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Yuuta's not the photographer that his brother is, and knows it. Aniki knows words like 'aperture' and 'shutter speed' and 'exposure' and how to use them, and Yuuta's more of a point-and-shoot-and-hope-for-the-best kind of guy. He's fine with that, actually, and generally prefers the way the archive of memory preserves things soft-edged and a little unfocused to boxes and albums of photographs that record every crisp detail (whether it's wanted or not).

Sometimes, though, he catches glimpses of the world the way he thinks Aniki might see it all the time--moments of synchronicity where everything hangs together just so and the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and even he can see how it all fits and how it all works.

This is one of those moments.

Sae's standing in the open doorway, leaning hipshot against the frame, one hand tucked into the pocket of the cut-offs he's wearing and the other hanging loose at his side. Beyond him the sky is blue enough to cut, and the sea takes that blue and answers it with a hundred shades of green and turquoise, and the breeze that smells of salt and sand and sun stirs flyaway wisps of Sae's hair.

The cut-offs are the only thing Sae's wearing, and the weight of his hand is dragging the waistband down and pulling the faded denim tight across his ass. His spine is one smooth curve from the nape of his neck to where it disappears into the faint suggestion of shadow just above the waistband of his cut-offs. That and the smooth gradation where Sae's tan fades into pale skin is enough to make Yuuta's breath come short with the sheer unconscious beauty of his lover.

Part of him wants to get up from his comfortable tangle of sheets and go and press his mouth against that band of skin, feel it smooth and warm against his lips, smelling of Sae's sweat and the ocean. He puts that part on hold, because this moment is too perfect to spoil yet, and this is something that he doesn't want to blur in his memory, not when the door frames the lines of Sae's body so perfectly, and the butter-yellow light is wrapped around him like a lover's arms. Instead he reaches for the camera sitting on the bedside table, moving slow and stealthy so that Sae won't spook at the noise, brings it up and squints through the viewfinder to line up the shot, and snaps the picture.

The click and the flash startle Sae, and it's a shame to see him turn away from the door, posture losing some of the easy grace in motion. But this is its own kind of joy, too, especially when Sae grins at him, eyes laughing. "Didn't know you were awake," he says, sauntering over to the bed and dropping onto it, caging Yuuta in place with his body. "What's with the paparazzi act?"

"Nothing," Yuuta tells him, reaching around him and dropping the camera on the table where he thinks it'll be safe. "Just felt like taking a picture." There's no telling whether the picture will turn out--he's a point-and-shoot kind of guy, after all--but if it does, he'll show Sae then.

For now Sae is warm and solid over him, and all too willing to let Yuuta draw him down into a kiss.

His last thought, as he slides his hands down the warm skin of Sae's back, and slips his fingertips under the waistband of Sae's cut-offs and gets too busy to think at all, is that the picture will turn out, because everything else about this day has been too perfect for it not to.