'Smile for Me' (Beckett Version)

[Alternate Text: A header image of a dense forest during the early morning hours of sunrise. There is a golden light over the forest that seems to be diffusing through wispy clouds to make it both heavenly and eerie once you look at the towering trees. The title is 'Smile for Me'.] 

(This writing is set prior to the Returning Visitor's return to Fernweh! 🌲)

_ _ _

"Would you care for a mozzarella bite?"

At this rate, you'll have a tiny armory of plastic swords, but you smile agreeably and take a skewer from the tray. "Sure, thanks." It's a little sad the server appears stunned by your gratitude—by the fact you actually looked at him—before melting back into the fancy crowd.

It's no wonder Beckett is so nervous…

This photography exhibition has turned into a buying opportunity for his professor's social circle and their extended, wealthy contacts. It is only showcasing a few pieces from 'amateur' photographers whereas the rest is from known names. That's why Beckett isn't by your side now. He's off conducting tours neither of you expected when this was supposed to be his chance to shine, not free labor on Valentine's Day!

You bite into the cheesy appetizer to curb the frown on your face before it draws Beckett's attention.

(He has already shot you enough apologetic looks while weaving through the large gallery.)

You're the real reason why he's here tonight…

Encouraging and then supportively urging him to accept the offer to showcase something of his is the role you played, though it feels all wrong now. When Beckett failed to locate his photograph among those hanging on the walls or suspended on wires, he didn't say a word. It was evident to you in his expression though—how his smile pinched slightly while he kept nodding along with his professor's comments. That's when you got your first plastic skewer—a gold rapier—since he knew you were about to speak up and more or less shoved it into your hand. The chocolate strawberry didn't prevent you from glaring at his professor when she walked away.

"I know, trust me, I know, but let's not…"

"Bee, this isn't right. You prepared for—"

"I promise I'll make it up to you. If you want, you can go? I know it's Valentine's, so you—"

"I'm staying."

And that was as far as you got before the 'tours' began in earnest. You're still quietly seething about everything. All it takes is remembering the honest relief that seeped into Beckett's half-hearted smile to quell your strong reaction.

Naturally, your eyes search the crowd for one person in particular, all the rest of them falling away until you find him halfway across the room. You start to drift closer without even knowing it. He's talking to someone, although his gaze stays firmly on the displayed photo, locked on. That's unusual. Watching Beckett is what's kept you occupied for most of the night aside from sampling the finger food, of course.

He subtly shifts away from the potential buyer, covering his action by gesturing at something else.

"…the perspective and style is recognizable," Beckett explains.

"I've always found humans to be the most interesting subject. Have you been shot?"

Something about this guy's tone irritates you, including how he's outright ignoring the photo to study Beckett's side profile. He has at least two decades on him. The dark tweed jacket, sharp goatee, and wire-rimmed glasses make him seem scholarly, maybe pretentious. You might be jumping to negative conclusions if not for how he's smiling smugly at him, too cocky and for far too long. Objectively, it's very disrespectful.

"Oh, no—well, not really," Beckett replies. "I prefer to take them."

"Even better!" He excitedly exclaims. "Then you must know how particular a photographer is about his chosen muses, right…? His vision."

His 'vision' is too fixated on your best friend who's smiling tightly and discreetly glancing elsewhere, possibly searching for you. Beckett's discomfort is painfully obvious to you—it should be obvious to anyone who cares to read the signals. You sidestep past a server to get closer to what's unfolding, prepared to help without thinking about the specifics of how to.

"Mr. Bradshaw, I don't—"

"You know my name and my body of work, but what if you could see the inside of my urban studio as repayment for this handsome"—insinuation clings to that odd word choice, dripping from it—"tour? It would be an intimate, private showing. An amateur could benefit from my hands-on experience in the field—"

"Do you do wedding photos?" Your forceful question cuts through his overt advances in a split second, contrasting how gently you pull Beckett close to your side. His suit is rented for tonight's theme, the epitome of formal aside from his sunrise inspired tie; it's silken against your arm while you're melded together. Mr. Bradshaw should get the picture now. "Because I can't think of a reason why you'd be talking to my fiance otherwise?"

. . .

You're staring him down, Beckett is watching you, and Mr. Bradshaw appears dumbstruck.

