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Sight for Sore Eyes

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“Shit,” Lance muttered as he was checking his email on his phone. He had gotten a message from the editor of the online magazine he worked on the side for, reminding him he needed to submit pictures soon. Lance groaned, setting his phone down before pressing his face into his pillow.

When his laziness wore off, Lance decided to roll out of bed and get ready. It was almost ten in the morning now, so downtown must’ve been buzzing already this Saturday morning.

Half an hour had passed, and Lance was ready to go, sporting a blue flannel and dark wash jeans. He looked briefly in the mirror, noting his bed hair, but he shrugged. Decent enough, he supposed. He grabbed the camera off his nightstand, hanging it around his neck, and then his keys, leaving his apartment.

Lance lived so close downtown, he didn’t have to take his car. In ten short minutes, he arrived downtown, not minding the walk at all. It was a nice day out. Autumn was starting very soon, which excited Lance. It brought such warm muted colors into his photos, and even though it was very typical, he enjoyed taking aesthetically pleasant pictures of his friends in large cardigans, drinking their autumn-themed Starbucks drinks.

He had his camera in his hands now, at the ready. His eyes jumped to and from every movement, trying to search for a perfect opportunity, but nothing really stood out to him yet.

After a few more minutes of walking, Lance felt his stomach rumble in hunger, and he realized he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. He let go of his camera so it dangled against his torso, pausing at the side of the sidewalk, then reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

Twelve bucks and thirty-seven cents. Not too bad. He could get the strawberry iced tea he always got and maybe a cinnamon roll.

Lance walked across the street to the café he normally went to. But before he walked in, he couldn’t help but notice a boy around his age, sitting at one of the tables outside. He was writing in a journal, and the bagel he had next to him had barely been touched, one mere bite taken from it, though the drink he ordered had been emptied.

The end of a pen was held to the boy’s mouth, his eyebrows furrowed as he was deep in thought. His eyes were so dark they seemed coal black—hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses—and so was his hair, thick and everywhere. It was like… a mullet. A mullet, really? In 2016? On a teenage boy?

It did somehow suit him well, though.

He was wearing a black v-neck and dark jean shorts, a red flannel tied around his waist. Not bad, mullet boy, Lance thought. On both hands he wore fingerless gloves, which Lance believed was very out-of-place on his ensemble, but it was… interesting. And suit him just as much as the mullet did.

Lance looked around casually, as he normally did when he was about to take a photo of someone in public without their knowledge. He moved behind a large plant beside the doorway of the café, bending a little through the leaves so they weren’t in the way of his shot. He prayed the cars and background noise of people talking outside and in the café were loud enough to conceal the sound of his camera shutter.

A click later, and Lance looked down at his camera screen, very pleased with the photo. He liked the way this boy looked, hunched over his journal at this small café table. In disappointment, Lance realized the boy looked way too timid and angsty to agree being a model for regular photoshoots. Well. Guess he’ll have to savor these few shots before he gets his breakfast.

Lance went to lift his camera through the leaves of the plant again when he realized the boy was looking at him. Straight at the camera lens.

Lance stood straight up, letting his camera fall against his stomach. The boy was still looking at him, so he pressed his lips into an awkward line, hands behind his back as he tried to rush into the café, but the boy spoke to him.

“Hey, you can’t just leave,” mullet boy said, his tone obvious with irritation. “Did you just take a picture of me?”

“Um.” Lance turned around, quickly pushing his arm through his camera strap so he could push his camera to his side instead of having it dangle right in front of the boy. “Well, yeah. You were a really good shot, so I took the opportunity.”

As mullet boy looked at Lance, the photographer realized that his eyes weren’t coal black after all.

"Your eyes,” Lance said softly, squinting and leaning forward to get a better look. One of mullet boy’s eyebrows raised as he leaned back in his chair. "They're... violet?”

Lance thought he saw the boy blush slightly, but the boy raised his fist to his face, letting his head rest there when Lance pulled back. “Yeah, they are.”

“I’ve never seen violet eyes on anyone,” Lance told him, genuinely perplexed. “Huh.”

