[Jiang almost couldn't believe that this was real.
The whole thing felt impossible: the fact that he had asked Ronan Lynch to model for him, and that Ronan had said sure to begin with. The fact that they were here at Aglionby after hours, which merged into something more like a dream of itself, so very different from the campus that they inhabited by daylight when they were instead here just shy of midnight.
Jiang had also had a few rolls of film with him he wanted to develop, and Ronan had been interested so he'd taken him back into the darkroom while he put it on reels. He showed him how he ran it through the developer and the chemicals, explaining what he was doing, and even letting Ronan help him until the wet strips of the film rolls are hanging up to dry in the red light.
Jiang sort of wants to kiss him, but he doesn't. He just flushes a little, and carefully loads a fresh roll of film into his camera. Yeah, he has a crush on Ronan. But Jiang doesn't think this is particularly remarkable. He's a human being with eyes, after all, and he didn't think it took more than that to think about kissing Ronan Lynch. But Jiang wanted more than that too, the sort of soft things he wasn't sure a boy like Ronan wanted.
The art room is maybe his favorite place at Aglionby, honestly.
It has that old school charm, with wooden floors speckled with wood stain and old paint, smeared clay dust and the chemical scent of developer. There's a wood heater next to the kiln -- given that some projects are temperature sensitive, there are no vents for the central heating that keeps the majority of the classrooms heated in the winter. There are old easels and various sorts of chairs and couches for posing, a sheet tossed over an in-progress sculpture; Jiang lights a scented candle to help it smell a bit more like lavender and less like oil paints and turpentine.
He set up a couple stands with lights while Ronan took off his shirt and lounged on a faded old couch. The lights were warm more than overly bright, but enough to make some shadows for Jiang to play with. He'd had someone unofficially look over his portfolio before he started sending it with his college applications, and the consensus had been that he had too many candid photos and not enough modeled shots. That his photos were very good, but that he needed to show that he could create something with intention, too.
He needed to show people that he had something to say, quote-unquote. Jiang wasn't sure if he did have something to say. He just knew that he liked photography, and that he liked Ronan Lynch. It feels somehow illicit, almost intimate, when he clicks that first picture. And it becomes an easy excuse for Jiang to so-softly slide fingers against his bicep, urging him to reposition his arm just a little. Or against his ribs, and then kneeling for a low angle as he takes in the line of his back, his tattoo and the curve of his mouth.
God, he's gorgeous.
And they talk, in between the pictures. About art school and how his father wants him to apply to Harvard, but he's thinking about college in DC, and a dozen things that they haven't talked about despite the racing and the parties and the roughing each other up a little. He's passionate, he cares about this.
But somehow, talking leads to Ronan asking if he can take a few pictures, and Jiang hands over his camera with an easy smile. But his heart races, skips a few beats in his chest. He's tempted to point out that there are better models, but Jiang likes how this moment feels -- and he's selfish enough to not want to give it up. And so he ends up topless, barefoot, stretched out on the same couch, but where Ronan dwarfed the couch with his height and his build, Jiang has space to space.
It occurs to him that it might be the first time that Ronan's seen his tattoo, though; it starts on his shoulder and then curls down the side of his ribs. A waterfall, red roses and white lotus, a snow leopard with claws and teeth. It had been semi-impulsive, which was to say that Skov had encouraged him every step of the way, but he still didn't regret it. It said something he hadn't known how to say with words at the time.
He put his hands over his head, stretching out so his body curved a little in a way that he hoped was flirty, maybe provocative. Because he couldn't help himself. Because he wanted to believe it meant something that Ronan had asked.]
let me take your picture, baby
The whole thing felt impossible: the fact that he had asked Ronan Lynch to model for him, and that Ronan had said sure to begin with. The fact that they were here at Aglionby after hours, which merged into something more like a dream of itself, so very different from the campus that they inhabited by daylight when they were instead here just shy of midnight.
Jiang had also had a few rolls of film with him he wanted to develop, and Ronan had been interested so he'd taken him back into the darkroom while he put it on reels. He showed him how he ran it through the developer and the chemicals, explaining what he was doing, and even letting Ronan help him until the wet strips of the film rolls are hanging up to dry in the red light.
Jiang sort of wants to kiss him, but he doesn't. He just flushes a little, and carefully loads a fresh roll of film into his camera. Yeah, he has a crush on Ronan. But Jiang doesn't think this is particularly remarkable. He's a human being with eyes, after all, and he didn't think it took more than that to think about kissing Ronan Lynch. But Jiang wanted more than that too, the sort of soft things he wasn't sure a boy like Ronan wanted.
The art room is maybe his favorite place at Aglionby, honestly.
It has that old school charm, with wooden floors speckled with wood stain and old paint, smeared clay dust and the chemical scent of developer. There's a wood heater next to the kiln -- given that some projects are temperature sensitive, there are no vents for the central heating that keeps the majority of the classrooms heated in the winter. There are old easels and various sorts of chairs and couches for posing, a sheet tossed over an in-progress sculpture; Jiang lights a scented candle to help it smell a bit more like lavender and less like oil paints and turpentine.
He set up a couple stands with lights while Ronan took off his shirt and lounged on a faded old couch. The lights were warm more than overly bright, but enough to make some shadows for Jiang to play with. He'd had someone unofficially look over his portfolio before he started sending it with his college applications, and the consensus had been that he had too many candid photos and not enough modeled shots. That his photos were very good, but that he needed to show that he could create something with intention, too.
He needed to show people that he had something to say, quote-unquote.
Jiang wasn't sure if he did have something to say. He just knew that he liked photography, and that he liked Ronan Lynch. It feels somehow illicit, almost intimate, when he clicks that first picture. And it becomes an easy excuse for Jiang to so-softly slide fingers against his bicep, urging him to reposition his arm just a little. Or against his ribs, and then kneeling for a low angle as he takes in the line of his back, his tattoo and the curve of his mouth.
God, he's gorgeous.
And they talk, in between the pictures. About art school and how his father wants him to apply to Harvard, but he's thinking about college in DC, and a dozen things that they haven't talked about despite the racing and the parties and the roughing each other up a little. He's passionate, he cares about this.
But somehow, talking leads to Ronan asking if he can take a few pictures, and Jiang hands over his camera with an easy smile. But his heart races, skips a few beats in his chest. He's tempted to point out that there are better models, but Jiang likes how this moment feels -- and he's selfish enough to not want to give it up. And so he ends up topless, barefoot, stretched out on the same couch, but where Ronan dwarfed the couch with his height and his build, Jiang has space to space.
It occurs to him that it might be the first time that Ronan's seen his tattoo, though; it starts on his shoulder and then curls down the side of his ribs. A waterfall, red roses and white lotus, a snow leopard with claws and teeth. It had been semi-impulsive, which was to say that Skov had encouraged him every step of the way, but he still didn't regret it. It said something he hadn't known how to say with words at the time.
He put his hands over his head, stretching out so his body curved a little in a way that he hoped was flirty, maybe provocative. Because he couldn't help himself. Because he wanted to believe it meant something that Ronan had asked.]
Like this?