Title: Perfect Picture

Summary: Alfred has Francis over for a photo shoot and makes some interesting observations. Human AU, no pairings, just introspection. Based on Marilyn Monroe picture by Richard Avedon.

Warning: Thought provoking (hopefully) and contemplative rather than plotful.

"Hey, there, Francis!" Alfred beamed as the confident young Frenchman walked into the room with a self-assured smile. He easily accepted Alfred's hand and shook it cheerily.

"Bonjour, Alfred!" Francis responded. "And how are you today?" Alfred nodded.

"I'm doing good, Francis, I'm doing good," he said with a smile. "Hey, do you want to come in? I've got a spot all set up for you." He moved to the side and gestured further into the studio. Francis delicately tilted his head in thanks and walked further into the room. Alfred closed the door after him.

"What an interesting studio you have, Alfred," Francis observed with an uneven grin as he surveyed his surroundings. Alfred chuckled.

"Heh, yeah, it grows on you, right?" he teased, hurrying over to Francis and sidling ahead of him. "It's right over here." He led his guest through the small hallway that led to his private studio. Inside there was a large table decorated with a very expensive white wine and two very elegant looking wine glasses. Francis stopped as he saw them and his eyebrows lifted, his gaze shifting to Alfred. Alfred held the gaze with no difficulty. Francis smirked.

"Ah, so you had some… ulterior motives in asking me here, Mr. Jones?" he sang in a lilting voice. Alfred smiled.

"Just thought it would lighten the mood," he said smoothly. "You know, keep you loose for the photo shoot." Francis gave him a look.

"Loose?" he echoed. "Mon ami, is there something you are not telling me?" Alfred only laughed and gestured to the table.

"Let's do this thing!"

So they did. Alfred opened the conversation, trying to take as much of the pressure off of Francis as he could.

It became apparent very quickly that Francis was not one to be influenced by pressure. He was behaving in a way very different from Arthur, avoiding the topic of the photo shoot completely, almost uncaring as to the fact that there would inevitably be one. Alfred remembered the first time Arthur had agreed to pose for him, the poor guy had kept asking, "Do you want to shoot yet?" or "Is it time yet?" or "Where's your camera?" It had been obvious that he'd been nervous. Of course he'd gotten better now, but there was still a tension very clear in the line of his body when he knew Alfred was taking a picture of him.

Francis was incredibly different, surrounded by a natural air of confidence and—based on that, if Alfred had to guess—very comfortable in front of a camera.

They talked easily for about a half an hour and then Alfred brought out his camera and asked Francis to pose with his glass of wine, to lean back and look sophisticated. Francis only grinned and complied.

Alfred made mental notes as he shot picture after picture, filing them away as he had with every other model who'd ever posed for him. Francis was by far the most confident of all of them, easily shifting into whatever look Alfred asked of him. The one thing which surprised Alfred the most—though he supposed it shouldn't have—was that Francis never once looked at the camera if Alfred told him not to. Even in Arthur's case—especially in Arthur's case—his eyes would always flick, even for just a moment, toward the camera and sometimes it was enough to throw the whole picture off.

Francis never did that; he was very good at pretending the camera wasn't in the room with him.

By the end of the first shoot, Francis had polished off two thirds of his wine and was still sipping very contentedly away. He looked to Alfred.

"Is that all?" he asked, a small note to his voice suggesting that he'd expected there to be more picture-taking. Alfred smiled and shook his head, placing his camera down and sitting down across from Francis.

"Nope, not even close," he said, stretching his arms back over his head to pull some of the stiffness from his back that had come from crouching so much. His hands eventually settled at the back of his head. "But I figured now would be as good a time as any for a break." He saw that Francis was nearing the end of his glass. He reached for the bottle. "Refill?" Francis nodded.

"I would love one. Merci," he said, holding his glass out. Alfred obligingly refilled it.

"So, your family is all the way back in America?" Francis asked, and the cycle began again. They drank some more and talked some more and Alfred found himself laughing at many of Francis's stories about Arthur from when they were in high school together. Apparently Arthur strove to be quite different back then. Alfred had no idea the guy even knew what 'punk' was at all.

