Stonathan ❤️

95

NOT MINE!!

all credits go to StepfordSnarker on ao3

Jonathan has learned a few key facts about freelance photography in the last year: first, people are always going to try to negotiate his prices down from rock bottom, and second, some clients are so far up their own asses they'll give you nothing to go on and then threaten to find another photographer when you ask clarifying questions. I thought I was working with a professional here, Mr. Byers. Am I mistaken?

The third fact, which Jonathan is doing his best to ignore, is that he might not be cut out for this after all. Maybe college was a waste, and he's going to be working retail until he takes his final breath because he's not actually that great at photography and he's never taken a good photo in his life and the ones that were passable were flukes and man, it's freezing out here.

He has been standing in Times Square for two hours. This is his least favorite place in New York, and it will only be worse tonight, when huge crowds will gather to watch the ball drop, putting a swift and merciful end to 1991.

During these two hours, nothing inspirational has happened. The birds are just birds; the concrete is just concrete; failure is just failure. Jonathan is going to take shitty photos any tourist could take, and he's going to turn them in to his client, and he's going to be laughed all the way back to Lenora Hills. Mr. Williamson is never going to write him the recommendation letter he needs.

Well, Jonathan thinks, peering through the viewfinder of his refurbished Canon at nothing in particular. It was good while it lasted.

A hand presses into the back of his shoulder.

"Fancy seeing you here," Steve says.

Jonathan groans, not because he's missed a shot but because he wishes he'd found one to miss in the first place.

This isn't the most welcoming sound, but Steve isn't deterred.

He's never deterred. That's why they're friends. Or one of many reasons, anyway.

"Come here often?" Steve tries again. Probably because Jonathan hadn't given him what he wanted the first time.

"Not if I can help it."

When he turns to face Steve, he notices first the incredible redness of everything. Cheeks, nose, and lips doused in color like a pale wine stain—boxed stuff you bought because Robin goaded you into it and which you spent fifteen minutes trying to rub out of the carpet.

It's cold, and Steve should be wearing more layers. He hates hats because they screw up his hair. He hates scarves because they choke him.

So don't tie it that tight? Jonathan would always roll his eyes and tune out Steve's complaints as they braced themselves against freezing winds which whipped around grey, glassy skyscrapers.

"Taking photos," Jonathan explains, nodding his head towards the large Coca-Cola advert ahead, flanked by cars on both sides.

"Is this an ironic thing?" Steve asks. "Like are you doing that thing artists do where they fixate on stuff they love to hate but they do it so much they get confused and weird?"

"No."

"Okay." Steve turns his entire body to look left. Then he turns his entire body to look right. Investigating. Unsatisfied, he looks at Jonathan again. "So what gives?"

"Capitalism. Rent."

"Are you being short in a normal way or in a 'Don't bother me' way?"

Jonathan sighs, but that's not an answer. "...Is it okay to say neither?"