“Well, now you have,” the boy said, offering a small smile. It was sweet and soft—something Lance didn’t expect from somebody made up of such fine and sharp edges. “You can sit down, by the way. I’m Keith.” Lance reluctantly took a seat and watched as Keith took the glasses from his face, pushing them up so they rested on the top of his head. You could barely see them now, hidden by all the hair he had.

“Lance,” Lance introduced, nodding and holding out his hand for Keith to shake. Keith looked at the photographer’s hand for a moment, confused, but then took it, shaking it.

“What’re you doing taking pictures of strangers, Lance?” Keith asked, pulling his hand back. He had shut his journal, leaning over the table with his arms so they covered it. Lance noticed the action, but tried to not to make it obvious by keeping eye contact with Keith. Lance was already a curious kind of guy, but unfortunately he felt more curious about the journal now than he naturally was.

“I’m in a magazine,” Lance explained, lifting his camera and placing it on the table. “I’m one of the photographers for it.”

Keith’s eyes seemed to light up at this; he was interested. “Really? What kind of magazine?”

“Just an online one I submit to in my free time,” Lance said, shrugging. “No biggie.”

Keith’s eyes fell to Lance’s camera. “Can I see that picture you took of me?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

Lance let his eyes wander to Keith’s folded arms, covering his journal. “Can ya tell me about your journal, there? Do you write?”

Keith’s mouth seemed to form a slight pout and he slowly dragged the journal from the table down into his lap. “You first,” he said, challenging Lance.

Lance rolled his eyes, taking his camera into his hands and turning it on. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Keith had moved closer, dragging his chair to the right of Lance instead of staying across from him.

“Here,” Lance said, tilting his camera so the screen was visible to Keith. “I don’t care if you don’t like it. I wanna submit it.”

“Submit it?” Keith said, laughing softly under his breath. “It’s so… plain.” Lance was about to make a sarcastic comment, but glanced at Keith and realized he had put his hair up in a ponytail, revealing two piercings on his left ear. His glasses were back on his face as well as he observed the photo Lance had taken of him.

Lance’s face warmed. The mullet suited him, alright, but he just looked so good with his hair up that Lance’s fingers itched to take more photos of Keith. “You good at acting natural, even when a camera’s on you?” Lance asked him.

“W-What?” Keith stuttered.

“I wanna take more pictures of you,” Lance said, stating as if it was obvious. “You up to it?”

A pinkish hue crept up through Keith’s cheeks, and Lance smirked slightly. “Um, I don’t know…”

“You’ll be fine,” Lance said, waving a hand to lighten the mood. “It’s not like I’m filming you. It’s just a picture.”

“Okay, I guess?” Keith reached to push his glasses up into his hair again and to put his hair down, but Lance made several quick (and strange, for that matter) sounds of protest. Keith froze in place, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“Keep. The. Ponytail,” Lance said urgently, reaching out and taking Keith’s wrist. He set it down on the table. “And the glasses. You look good, trust me.”

“I look… good?” Keith’s face flared. “I—“

Lance made a few obnoxious shushing noises, and Keith seemingly seemed to deflate, his words dissolving. “Just let me do my thing, alright?” Lance said, backing up for some space to take the photos. “I think you’ll like what I do with a camera on you.” Keith looked exasperated, and this put a smile on Lance’s face. “Actually, keep that expression. But instead direct it towards your journal instead of me.”

Keith sighed, taking the journal from his lap and opening it to set it down onto the table. He set his pen in his hand as well, wondering how he let a stranger mix him up into this situation.

Before he even realized, a few photos were taken already, the camera clicking once, twice, and a third time. Keith glanced up the Lance for one second, not knowing how else to position himself.

“Perfect,” he heard Lance murmur under his breath. Keith noticed that one side of Lance’s blue flannel was slipping down his arm, revealing freckled skin on his shoulder and outer forearm. His arm sloped down slightly in the right places, nice and slender, the small dots looking like flecks of brown paint. He’d never seen freckles on a Hispanic person before. At least, he thought Lance was Hispanic. His dark honey-colored skin seemed to give it away.

Lance lowered his camera from his face, which snapped Keith out of staring at him. God, he caught that all on his camera. Dumb move.

Lance grinned down at his camera, not acknowledging that Keith had been staring. Huh. Guess he didn’t notice.

“What were you staring at?” Lance asked, looking behind him for a moment to scan everything there. “Good photos, by the way. The mag’s gonna love it.”

