#musicianpatrick

David is quitting. He’s had enough of working for a photography company with an off-the-books philosophy of "sleaze and cheese", he's had enough of getting forced into assignments at the last minute when the company president decides he's flitting off to party with D-list celebrities instead. He’s quitting. This is, in fact, his last job. At least it's an easy shoot - a puff piece on some up-and-coming Canadian singer-songwriter on the indie circuit who's just been catapaulted to widespread fame. No complications, no controversy. He'll be in his apartment and wallowing in his bamboo-silk sheets before he knows it. A PhotographerDavid fic inspired by THAT photo shoot by Vanessa Heins.

I've been writing. No, really. I'm actually feeling interested and doing the work and it's coming together. Slowly, but it is. Anyway, here's a snippet.

The first print is done. Clipping it to the line, David stands back to view the slowly sharpening image of a grinning Patrick. White teeth bite down onto the edge of his jacket collar. Laugh lines stretch out in tributaries from where one eye is squeezed shut in a wink; the other eye looks right at David.

For a long time, David looks back. He pulls in a lungful of air and lets it out slowly, cautiously.

It’s Patrick, he thinks. Something about Patrick is making him feel a little … wobbly. Like he’s looking at David instead of the plates he's spinning.

He’s not sure why that thought sends a shiver up his spine.

He tells himself he doesn’t have the energy for a hookup. That Patrick probably wouldn’t want one. He doesn’t seem the type.

He’s still trying to get a handle on what Patrick’s type is.

The thing is, all the interview clips he’s pulled on Patrick seem to use some variation of the same phrase, referring in one way or another to his boy-next-door charm. David gets it—it’s an easy descriptor to fall back on, and it’s not a million miles off.

Except …

He looks up at the print again. It winks right back at him.