untitled
chapter 17! okay editing this chapter was the first thing i did after work today and i think my brain was giving up halfway </3 i hope yall enjoy ;) and as always, happy reading <3
1979
manhattan, new york
‧₊ ♪˚⊹
The presentation lasted twenty minutes.
Twenty very long minutes.
You photographed speakers.
Award recipients.
People shaking hands.
People accepting plaques.
People pretending not to be bored.
The usual.
Work helped.
For a little while.
It gave your brain something else to focus on.
A shutter speed.
An angle.
Lighting.
Anything except the fact that somewhere in this ballroom was the same man you'd met weeks ago.
Roger appeared beside you after the presentation ended.
"You survived."
"Barely."
"Any progress?"
You lowered your camera.
"On what?"
Roger gave you a look.
"Oh, come on."
"I'm working."
"You're avoiding.”
“Avoiding what?”
Roger opened his mouth.
Before he could speak, a coordinator hurried over.
"Photographers, we're setting up a press line near the west wall."
A collective groan moved through the room.
Nobody liked press lines.
Too crowded.
Too many elbows.
Too many photographers trying to occupy the exact same square foot of floor.
Roger sighed dramatically. "There goes my evening."
"You were ‘working’ five minutes ago."
"I've grown since then."
"You haven't."
They joined the slow migration across the ballroom.
By the time you reached the press area, photographers were already arranging themselves into loose rows.
You found a spot near the end.
Far enough away to breathe.
Close enough to work.
The line of guests began moving through one at a time.
Actors.
Executives.
Musicians.
You photographed all of them.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Professional.
Routine.
Easy.
Then the crowd shifted.
A murmur rippled through the room.
The photographers around you straightened instantly.
You already knew why.
Before anyone said his name.
Michael stepped into the press lane.
The reaction was immediate.
Flashbulbs exploded around the room.
Questions flew from every direction.
Everyone trying to get his attention at once.
You lifted your camera automatically.
Professional instinct taking over.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Through the viewfinder, the world narrowed.
The crowd disappeared.
The noise softened.
Just framing.
Light.
Focus.
Timing.
You pressed the shutter.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
And then—
Michael turned.
Not toward the reporters.
Not toward the stage.
Toward your side of the press line.
Your finger paused against the shutter.
For the briefest second, his expression changed.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Just enough to look familiar.
Recognition.
Then it was gone.
A flashbulb popped.
Someone shouted another question.
The room surged back to life.
Beside you, Roger made a noise.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
You didn't look away from your camera.
"Don't."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You were about to."
"Yeah."
A beat.
Then:
"That was definitely a look."
You closed your eyes.
"Roger."
Roger stared at you.
Then toward Michael.
Then back at you again.
The grin spreading across his face was deeply concerning.
"Oh, no."
You immediately knew that look.
"What?"
"You weren't kidding."
"About what?"
"He remembers you."
You nearly dropped your camera.
"Roger."
"I'm serious."
"You are never serious."
"For once, I am."
You adjusted your lens unnecessarily.
A habit.
Something to do with your hands.
Across the press line, photographers continued shouting questions.
Michael answered with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
But now that Roger had said it–
You found yourself wondering.
"No."
Roger looked delighted.
"That wasn't convincing at all."
"You're imagining things."
"He looked right at you."
"He looked at this side of the room."
"There are thirty photographers here."
"Exactly."
"And somehow he found the one person who already knew him."
You groaned.
"I hate talking to you."
"No you don't."
"I really do."
Roger laughed.
Before you could continue arguing, another burst of flashes erupted.
The press line was moving again.
Michael had started making his way down the row.
Stopping every few feet.
Answering questions.
Posing for photographs.
Moving on.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Your stomach sank.
Roger noticed immediately.
"This is getting interesting."
"Nothing is happening."
"Mhm."
"Roger."
"He's literally heading this direction."
You looked up.
Unfortunately for you, he was.
One guest.
Then another.
Slowly working his way down the press line.
Every few feet he stopped.
Smiled.
Answered a question.
Posed for photographs.
Moved on.
The entire process felt designed specifically to test your patience.
Roger, meanwhile, was enjoying himself far too much.
"You know," he said casually, "I think this is fate."
"It's a press event."
"Same thing."
"It is absolutely not the same thing."
Roger nodded thoughtfully.
"Interesting."
"What?"
"You didn't deny it."
You stared at him.
"Deny what?"
"That you want to talk to him."
Roger's expression suggested he believed exactly none of that.
"You know I’m working, right?”
"Yes."
"Then act like it."
"I am acting like it."
"You just checked where he was."
You immediately looked away.
Roger looked delighted.
"Oh, wow."
"Stop."
"You checked."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
Before you could argue further, another wave of movement passed through the line.
The next guest moved on.
Michael stepped forward.
Closer now.
Not close enough to speak.
Close enough to recognize the details.
The sharp line of his suit jacket.
The way he nodded while somebody asked a question.
The faint smile, he wore whenever he wasn't actively being photographed.