Another forty minutes passed and Alfred pulled the camera up into his hands again.

"Ready?" he asked, holding the camera like a weapon. Francis grinned.

"As ever." Alfred began to shoot pictures again.

This time, he noticed a distinct light in Francis's eyes, a warmness that probably was a direct result of the wine, but which was nevertheless interesting. He favored shots from a lower angle this time, shooting pictures of Francis from the ground, trying to catch that warmness as best he could, using the light from the studio to whatever advantage he could garner.

He paused for a moment to look through the pictures he'd taken so far and—on impulse—scrolled back through some of the more recent pictures of Arthur he took. Stiff shoulders, or hunched shoulders, to hide the fact that he was nervous and aware of the camera; gaze directed straight ahead of him or off to the distance in an unintentionally exaggerated effort to avoid looking at the camera; poses very reminiscent to one another.

But also an honesty to the image that endeared Alfred, made him absolutely certain of his decision to keep Arthur around.

As for Francis…

Alfred switched back to the first picture he'd taken of Francis. He scrutinized it, looked hard at it. He went back to the last picture of Arthur. He scrutinized that one too. Back and forth and back and forth, and soon he stopped at Francis's picture. Loose relaxed shoulders; calm face, adopting the exact look Alfred had specified with no problem; eyes looking slightly toward the camera but not really seeing it, as though it weren't there. It was the Perfect Picture.

But the more Alfred looked at it, the more fake it felt, as though something in that picture was forced, as though Francis had to be pushing too hard at something but he didn't know what.

Alfred looked up from the camera to ask Francis if he'd like another break but he stopped abruptly.

Francis had taken his seat again, his eyes downcast and glazed, his expression blank as though he were deep in thought, his hand scratching absently—almost as though he didn't even realize what he was doing—at the back of his neck. Wordlessly, Alfred moved the camera up to his eye and snapped the shot. The soft click pulled Francis out of his stupor and immediately, his confidence was back, radiating off of him in waves as he smiled and stood to his feet.

"Apologies," he offered easily, saying nothing else, though Alfred had expected he would. He waited for a moment, still frozen in place, for Francis to offer some explanation for what had just happened, but all he got was a slightly confused—but still very confident—"Would you like to keep going?" The confusion was obviously in response to Alfred's lack of response, however, not with anything internally to do with Francis, which might have been more intriguing. Alfred put it aside for the moment and smiled.

"Nah, how about we take another break?" he proposed loudly, subtly hinting that he would be very hard-pressed to take no for an answer. Francis grinned and winked.

"Very well," He agreed amicably. Alfred returned the grin and reached for the wine.

"Another glass?"

This time, Alfred lost track of time as he spoke with Francis, and soon the bottle was half gone between the both of them, and Francis's cheeks were getting to be a little flushed. He was obviously far from drunk, however, keeping all of his elocution and elegance and sophistication. Basically, his class was not affected at all by the wine.

It was very late when Alfred held up his camera again, feeling like the whole thing was a battle between himself and Francis, and the final showdown was about to occur.

"Last one?" he challenged. He wondered for a moment if Francis knew what he was doing when something flashed behind those sharp blue eyes. Francis stood.

"Last one," he repeated in affirmation with a nod. His smile faded slightly as he watched Alfred and his eyes seemed to glaze again. Alfred lifted his camera slowly to his face to catch the look.

The glaze disappeared and the awareness returned. Alfred's eyes narrowed behind the camera. Damn. He snapped the shot anyway.

So far, Francis was winning.

The third shoot turned into the longest of the three shoots by far. Yet, ironically, Alfred took the smallest number of pictures. Every time he thought he had something, something true and honest of Francis's, his model would pull something up, something silky and smooth and buttered up, and hide himself within it. Alfred paused again to wonder at the description. Is he even hiding anything? What if that's just the way this guy is? …Who the fuck would want to be like this all the time?

