On a London morning, bathed in barely-risen sun, Sam caught Leo Whyte laughing and half-dressed in blue and gold brocade extravagance on a silver of townhouse balcony. He caught Leo Whyte sipping tea, barefoot, gazing out over gardens and rooftops; he caught Leo yawning and stretching, swinging arms up. He caught Leo pensively quietly happy, smiling down into a teacup.

That last one would sell copies. It was also one Sam wanted for himself alone.

Leo was a genius actor. Could flow into sun and shadow and find the perfect angle. Could pretend readily that the camera wasn’t there, stepping easily into a performance: as if he’d genuinely wandered out onto the balcony for a morning cup of tea and not noticed a photographer. And he could do all that while giving flawless angles, head-tilts, interesting expressions.

Leo’s face was always doing something. Sam had thought that at the movie premiere, and thought it again now. Even at rest, he was fascinating to watch: in motion, thinking, feeling. Open and vivid. Shared with everybody who wanted to join in.

Sam, trying to capture that vibrance -- and to make it look as if he’d snuck up someplace, maybe the balcony next door, and snagged one of the best vantage points of all time, all without giving away that Leo knew he was there -- took shot after shot. Sunrise, color, Leo’s bare legs. Leo sharing a moment with the tea, warming both hands.

Leo did glance over at him occasionally and grin. Sam couldn’t not grin back.

He loved the art of it. He loved the glint of light on porcelain -- the old-fashioned teacup was Leo’s idea; pale pink roses blossomed over eggshell white -- and he loved the interplay of time and place, hints of older eras in Leo’s robe and the teacup, side by side with Leo’s naked toes and the moss-green flutter of curtains from the open balcony door.

He wanted to do a series in black and white. Timeless and elegant. But with a pop or two of color: striking turquoise or deep ruby or royal purple. Those forest-toned curtains or the pink of roses. Hazel in wide eyes. Leo Whyte was made of color and deserved color.

He wanted to see versions made larger, on display. He wanted to see what he could do with more fabric, more motion, Leo outright looking at the camera --

He wanted to turn the art of the moment into something bigger. In a gallery. Where everybody else could see it all too: the textures, the contrasts, the story in lighting and angles and better focus.

He wanted --

None of that mattered.

Because he couldn’t.

He had his siblings to support. He had bills to pay. He had no formal training. He had no reputation aside from the one in his present profession, which wouldn’t translate in any way to an actual art/photography career.

He pictured that, or tried to. Himself laughed out of galleries. No phone calls ever returned. No more jobs that’d at least bring in money, because he’d missed the next big celebrity scoop while trying to make himself someone else. Nothing he could offer, nothing he could do or say.

Never good enough for someone like Leo Whyte.

He wasn’t good enough now. Except that Leo had somehow wanted him. Had chosen him, out of everyone, as worthy of this.

Leo, who had a knack for picking up emotional shifts, said lightly, “My toes’re a bit cold, and I’m terribly fond of my toes, so could we go inside now? I’ve got bacon -- it’ll be American-style bacon, all crunchy, Jason introduced me -- and I know people like bacon, so perhaps that’d be fun!” His enthusiasm took the ice down Sam’s spine and layered fluffy blankets atop it, exuberance as reassurance.

Sam lowered his phone. Shook his head, desperately and horribly in love, and knowing he was. “I like your toes too. And yeah, bacon’s a selling point. Stars cheating on diets, all that ...”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking that,” Leo said. “Just that people seem to enjoy the concept of bacon as a food. Come on, I’ll cook it and you can eat it with me!” He even grabbed Sam’s hand. Bringing them both back inside, downstairs, into his kitchen.

Sam kept up with him, and kept Leo’s hand in his, for as long as he could. For every second that he could. Memorizing not just the visual, the way a photograph would hold a memory, but the shape, the weight, the feel of fingers and palm, long quick bones and knuckles and tantalizing skin.