Why did you skip fake-dating to launch into a fake-engagement? Friends help friends; that's the reason. Why did Beckett tucking closer to your side make your heart stutter over a beat? You've been this close together before. He's warm from all of the showcase lights and walking around, smelling faintly of strawberries and sugary vanilla. Why is this rude guy still here while you're having a mild internal crisis?

"…Wedding photos?" Mr. Bradshaw slowly repeats your words after balking. "Me? I have photographed portraits of  famed—"

"I don't care," you breezily interrupt him. "I only care about what you were saying to him. Do you want to get into that with me or move on? It wouldn't be an 'intimate, private' conversation."

He scoffs at you in what might be outrage before slinking away without another lingering, inappropriate glance in Beckett's direction. The risk of public humiliation was too much for his ego. It isn't his feelings you're at all concerned about. Beckett's cheeks have a faint blush to them that could be from more than the concentrated lighting, and he just dropped eye contact to your plate full of tiny skewers. You set it down.

"Beckett, I didn't—"

"Can we get some fresh air, please?"

He softens his interruption by linking your hands together to guide you through the space you've observed him in for hours. You instantly fall into step with him, relieved when the white walls of the gallery space transition into a drab hallway and then a narrow stairwell. He's moving with familiarity, so you're not going to question how the noises of the exhibition are fading away. After five quick steps, you freeze.

"That's yours."

Beckett glances over his shoulder, smiling in reflex to mask an aching disappointment. "Yep, and there's Matty's," he quickly shares. "We're in the most 'exclusive' spots of the night… Let's keep going—no. [Nickname], wait, a second."

You don't pause in removing the photograph—his amazing photograph—from the wall, but your hands do still on its frame to get a better view of the subject. The exhibition's theme was supposedly: Love's Many Forms. You know this because you saw it carved out of ice while snagging a plastic trident. Most of the pieces were premade or collected to sell, while this one isn't. The amateurs actually took photos.

They tried to meet the brief to showcase work.

Beckett's piece is of something surprisingly mundane that's been framed with the utmost care. His beloved golden hour lighting has been partially thwarted by partly cloudy rain; it's sporadically falling from the fluffy clouds to cut into golden sun rays. The main subject is an umbrella shaft bisecting the nature park the two of you often walk in. On the wooden shaft is a blue sticky note that has your handwriting: 'Bee, Stay safe and dry today. Hugs, [Nickname]'. The note—your note—is in focus, almost heavenly lit while the park and rain is softer, a backdrop.

After a long moment, you look up from his photograph to see he's already watching you.

He is watching your reaction to his art and outlet—his passion—with slight vulnerability.

"…Love isn't always romantic," Beckett says softly, voice echoing in the stairwell. His smile wavers into the precious half-smile reserved for you before he glances away. "Uhm, so the view on the roof is where I was taking us…?"

"That's fine, but I want to buy this one."

"What? No. I don't think it's even for sale like the others, but still no. I wouldn't sell it to—"

Finally, you've finished unhooking the photo with a level of care that belongs to a first edition, grand masterpiece. It's still priceless to you because it's his. "Then I'll buy us dinner on the way home, and we'll call it even," you determinedly offer. "Anything you want is fine."

Beckett seems to consider your words for a second, stepping back to your stair. "Even take out? I'm kind of tired of people who aren't you."

"Of course."

You manage to shift the photograph just in time for him to wrap you in an affectionate hug that lasts longer than what's friendly. You don't mind, holding on just as tightly to offer comfort because you know this event wore him down emotionally. It's something you can both feel and recognize when Beckett tucks himself even closer, wavy hair gently brushing you. You've cuddled before on some late nights when half-asleep, but there's no sleepy haze to blame this on. He just wants you near, so you'll be there.

"Thanks for staying with me," Beckett murmurs.

"I wouldn't leave you, Bee."

He only minimally pulls back from your mutual embrace, still within it as his eyes meet yours before trailing lower for a palpable second.

Your lips? No, that wouldn't make sense! It's just the intensity of the night getting to you.

"I'm sure the mozzarella bites helped…"

He teases you sweetly, kissing your cheek and then stepping away to take your hand again.

"I didn't have that many!" you jokingly reason. "I was just collecting the skewers at one point."

"That would've been more entertaining than the actual event. You won't believe some of the things I overheard from these people, my gosh."

The two of you fall into familiar conversation on the way up the staircase; it helps your heart  level back out after Beckett made it skip again.