He took several steps closer to Francis, aiming for a closer shot. The confidence he felt Francis emitting increased. Alfred asked Francis to do whatever he wanted and took several shots. He grimaced when he looked over them. Looking back up, he took another step closer to Francis. More confidence. Francis sat straighter and his eyebrows lifted higher. Alfred paused. He took a step back.

There was movement in Francis, a slight almost unnoticeable shift, as though he had exhaled shortly. He blinked his eyes and that action was slightly sluggish, though Alfred could blame that on the wine.

Brow furrowing, Alfred held himself in check, resisting the urge to take a picture. But—

"Wait," Alfred muttered to himself. He began to move forward. Francis turned to look at him questioningly, wondering what he should be waiting for. Alfred stopped, feeling himself deflate. Francis only seemed to grow more confused. Alfred waved it away.

"Never mind," he said, looking at Francis thoughtfully. So he grew more comfortable the closer the camera was to him? Or more confident? Alfred's eyes roved over Francis's figure, the curve of his back, the contours of his face, the snobbish dangle of his right hand. All of it was very confident. But Alfred remembered that honesty he'd always gotten from Arthur when he'd taken pictures of him instead. Arthur was always nervous when people took his picture for Photography. When it was for art, Arthur was always nervous because there would be scrutiny and he disliked scrutiny of his person. Scrutinize his intellect all you'd like, he would slam you down and piss on you. And he'd do it all with a teacup calmly held in his hand.

Scrutinize what he looked like, what he sounded like, and he tensed up, hyper aware of himself and his surroundings.

But at least that was honestly conveyed in the photos Alfred took of him. It was all Arthur and none of it was held back.

Alfred didn't know what to say about Francis, though. There were no nerves, no tension or awkwardness. All of it was easy and it flowed so very well. What, then, was wrong with it?

Perfect Picture. Except it was too perfect. Alfred knew for a fact that if he showed any of these pictures of Francis in his portfolio, they would come up looking the same, and like every other picture of Francis the world had ever seen. Francis was too good at making things too perfect. And Alfred didn't think photography should be about Perfect, he thought it should be about the truth of the model; what was really there.

A light sound penetrated his thoughts and Alfred blinked, looking over to Francis as the man pulled out his phone. He looked at the number and his brow furrowed. He stood to leave the room, but Alfred stepped forward and held his hand up.

"No, it's okay, man, I'll go," he offered with a friendly expression. Francis nodded.

"Thank you," he smiled, opening the phone. He put it to his ear as Alfred walked out into the hall, closing the door somewhat behind him. He was tempted to listen in to the conversation but that was rude, even for him, so he decided to let it be. He distracted himself with his pictures of Francis instead. He pulled up the one he'd taken of Francis looking down and stared at it. For several minutes.

There were far too many things to observe in that one long look and Alfred felt as though Christmas had come early. The first thing he noted was Francis's blank face. Without the charisma, without all the grinning and the smiling and the flirting, Francis looked completely different. His face looked longer without the smile, without his lips being pulled up. His eyelids drooped slightly and his skin seemed to lose its luster. If Alfred had to put a description to it, he'd say that Francis's skin looked tired. His eyes just looked glazed, like there should have been something there but there wasn't. Alfred wanted it to be something profound and deep but Francis's eyes showed nothing of the sort.

It's just… blank.

Alfred swallowed and looked closer. His brow furrowed again and he felt something akin to frustration rise within him. He pulled back with wide eyes when he realized that he wanted to know what Francis was thinking in that one moment. It was more open than any of the other pictures, but even when he was taken off guard, there was still something hidden. Something behind that glaze that just didn't care to be shown, something that Francis didn't need to actively keep out of sight because it stayed there on initiative.

He sighed to himself and looked up, rolling his head and stretching his chin to his chest to return the feeling to his neck. In the silence of his stretching, Alfred realized that there wasn't any more muffled talking coming from the studio. He looked over to the door and stepped up to it. No talking. It seemed as though Francis was done. Alfred knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open and walking into the room, smile on his face, camera in hand.

