It hadn't taken too much convincing from your friend to finally sign up for the Photography workshop your college was offering. Taking photographs had never really been much more than a hobby.
It was Peter who had a knack for it.
His passion for capturing the world had recently turned into a way to make money to help his Aunt out with a few bills; his pictures of Queens' very own friendly neighborhood vigilante gracing the cover of the Bugle nearly every issue.
The quality of the photos were astounding and frankly a little unbelievable; the angles and perspective such that it was difficult to comprehend how someone could possibly be in the right place and time, every time, to even obtain images of such class. How did Peter get up there? What was Peter even doing hanging around that part of town? What kind of lens was Peter using to get so much detail?
Why was no one asking these questions?
It was obvious to you, but then you also had the advantage of knowing that Peter was in fact taking photos of himself.
Easy to take pictures of Spider-man when you're Spider-man.
Which was why it had been an easy decision to sign up for the class; you were going to start helping Peter with his photos before anyone had the opportunity to develop any suspicion.
He had then signed up with you.
Your first assignment had been to pick a partner and over the course of the next week, work on taking portraits. 'I really want you to focus on the quality of light. How does light affect the subject matter and vice versa?'
Peter stood from his seat next to you, throwing his backpack over his shoulder and adjusting the camera around his neck. Stepping around to the front of the table he gave you a grin, arms spread wide open, "Ok," he brought his hands together with a clap, "so, let's get started," his eyes bright with excitement.
Your fingers fiddled around with the shutter speed dial of your borrowed camera, turning it back and forth as you looked up at him.
He had been late to class this morning, sliding in through the door in the back of the room and quietly slipping into the seat next to you, greeting you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.
Looking at him now, your breath caught a little. Catching on the way that his naturally wavy hair was a little unkempt, a few stray curls loose over his forehead, that funny eyebrow of his a little more out of control than usual. The collar of his flannel shirt uneven and poking up towards his ear, the sleeves rolled up a little unevenly on each arm, showing off the smooth, tanned skin of his forearms. He hadn't even managed to do up the buttons properly, the flannel not quite lining up at the wrinkled hem above his belt.
At least the jacket he wore looked in one piece.
You chuckled a bit as you worked to get the lens cap off, bringing the camera up to your eye as quickly as you could, snapping a few shots in succession.
You put the cap back on, standing to gather your things, tucking everything into your bag before walking around the table and reaching for his collar. He tensed as your fingertips brushed along his neck, and then into his hair, putting the loose locks back into place with the rest of his curls. Stepping back to look over your work, you gave him a grin and a nod, deciding to forego undressing the boy in public to fix his fumbled buttoning.
"You're a mess, Parker."
Bringing his hands to his chest and tilting his head a bit at you, looking down at you through his lashes; "Come on, me? Peter Parker," leaning in so that only you could hear, "Spider-man? I don't think so."
A curl had come loose again, sitting comfortably above the wild hairs of his eyebrow.
Shaking your head at him as you laughed and walked towards the door, "Yeah, sure thing, Pete." You looked back over your shoulder to see him following close behind, reaching a lanky arm above your head to push the door open for you.
"Maybe you should learn to put a shirt on first before you go saying things like that."
You wished you had your camera ready to catch the look of confusion on his face.
A week had passed quickly between work, your other classes, and the instance where Peter had come to your window the night before last after a particularly nasty run in with a group of armed burglars.
You swore these guys were getting better; like they were training or something. Peter kept coming to you with fresh bruises and gashes, although, luckily never deep enough to warrant sutures.
You suspected he wouldn't ask you to sew up any wounds of his anyway, based on how patching up his suit had gone the last time he asked you to use a needle and thread.
He had given you his camera to take with yours to process the film. He had rushed off on the way to class, ripping the camera from his neck and thrusting it at you, giving you a hurried, sloppy hug before splitting off and into an alley.
The sight of an old tennis shoe being thrown over a dumpster and into the wall would've been funny if you didn't know who it belonged to and what he was more than likely swinging off to.
You waited until he was out of sight before stepping into the alley to gather up all of his strewn articles of clothing. You muttered something about leaving clothes in a nice pile, and no wonder he couldn't even button a shirt up, before tucking them into his backpack, pushing it behind a gutter, but only just, so that he would be able to find it.
That was how you ended up in the dark room enlarging the negatives from both cameras, working carefully with the CYM exposure settings, trying to get the timing and color density ratios correct. Peter had teased you about being a fan of doing things the hard way. 'You know, there are these crazy things called digital cameras, where you can literally plug them into a computer, and print your photos out in seconds.'
You assured him they would be better this way. Besides, you were here to learn, right?
You took your time carefully hanging up each photo as you finished them. Looking forward to seeing the finished product in the light. You hoped you had managed to get the coloration right on all of them, especially the ones you hadn't taken for yourself.
After hanging up the last print on the line, you worked to clean up your mess. Your neck and shoulders were stiff from hunching over the baths and various equipment for hours. Wiping down the sink and workstation, you crossed the room to toss the paper towel in the trash and flip the light switch on. You took a second to stretch and to allow your eyes time to adjust before turning around to look at your work.
Peter was the only person who could affect your breathing without even being present.
You ignored the photos you had taken all together when the first of his series caught your eye. Seeing the negatives had been nothing like this. There had been no way to prepare yourself in the dim light for what you were seeing. Peter had talent. He had an eye. He was magic with a camera. Something.
He had made you look beautiful.
The first was of you laughing, your head thrown back, lips pulled tight across your teeth, eyes closed, hair caught in the breeze. One of your hands clenched at your stomach, the other reaching off camera. You were beneath a tree, the leaves in various shades of red and orange, contrasting against the bluish purple color of the sky. Your features were dark, but you were glowing all the same.
That had been the first day. You had gotten coffee and spent some time in the library researching dark room processing techniques; you couldn't remember him pulling the camera out.
The next one was of you in the library, your form overshadowed by the endless rows of books lining the shelves that seemed to go on forever. He had caught you reaching for one, your arm extended above your head; you stood on the tips of your toes, long, slim fingers grasping; your hair tucked behind your ear, the ends curling around your jaw, brows pinched in effort; the hem of your shirt riding up to expose a sliver of skin above your hip. This person looked graceful, with elegant lines and curves; the light shining down from the ceiling above catching your features in all of the right ways.
He was a sneaky little dweeb.
He had made you look beautiful.
As your eyes passed over each picture, your chest began to tighten and your eyes grew watery. Your fingers found your lips, worrying the flesh as you looked over the last image. You remembered him taking this one.
