as he buries his hands in his jacket pockets, and smiles. He takes the tiniest step closer to Jean, glances at their feet.
“Yeah,” Jean agrees, stares at Marco’s lips. “I had fun, too.” The air around them feels electric, as it quivers, the tension (sexual and otherwise) almost tangible. “So do you still think I’m a douche?” Marco snorts and the tension is gone.
“I never—you know what, nevermind,” he rolls his eyes, figures it’s better not to argue about it. “No, you’re alright.”
“Just alright? I’ve been trying to charm you all evening, yanno.” Jean sighs theatrically, which makes Marco laugh. He gives Jean a gentle nudge on his shoulder.
“Fine,” he huffs playfully, taking another tiny step closer. “You’re kinda cool.”
“Man, don’t overdo the compliments,” Jean clicks his tongue and shakes his head, but Marco shuts him up by closing the little space in between them by dipping closer; by capturing Jean’s extremely willing lips into a kiss. Jean’s eyes fall shut and there’s a quiet sigh that escapes into Marco’s mouth.
He has kissed enough people to conclude that Marco’s lips are the softest he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting. They’re like smooth velvet, but at the same time they spark a fire in Jean that burns brightly inside his chest, spreads to everything it touches; makes the blood in his veins run faster.
He hopes he has the same effect on Marco.
When they part, which is all too quickly for Jean’s liking, he almost chases after Marco, almost grabs the lapels of his jacket and pulls him back. He doesn’t, but keeps his eyes closed for a second longer, the sensation lingering against his lips; the hair on the back of his neck standing up as a series of chills run up his spine.
“So…” he peels his eyes open, kicks the snow on the ground with the tip of his shoe; looks up at Marco carefully, shyly. “You wanna do this again sometime?” Marco kisses him, again, which he takes as a strong maybe.
They make a second date, which leads to Marco not allowing Jean to spend his Christmas alone.
Which doesn’t bother him all that much.