“Oh,” Keith said, caught off guard. So he did see. “Nothing, just—like—a bug. There was a bug on your shoulder.”

Lance jerked away from the spot he was standing in, looking around to see if there were any bugs around. “What the hell—why didn’t you say anything?” Lance huffed, sitting down in his chair again.

Keith shrugged, then leaned forward to see the pictures on Lance’s camera screen. Lance switched the camera off.

Keith was about to protest when Lance interrupted him with obnoxious shushing again. “We had a deal and everything, pretty boy,” Lance said, setting his camera down and propping his head up on one of his hands. “Tell me about your journal-thing now. You write?”

Pretty boy? Keith began to feel flustered, but prayed Lance couldn’t tell too easily. “Yeah, I guess,” he said.

“What do you write?”

“Poetry. Sometimes horror stories,” Keith responded. “Um…”

“So, like, modern-day Edgar Allan Poe?” Lance said slyly, then he burst into laughter seconds later.

Keith glowered at Lance, crossing his arms.

Lance was still laughing, his face turning a deep reddish at the cheeks and near his forehead. Keith’s mouth eventually turned up in a smile as he watched Lance laugh at his own joke. This was becoming the strangest, but most pleasant encounter he’d made before.

“I’m not sorry about that joke,” Lance said when he’d finished a moment later. “Just letting you know.”

“It was pretty good, actually,” Keith said, laughing softly. “Your face is red.”

“So are your cheeks,” Lance replied, one corner of his mouth upturned. He could tell that Keith didn’t know what to say after that, so he switched the subject. “Would you ever wanna submit to a magazine?”

“Maybe,” Keith said. “I don’t know if my writing’s for magazines.”

“Who cares?” Lance said encouragingly, waving a hand. “Submit your best work. It could be cool.”

“I’ll see,” Keith said, nodding once.

Lance took out his wallet, opening it and taking out a piece of paper. It looked like a receipt. He took the pen from Keith’s hand, his fingers warm as they brushed against the other boy’s skin lightly.

“Here,” he said, removing the pen cap with his mouth, “is my number.” He scribbled down a group of numbers on the small piece of paper, folding it and sliding it over to Keith. Lance capped the pen, then wiped it briefly onto the sleeve of his flannel so it wouldn’t be wet when he handed it back to Keith. “If you realize you wanna submit, let me know, and I can give you the details.”

Keith stared at the piece of paper for a second, then took it between his fingers, opening up his journal and shutting it into there. He took his pen back, uncapping it with his mouth this time. Keith saw Lance’s eyebrows raise just a bit as he gave a small smirk.

Keith grabbed Lance’s wrist, pulling his arm closer before writing his number on Lance’s inner arm. “So you know it’s me,” Keith murmured. Lance didn’t expect this, his cheeks reddening. He’d never really gotten this far before with anybody he’s flirted with. He was fine with Keith acting flustered.

“Thanks,” Lance said, crookedly smiling at Keith. The boy’s fingers still lingered on Lance’s wrist briefly before pulling away. Keith seemed to be suppressing a smile, as if he didn’t expect himself to do anything like that either.

“I’m gonna go get myself an iced tea,” Lance said, finding that he didn’t know how else to flirt with Keith. Keith, however, was still trying to suppress a dumb smile. Lance stood from his seat, his stomach feeling weird and warm, as if he’d just downed a whole mug of lukewarm tea in ten seconds.

“Talk to you soon, then?” Keith said, opening up his journal without looking up at Lance. After he wrote something down quickly, he glanced up. Keith’s eyes seemed a deeper violet to Lance now.

“Yeah,” Lance said, smiling with his eyes.

Keith nodded, giving a small wave before going to write in his journal again. Lance turned into the café for his breakfast.

 

A few minutes later, Lance came out with his strawberry iced tea and a cinnamon bun. He looked over to his left while he walked out at the table Keith sat at, but the boy wasn’t there. He felt disappointment settle against his chest.

Lance was about to walk away when he realized there was a piece of folded paper on the table.

He looked around, but didn’t see the boy anywhere, so he walked forward a couple steps, taking the small folded piece of paper into his hand. He opened it up, and it read:

Thanks for an interesting morning and the pretty pictures. You’re a sight yourself. —K