Sneaking his camera into his workplace may not be very ethical. Sneaking his camera into his workplace in the name of artistic matters, however, made sense in Lennon's head.

Everything was a form of art. The tone of voice to which people spoke, their mannerisms, the things they create.

Lennon remembered high school like a tattoo embedded on his forehead. He didn't stand out much, nor was he friendless. Some people made light fun of his hobby and he didn't hold it against them— the photographs he took before he understood basic composition were worse than embarrassing.

Those pictures were buried deep under the floorboards, figuratively, and he hopes to never see them again.

"Lennon." His coworker tapped his arm.

He shot to his feet, having been hiding behind the bar with his camera cradled in his hands. "Yeah, Viana?" he replied over the heavy music.

"I'm gonna run to the bathroom real quick," she told him, "Cover for me?" She peeked over his shoulder when he nodded. "You brought your camera again?"

Lennon blushed a deep hue, always reduced to this state whenever someone noticed his photography habits.

Viana laughed. "Knock yourself out. Just don't forget to stay busy."

"Thanks, Vi."

Lennon placed his camera down as she walked away, giving his job the best of his undivided attention. People came and go, meeting with friends or drinking alone. "Hi there," he beamed when a burly man took a seat in front of them, "Can I get you anything?"

"I'll just have a Margarita."

"Margarita," Lennon repeated, brushing invisible dirt off his apron, "Coming right up."

The man stroked at his mustache as he waited, steely gaze fixed on the chestnut boy as if in deep thought. "Say, boy, how old are you?"

Lennon looked up with a friendly face, shaking the ingredients of the drink with ice. That was a common question. "I turn twenty in a few months." He avoided answering with a simple nineteen because it would always lead to—

"You're young for someone who works here."

That.

Lennon chuckled. "I get that a lot," he said, garnishing the edge of the glass with a piece of lime, "What can I say, living is expensive."

"Oh definitely," the man replied, holding his hand out, "Charles."

"Lennon." He accepted the firm handshake. "Pleased to meet you."

Charles seemed a little lost, like it was his first time at a bar and he was soaking in the whole experience. His cargo shorts prompted a suburban dad image in Lennon's head. "How long did it take for you to master all these recipes?"

Lennon slipped the drink over and nodded when the man thanked him. "Well, my dad's a barista at a coffeehouse but alcohol beverages was like a side hobby to him so I picked up a lot growing up."

His customer seemed impressed. He looked around the place, lights flickering across every surface. "It's a lot more hectic than I remembered?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever kicked someone out?"

Lennon propped his elbows on the high counter. "Not me. These scrawny arms can't do anything," he joked, "But I've intervened with fights and people who can't take no for an answer." He paused. "What brings you here?"

Charles shifted his weight around, folding his arms on the table. "My friend and I used to drink here during our twenties," he answered, "I haven't been here in ages. Barely remember a thing. He passed away last week and I wanted to come back for old times' sake."

Lennon's expression changed in a whirlwind. "Oh, I'm so sorry for your loss."

The man smiled, grief crinkling the skin near his eyes. "He lived a good life. That's all that matters."

Lennon was called away to serve another customer, but his eyes were drawn back to the man every minute or so. Charles' gaze was glued to the seat next to him, conjuring up memories of his friend sitting on that stool with jokes rolling off his tongue.

A wave of realization washed over Lennon.

This. This was essence without being.

Charles drowned the rest of his glass and Lennon was afraid he'd leave.

"Sir?" he spoke, containing his excitement out of respect, "Will you be back any time soon?"

He drummed his fingers on his thigh. "I'm not sure."

"This will sound strange, but would you like me to take a picture of you here? I'm a photographer. I can print it out at my studio and give it to you next time."

Charles mauled over the offer for a few seconds. "That's very kind of you," he decided, nodding, "Sure."

Pulling out his camera and hooking the strap around his neck, Lennon stepped out from behind the bar and went to stand a reasonable distance in front of the man.

Charles didn't force a smile onto his face for the camera. He simply existed there, his fingers touching the stool next to him, seeking his friend's hand to hold.

Click.

Suddenly, a couple ear-piercing yells sounded from the back of the bar, traveling over the music. Most people had stopped to investigate the origin of it and Lennon leaned his upper body over the counter to get a better gist of the commotion. Glass bottles shattered against the wall and the crowd dispersed.

"Viana?" Lennon cried.

Viana, with her broad shoulders and arm length enough to give her an advantage in a boxing match, was always the one to break up fights. But she was nowhere to be found.

Taking responsibility upon himself, Lennon abandoned his camera with Charles and pushed his way through the dance floor.