The version of him from the club felt impossible compared to this.
Like remembering someone from a dream.
Then, unexpectedly–
His gaze shifted.
Straight toward your end of the line.
For a moment, neither of you looked away.
Not long.
A second.
Maybe less.
Then a reporter called his name.
The moment broke.
Roger inhaled sharply.
"Oh, my God."
You lowered your camera.
"If you say one word–"
"He keeps looking over here."
"Roger."
"He does."
"Roger."
"I am witnessing history."
"You’re going witness me commit a murder."
Roger was still grinning.
You were actively considering pushing him into a decorative plant.
Unfortunately, work got there first.
A coordinator appeared beside the press line looking increasingly stressed.
"We need a few photographers for the sponsor photos."
The line fell quiet.
Nobody liked sponsor photos.
They were the photographic equivalent of eating plain toast.
Unnecessary.
Forgettable.
The coordinator pointed randomly.
"You. You. You."
His finger landed on you.
Roger immediately looked delighted.
"How fun!."
"Like it’s not just sponsor photos."
"You don't know that."
"I literally do."
The coordinator continued pointing down the line.
"Need one more."
A publicist near the front glanced around.
"Michael's doing the sponsor photos too."
Roger froze.
Then slowly turned toward you.
"No."
"Roger."
"No."
"Roger."
"This is the greatest day of my life."
"Please stop talking."
The coordinator waved everyone forward.
Before you could object.
Before you could escape.
Before Roger could become even more insufferable.
You found yourself being herded toward a smaller section of the ballroom.
A backdrop had been set up near one wall.
Sponsors.
Executives.
VIP guests.
The usual.
And standing near the backdrop, surrounded by exactly three publicists and a security guard trying very hard not to look like a security guard—
Was Michael.
Your stomach immediately made a decision to stop cooperating.
Roger noticed.
Of course he did.
"Nice."
"Not. One. Word."
"I haven't said anything."
"You're thinking loudly."
"I can't help that."
"Try harder."
Roger's grin nearly split his face in half.
Across the room, Michael happened to glance up.
For a second–
Recognition flashed again.
Subtle.
Quick.
But definitely there.
And this time–
Neither of you could pretend it hadn't happened.
For a moment, the noise of the ballroom seemed to fade again.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Michael was still surrounded by publicists.
Still standing beneath bright lights.
Still being pulled in three different directions at once.
Yet somehow he looked exactly the same as he had that night.
A little tired.
A little amused.
And entirely too calm for somebody being followed by half the room.
A sponsor representative appeared beside him.
"Just a few quick photos."
Michael nodded.
"Sure."
The representative immediately launched into a detailed explanation nobody seemed particularly interested in hearing.
You took advantage of the distraction and started adjusting your camera.
Professional.
Simple.
Easy.
Unfortunately, your hands had apparently forgotten how to cooperate.
Roger noticed immediately.
"You're holdin’ the lens cap."
You looked down.
You were.
"...Don't"
Roger shrugged.
"You looked at me."
"Because you're holdin' the lens cap."
You shoved it into your pocket.
Roger looked deeply satisfied.
Across the backdrop, Michael bit the inside of his cheek.
Like he was trying not to laugh.
Which somehow made everything worse.
The sponsor representative finally stepped aside.
"Alright, everybody ready?"
A chorus of reluctant agreement answered him.
You lifted your camera.
The first photographs were easy.
Executives.
Handshakes.
Smiles.
The same photographs every sponsor wanted and nobody ever looked at again.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Then somebody needed to switch places.
One executives stepped away.
Another moved in.
People shuffled around.
The small group shifted.
And suddenly–
You found yourself much closer than before.
Close enough to hear.
Close enough to avoid.
Which, unfortunately, required looking somewhere other than directly at him.
"Hi."
The voice was quiet.
Almost lost beneath the ballroom noise.
Your stomach immediately abandoned you.
You looked up.
Michael smiled.
Not the public smile.
Not the one reporters got.
The one from the club.
The one you remembered.
For a second, your brain supplied absolutely nothing useful.
"Hi."
Excellent.
A truly remarkable contribution.
Michael's smile widened slightly.
"Didn't expect to see you here."
You glanced down at your camera.
"I could say the same."
He laughed.
Softly.
Before either of you could say anything else–
"Michael?"
A publicist appeared instantly.
Like she'd materialized from thin air.
"We need you over here."
Of couse.
Michael glanced toward her.
Then back at you.
Just briefly.
"It was good seeing you again."
Something warm settled unexpectedly in your chest.
"Yeah?"
His smile returned.
"Yeah."
Then he was gone again.
Pulled back into the crowd.
The publicists.
The cameras.
The noise.
Leaving you standing there with a camera in your hands and absolutely no idea why your heart was beating that fast.
Behind you, Roger made a sound.
You closed your eyes.
"No."
Roger laughed.
"You are the worst."
"Actually," Roger said, grinning, "I think I'm having a fantastic evening. Aren’t you?”