“I’ve no intention.”
Erik has had other muses in the course of his photography career, other people who caught his eye and held it, every angle of their face a fascination, every shadow on their skin a gift from the light. Each of them enjoyed the attention at first, blushed and posed and smiled for the camera. Then, sooner or later, they tired of it, batted the lens away with real irritation, hid their faces. They never understood how much that hurt him, as if they had slapped away a kiss.
Charles… Charles is different. He doesn’t blush or pose, never has. He might arch an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling briefly. For the most part, he just keeps doing whatever he was doing — explaining mitochondrial disorders or folding the laundry, grading papers with a ruthless scowl or coaxing warm milk into a waterlogged kitten.
Or lying next to him in bed, sleep-mussed and gorgeous in the dawn light, arguing fiercely about ethics and humanism with half-lidded eyes, and he doesn’t flinch for an instant when Erik reaches for the camera. As usual, it’s like he doesn’t even see the camera.
He’s only looking at Erik.