BioSynth | ONC 2021 WINNER | MM Romance | Sci-Fi | Complete

One: Friday

The vinegar-like smell of the darkroom always filled Quentin with joy. Even the gentle slosh of the development bath hitting the edges of the tray made him feel at peace with the world. Not that he'd been at war with it when entering, Quentin thought with a smile, but developing the photos was just as much a part of his art as actually framing the shot and taking the picture.

How people could claim traditional photography was dead was beyond Quentin. Yes, holoramas were the perfect medium to preserve every detail — no one would find him arguing that stills ought to make a comeback for forensic work — but there was nothing emotional in translucent 3D renderings that, along with the scene, also rendered the human eye irrelevant. It was his vision that made his work what it was; choosing to leave something out of the frame was as important, if not more, than choosing what to keep.

The beeping of the holonexus he'd left in the living room alerted him to an incoming call. He never brought it with him in here — some people chose to ignore his "in the darkroom" status, despite knowing light from the nexus would ruin his photos. Probably yet another company offering unsolicited SynTracker insurance.

In the developing tray, his latest photo started to come to life, outside distractions forgotten.

This was his favourite part — the moment when his work revealed itself in a format other people would be able to appreciate. One by one he enlarged his prints, thrilled with the end result. He couldn't wait to see the reactions to the exhibition.

On the subject of said exhibition, it was time to hang the last photo of the day to dry and make several calls to fine-tune whatever details needed adjusting. Ian would be coming home in a few hours, and Quentin didn't want to be the one making them late for dinner.

☵☲☵

Freshly showered, Quentin towelled his hair with one hand while going through his wardrobe for the perfect t-shirt. He had the rest of the outfit already picked out — grey jeans, boots, and a black leather jacket that screamed "you'll have to put effort into looking this effortless" —, determined that one of them would look trendy in the company of Zaiden and Cid. Not that Ian didn't look good — that was the problem. With his intense blue eyes and spiky cropped hair, allied to the physique of a SynTracker, he looked good in anything. Which meant the man always went for practical, leaving Quentin to shoulder the burden of trend alone.

Quentin studied himself in the mirror. He might not be as gorgeous as Ian, but he wasn't too shabby either — trim body, short beard, dark hair that was about to be artfully messy... Yeah, he'd look good at dinner. Not to mention he had amazing genes — in the ten years since he'd met his husband, Ian had aged at a regular pace, while Quentin didn't look a day older.

He spotted the black and purple t-shirt Ian had given him — with a white drawing of a camera and the words "stop or I'll shoot" — and huffed out a laugh, already knowing he'd wear it. Damn Ian for giving him cheesy, goofy gifts that melted his insides and made him abandon all pretence of being a trendsetter.

The nexus went off, beeping with an incoming message. Running a little late. Still hoping to make it in time for dinner. Love you.

"A little late," in Ian's line of work, could mean a few minutes or several hours. Well, he could start with a drink. It was past five o'clock: fancy cocktails with tiny umbrellas were fair game. He searched his nexus for the news and blew up the picture, covering the living room in 3D imagery.

Ugh.

If he'd known it would be politics, he'd have gone back into his darkroom.

He grumbled every time, but never failed to watch the news. It was more of the same. Increased regulations for the disposal of toxic waste (always a plus). The government was trying to ban untraceable cards, so that banks could control every single credit going in and out of someone's account — they tried this stunt every couple of years, and they never pulled it off. New licences for SynTrackers: yet another excuse to make them spend money on endless bureaucracy. Ian was going to be thrilled.