"Everything all good?" he prepared himself to ask, only to choke on the "E" as it came out. For the second time—is it the second?—Alfred froze where he was and stared openly at Francis. His model was sitting in his chair, pulled away from the table, his back curved slightly forward and not touching the chair back, his shoulders held in a mildly tense position a little closer to his ears than usual. The closest thing Alfred could think of to describe the position was static. He swallowed thickly and tried to move his camera to his face. His hands were weighed down by an imaginary weight however and refused his mental command. His eyes flitted all over Francis though, looking from an artist's perspective at the suddenly silent Frenchman.

He didn't look nervous; Alfred guessed the phone call hadn't upset him in any way. His eyes held that glazed look again, but to a much greater degree, as though he really couldn't see anything in front of him. His lips were parted and his breathing was steady, as though he were asleep. His eyes looked somehow… softer, and Alfred couldn't think of a scenario that would result in this; they just looked softer for some reason.

Alfred managed to pull himself forward, his hands finally moving the camera to his face. Francis didn't move. His back didn't straighten, his eyebrows didn't lift, his eyes didn't sparkle. He remained as he was.

The camera was positioned right where it needed to be and Alfred moved directly in front of Francis. He didn't think about composition, he couldn't think about lighting; all he could do was capture the moment as it was. He snapped the shot.

Slowly, the camera moved down from his eye. Alfred placed the camera absently on the table, his gaze still on Francis. No more confidence. But no nervousness either. What is that, just "ness" or something?

Ambivalence. No, even that was too much of an emotion. Was Francis feeling anything right then? He was just there.

"Francis?"

Yet one call from Alfred could pull him out of it. Francis looked up immediately, too quick for it to be a normal reaction, but not quite startled. Alfred was having trouble finding descriptors. He smiled.

"I think that's it for me," he said. "I got some great pictures of you." Francis's lips pulled into a grin, same as before. The confidence was back again and Francis stood to his feet with a definite energy to his movements.

"You are sure?" he asked, playfully suggestive. "I would not object to modeling for you more. Perhaps… nude this time?" He waggled his eyebrows and Alfred grinned boyishly back at him.

"Nah, maybe another time," he said, shifting the camera on the table slightly away from them both as though afraid Francis might try to steal it and erase those two perfect pictures.

But Francis paid his camera no mind and only nodded in understanding, his flirting aura still surrounding them both however.

"It is very late," he rationalized for Alfred. "Perhaps another time indeed." Alfred grinned and showed him to the door. He turned as he opened it for Francis and held out his hand.

"Well, thanks so much for this, dude," he said enthusiastically. "I had a great time." Francis gracefully took his hand and tilted his head forward purposefully.

For a moment then, something happened, and Alfred found himself blinking blankly as Francis held onto his hand for a moment, eyes softening again.

"I am glad I was able to help," Francis said simply. For one fleeting moment, the confidence disappeared again, replaced by something else, something Alfred scrambled to name and grasp but it was gone before he could do either.

His hand was left hanging almost limply in the air as Francis twirled around and threw him a breathy, "Au revoir!" as he walked off, an effeminate wave accompanying the words.

"Yeah, bye," Alfred said, knowing Francis couldn't possibly have heard him, but saying the words out of reflex. Was he reading too much into the whole thing or had Francis done it again?

Shrugging his shoulders, Alfred closed the door and turned to head back to his studio. He found his camera still sitting faithfully upon the table and he picked it up, turning it around in his hands until he was looking at the screen. He pressed a button and the picture of Francis he'd just taken flashed up before him. He looked at it in silence for a moment, trying to decipher it, decode it and figure out what it meant.

But he was just too lighthearted at the moment, still feeling the pleasant buzz of the wine he'd just consumed, to try and figure out thoughtful broody things.

So instead he just smiled, almost wistfully, and looked up at the door to the hall, the one he'd left open as he'd led Francis out of the studio.

"I'm never gonna get to see that side of you again, am I?" he realized. Nope. Two pictures. That's all you'll give me. Well, two was enough for him.

Sorry for no plot. But I've been interested in writing something like this for a while now. Photographer!America is actually very fun to write!

Just a heads up, I'm not a photographer, so I'm sorry if I got any of that wrong.

Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine.