Chapter 22: Darkroom

It was raining again. Not soft rain like the night they met, but hard New York rain that hit the penthouse windows so loud that Milo said it sounded like the sky was developing photos too — click click click.

Milo was in the bathroom. Not the big master bathroom with the bathtub that could fit two people and the expensive soap that Lucien bought because it smelled like Milo's favorite — cedar and rain. He was in the second bathroom, the small one that Lucien never used, that had become Milo's darkroom without permission.

He had taped black trash bags over the window. He had put his developing tanks on the sink. He had chemicals in labeled bottles that said "DO NOT DRINK - MILO'S STUFF" in black marker because Lucien once almost drank developer thinking it was cold brew.

Lucien knocked on the door at 8 PM.

"Milo? You have been in there for three hours. Lena said you missed dinner."

"I am developing!" Milo's voice from inside, excited, muffled. "The Tokyo rain photos from last week, the ones where you looked at me like I was crazy because I laid in a puddle to get the angle!"

Lucien smiled outside the door. He remembered. Milo had laid in a puddle in Shibuya crossing, in his good jeans, to get a low angle of Lucien walking. People stared. Lucien wanted to pick him up and say "you will get sick" but Milo said "shhh, art needs sacrifice" and Lucien fell in love a little more.

"Can I come in?" Lucien asked.

"No! Darkroom! No light! You will ruin them! You are very bright, you will ruin my film!"

Lucien laughed. "I am bright?"

"Yes, you shine too much, CEO, you will expose my film!"

Lucien waited outside. He sat on the floor, back against the bathroom door, in his suit pants and white shirt, tie off because Milo hated ties now. He listened to Milo inside — humming, sloshing water, muttering "come on, come on, freckles boy, show me."

After twenty minutes, Milo said "Okay, you can come in but close your eyes and don't breathe too much, chemicals are sensitive."

Lucien opened the door, eyes closed, and Milo pulled him in by his shirt.

The bathroom was dark red. Only a red safelight on. It smelled like chemicals and Milo's cedar shampoo. There were photos hanging on a string with clothespins — wet, dripping, black and white.

Milo stood in the red light, wearing only Lucien's old white t-shirt that was too big and boxer shorts, black nails stained with developer, freckles dark in red light, lip piercing shining.

Lucien opened his eyes and forgot to breathe anyway, not because of chemicals, but because Milo looked like that.

"You look like art," Lucien whispered.

"I look like mess," Milo said, but he was smiling, proud. He pointed to the hanging photos. "Look! Look at this one!"

Lucien looked.

It was Lucien. In Tokyo. Rain on his shoulders, no umbrella, looking down at Milo who was on the ground in a puddle, camera up. Lucien's face in the photo was not CEO. It was soft, worried, fond, a little annoyed, completely in love. It was the face Milo saw when he burned pasta.

"This is how you saw me?" Lucien asked, same as rooftop.

"This is how you looked when I was being art sacrifice in puddle," Milo said. "You looked like you wanted to kill me and kiss me at same time."

"I did," Lucien said.

Milo pulled another photo down, still wet, dripping chemical water on Lucien's expensive shirt, but Lucien didn't care.

"This one is you at 3 AM making grilled cheese," Milo said. "See? Your hair messy. Your sleep pants. You look like not billionaire, you look like my boyfriend who makes salty soup."

Lucien looked at the photo of himself, half asleep, spatula in hand, looking at Milo on counter with so much love that it hurt to see it from outside.

"I didn't know I looked like that," Lucien whispered.

"You always look like that when you look at me," Milo said simply. "I just finally had film to catch it."

Lucien turned to him in the small red bathroom, water dripping from photos onto both of them, chemical smell everywhere, rain on window.

"Teach me," Lucien said.

"What?"

"Teach me how to develop. I want to see how you see me. I want to do it with you."

Milo's eyes went wide. "You? Develop? You will ruin it! You are CEO, your hands are for signing papers, not for film! You shake!"

"I don't shake," Lucien said, offended.

"You shake when I sit on your lap during Zoom," Milo said, remembering, delighted.

Lucien's ears went red even in red light. "That was different."

Milo laughed and pulled him to the sink. "Okay, okay, CEO learns darkroom. First, you need gloves because your billionaire skin is sensitive."

He put big yellow gloves on Lucien's hands. Too big. Lucien looked ridiculous. Milo laughed so hard he almost knocked over developer.

"Stop laughing, teacher," Lucien said, trying to be serious, but he was smiling too.

"Okay, okay. So you take film, like this, in dark, and you roll it onto this reel, like this, careful, don't touch— you touched! You touched the film with your big fingers!"

"I did not touch!"

"You did! I saw! Now it's ruined, it will have your fingerprints forever!"

"Then it will be our fingerprints," Lucien said.

Milo stopped. Looked at him.

"Our fingerprints?" he whispered.

Lucien took the film, with Milo's hands over his gloved hands, and rolled it slowly, carefully, together. Two pairs of hands, one film, in red light, rain outside.

"Our fingerprints," Lucien repeated. "So when you print it, you will see us both."

Milo's throat got tight. He was not good at crying quietly. He cried loud, snotty, in small bathroom.

"Why are you crying? I ruined film?" Lucien panicked, taking gloves off, holding Milo's face with chemical-stained hands.

"No, no," Milo sobbed, freckles wet, not just chemical water now. "It's just... no one ever wanted to have fingerprints with me before. Daniel said my hobby was childish. And you want your fingerprints on my film."

Lucien wiped his tears with his thumb, getting chemical taste but not caring.

"I want my fingerprints on everything you do," Lucien said. "Your film, your fridge, your life. I want to be in your photos even when I'm not in them, just fingerprints."

Milo kissed him then, hard, in red darkroom, wet photos swinging and hitting them, chemical smell and rain smell and cedar smell mixing.

Lucien kissed back, hands in Milo's messy hair, getting developer in it, making Milo's hair crunchy later, but neither cared.

They developed together for another hour, slow, messy, laughing, ruining two rolls completely because Lucien opened the tank too early and light exposed everything white.

"See! You ruined!" Milo shouted, but laughing.

"We ruined," Lucien corrected. "Our ruin."

They hung the ruined white photos anyway on the string, next to good ones. White empty photos that said nothing but meant everything because they ruined together.

At 11 PM, they came out of bathroom, both covered in chemical spots, hair crunchy, shirt stained, hands wrinkled from water.

Lena was in kitchen, waiting, arms crossed.

"You two smell like a photo lab exploded," she said.

"We made art," Milo said proudly, holding up wet photo of Lucien in puddle.

"We made our fingerprints," Lucien said, holding up completely white ruined photo like it was prize.

Lena looked at them, at their chemical hair, at their stupid happy faces, and sighed.

"Go shower. Both of you. You smell."

They showered together — not sexy, just tired and soapy, washing chemicals out of Milo's hair, Lucien's hands gentle, Milo standing on tiptoes to wash Lucien's hair too, because possessive goes both ways.

After, in bed, Milo taped the puddle photo on ceiling above bed so Lucien would see it first thing morning.

Lucien taped the white ruined photo on ceiling above Milo's side.

"What's that?" Milo asked, looking up at white nothing.

"Our first photo together," Lucien said. "Even if it's white. It's us. We ruined it together."

Milo curled into him, chemical smell still faint, rain still hitting windows.

"I like ruining with you," Milo whispered, sleepy.

"I like ruining everything with you," Lucien whispered back. "Let's ruin more tomorrow."

And they fell asleep under their photos, one perfect Tokyo rain, one perfect white ruin, both theirs, both home, while rain kept developing photos on windows outside.