So He Does
by Trinity Balboa
When Steve first gets his camera, Mick still has pink hair.
It’s an odd little thing, a swanky Canon with a price tag that had no concept of its worth. Steve never much considered himself the victim of capitalism, but he saw the advertisement in all its bright colors and decided he must have it. So he does.
And he takes pictures of everything. He takes pictures of his brother, midway through applying his lipstick and flipping him off, he takes pictures of his professor, with that forlorn look on his face that betrays his thoughts, he takes pictures of the cluttered studio as he works. But most of all, he takes pictures of Mick.
The hair makes a convenient excuse for his obsession. It’s this odd, bright fuchsia color, with streaks of forgotten bleached hair intermixed. The bluntness of the cut highlights his face, the symmetry makes it easy. It’s good to take pictures of. It’s that simple.
Or at least, he’d like it to be that simple.
He doesn’t know quite when it started- maybe when he first got it and immediately turned it on Mick in the late golden hour sun, watching him through the scope of his camera; maybe it’s been slowly growing every night since Mick started playing into it, posing dramatically every time he sees the camera in Steve’s hands.
Steve goes to get the film developed every week, hides himself away in the dark room where no one can see him blush when the photos start coming around. It’s stupid and he knows it, but he can’t help himself sometimes, and when he gets home he hangs all the photos up carefully between push pins and string and grins so wide his lips hurt.