Kit And The Art Of Thieving (On Hold)

a picture worth a thousand words

Click!

"Y'know," Kit said, apropos of nothing, "I kinda really hope those weird floating rock things are actually alien. Maybe then I could say I got brainwashed and finally get that retest in Art History I've been vying for." He cracked his neck, rolling it from side to side before glancing at the shot he just took with his camera--a Canon EOS T7i  Rebel's--screen, "like I know most movies say we'd all totally die, be enslaved or end up at war and then totally die and be enslaved, but like what about Arrival? Like, they just wanted to rewrite our brains. But in a good way. Like why can't it be good non-violent, peace, love and not-here-to-take-over-the-world aliens?" Kit stretched, then went to adjust the lights set up around the edges of the shoot. The shadows weren't quite where he wanted them in that last shot. He hummed as he worked, head moving along to the faint beat playing from the speakers in the background. It was some America's Top 40 track he vaguely recognized. Catchy but otherwise unmemorable. He nodded to himself, satisfied with the adjustments and walked back to where he was before.

"Tilt your head a little to the left, Oz," Kit said to his client, the (objectively) hot guy sitting on the chaise lounge in the middle of the room. Kit's camera was poised in front of his face, ready for action, "up more," Kit said, "yeah - now look more bitchy. Channel your inner Cersei Lannister. Rock that pinched lemon face. Perfect."

Click!

Oz rolled his eyes after he heard the tell-tale shutter of the camera, shifting to have the slender line of himself cast over the curve of the sofa. "I'm glad to know you still have your priorities straight," he drawled, raising a hand to lightly touch his made-up cheek. He made sure to look acceptably perturbed. And bitchy, "this okay?"

Kit nodded. "Uh-huh," he mumbled, distracted. His tongue poked out between his lips in concentration. He turned the camera vertically. Fiddled with the focus on the lens.

Click!

"Well," Oz settled into his position. His lips were pinched, looking dramatic in their coloring and the lights were casting long shadows across his face. His hair was styled in wild oily looking clumps, draping over the sharp edges of his cheekbones in tinted waves. "You're done now aren't you?"

There was a pause.

"With your midterms or whatever," Oz elaborated when Kit just looked confused. Kit grunted in response, and Oz clucked his tongue in distaste. "Stop whining, then. Grow a pair and, I don't know, maybe actually study next time? The semester isn't over yet is it?"

Click!

Kit sighed and lowered his camera, letting it hang a few inches off the ground from between his bent knees. "Wardrobe change," he grumbled, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He stared up at his friend and current 'boss'/client/employer beseechingly.

Oz huffed, clearly put upon but obliged, moving to the rack where the rest of his outfits for the shoot were. He stepped behind the partition to switch. Meanwhile, Kit began rubbing the lens of his camera with the bunched end of his 'The Walking Dude' shirt, because dammit, even aliens (or at least potential, hypothetical aliens) weren't about to put a damper on his own eclectic brand of humor. For a few moments nothing but the rustle of clothing could be heard.

"I probably bombed most of them," Kit said suddenly, feigning nonchalance. His eyes were glued to the camera in his lap, fingers trembling a tiny bit, "bet I'll have to take the 'W' if I don't want the 'F'. Mom's gonna kill me for that." He laughed bitterly.

Oz peeked his head out from behind the partition.

"You really think you did that bad, man?"