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“Why would anyone even want a photograph of me?” Charlie hisses in his ear, and David smiles.

“They need one for the Wanted posters?” A shutter clicks, and he plasters on a proper Media Smile.

“Ha-fucking-ha, Mitchell. What about you?” Someone in the press pit yells at David to turn another way, and he grins.

“I am incredibly handsome.” Hopefully no major media outlet will see fit to purchase the inevitable smug grin that accompanied that retort.

“Point taken.” Charlie still hasn’t worked out how to look comfortable in a suit, despite David’s efforts to put him at ease. He’d been over the argument for Black Tie twelve times this week, at least. At one point Charlie had almost sworn he’d rather wear a ballgown. At least the conversation is keeping him at ‘moderately grumpy’, rather than full-on misanthrope.

People are still yelling for them to turn this way and that, and Charlie hisses again. “Would they stop if we just started going at it, d’you think?”

David hopes he isn’t blushing, but there’s a new rush of warmth in his belly. “Worth a try, maybe?”

They turn towards each other, and the paps pause for a second, momentarily confused. Charlie leans in slowly, and David’s hand instinctively comes up to rest on his hip. Teeth graze gently over his bottom lip, and David moans softly, eyes drifting shut. Suddenly there’s a shudder of flashbulbs, as the photographers collectively lose their shit, all turning to take their picture, all over again. David can hear Rob laughing somewhere behind him, but Charlie soon chases all the noise away.

They part after a few seconds, flushed and brimming with nervous laughter. Charlie tidies David’s hair for him, but they both know there’s no point in returning the gesture. Rob claps David on the back, ushering him along the carpet. “Come on, loverboy.”

He reaches back, and Charlie’s hand slips into his. They’d better have seats near the exit.