There were men wielding glasses in their hands, waving them in the air as they towered over a mop of strawberry blonde hair.

"Cut it out," Lennon shouted, grateful when a few other coworkers approached the scene.

They wrenched the men back, politely asking them to leave, and the chestnut boy went to assist the victim left on the floor.

"Hey, are you alright?" Lennon crutched his shoulder, signaling him to look up. He inhaled sharply when he recognized his face. "Cal?"

"He pushed my girl," one of the men accused.

"I bumped into her... for God's sake," Cal retorted, words slurring and palm against his forehead.

Viana appeared over Lennon's shoulder a minute late. "Lennon, get him to the backroom, would ya?"

"He's not going anywhere!" the man raged, struggling against the restraints around him. He smashed the bottle in his hand down hard and an ensemble of screams ripped through the crowd.

Fractured glass ricocheted across the floor and a shard scraped across Lennon's forearm, leaving a gash. He gasped, pain branching across his arm like lighting.

Viana came to his defense immediately. "You're banned," she gritted out, coming face to face with the man, "Get out."

Lennon kept his eyes screwed shut, jumping slightly when someone touched his wrist.

"Who... are you?" Cal asked, eyes squinting.

The chestnut boy couldn't tell if he was drunk or if he genuinely did not recognize the bartender. "Lennon," he replied briskly, lifting Cal's arm to hook it around his neck for leverage. He didn't dare glance at his wound, instead focusing on Cal's well-being. "Let's get you out of here."

The back room was lined with aprons and lockers, and Lennon guided him onto the bench before grabbing him a glass of water.

"Drink."

Cal took a sip before making a face of pure disgust. "Get me some alcohol, Lenny."

"Nope," he refused, ignoring the dull sting of his injury, "You don't need any more in your system. What happened out there?"

"God." Cal leaned into Lennon's neck like he was about to pass out. His breath reeked and his words fell under a whisper. "I love Cumulus clouds."

"Hm?"

"Sky..."

"Okay," the chestnut boy said nervously, pushing him off and steadying him by the shoulders, "You're clearly out of it right now." He gave it one last shot. "What happened back there, Cal?"

Cal ran his tongue along his inner cheek and collapsed into his hands, groaning softly. "Can't see."

"What do you mean?"

"Near-sighted. Can't see."

A frown pulled at Lennon's mouth. He had no recollection whatsoever of Cal wearing any glasses. "Are you wearing contacts?"

"Nope." Cal began his little onslaught of giggling and hiccuping. "Broke my glasses a few months ago... didn't bother getting new ones. Couldn't see clearly... bumped into someone..."

"You should. You could've hurt yourself out there."

"Lennon, Christ." Viana's head poked around the door frame. "Your arm. Are you okay?"

It wasn't until then that Lennon found the courage to look down at the wound. It wasn't deep enough for blood to trickle uncontrollably down his arm, but it was a horrible sight nonetheless.

"We have bandages? First aid kit?"

"Yeah but not big enough for that."

Lennon sucked air through gritted teeth. "It's okay. Just give me the ones we have. I have gauze bandages at home."

Viana fetched him the first aid box and the chestnut boy felt pathetic, wincing while cleaning the cut and patching up his wound with small bandaids fit for children's paper cuts.

"Go home," she told him afterward, "I'd take you home myself but I have the rest of this shift to cover." She nudged her head towards Cal, who was slumped against a locker. "And I'll get someone to send this fella home too."

Lennon expressed his thanks and made his way out of the bar, eardrums ringing more than usual.

The walk back to his apartment complex wasn't ideal. He wasn't in the right state to admire his surroundings or absorb the city sounds. On the contrary, he was dizzy with the sight of blood and exhausted to the bone. The cold seeped through the fabric of his blazer and nibbled at his skin.

In fact, he was so worn out, it took him till his fingers fondled with his keys to realize that him— Lennon Curio, who devoted his blood, sweat and tears to photography— had left his camera behind.

Lennon cursed loudly, banging his head against the door in frustration. He got a loud meow in return.

Dragging his heavy body into the living room, he collapsed onto the couch, an arm and a leg dangling off the edge as he fished for his phone.

He needed to call Viana.

Tell her he lost his...

He lost his...

His camera...

Lennon's eyes fluttered shut before he could dial the number, head lolling to the side and thumb hovering over the screen.

A fond pair of yellow eyes surfaced from under the coffee table. Socks took the leap, joining the boy on the couch and sniffing along his arm. It sat there for a few moments, unblinking.

The lace-curtained window was around a meter off the ground, but Socks made it easily, using its petite head to push it open the hatch before dropping to the ground outside the apartment.

Out to find a certain ghost.