Albert's cheeks turn a little pink at the memory, at the way Arthur looks at him, and he wants to look anywhere but the other man. But he can't pull his gaze away as Arthur speaks so frankly to him.

"I think I may have made myself seem like quite the victim, forced to photograph women and their misbehaving offspring and their bored husbands." He says with a little bit of a smile. After all, for as much as he says he hates portraiture, he was quick enough to capture Arthur's likeness.

A likeness that photography can do no justice to. A still image can do nothing to portray the vitality of the man, the easy swagger, the drawl of his words that fills Albert's veins with warmth. A photograph can't explain the safety one feels in another's company, or the ache in him when he thinks about living on without Arthur Morgan riding about the world, nor can it explain how much Albert longs to kiss him.

The thought somehow springs into being without any input from his brain, his heart singing out for it, his body a slave to those baser desires, and so he brushes his lips against Arthur's, just as he realises it may well be a terrible mistake.