Title taken from Without Me by Years & Years.
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Follow the Marks You Left;;
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Seeing him is like getting struck by lightning.
No, maybe not lightning, more like a pointillist dotting precise pressure points along his spine, between his shoulder blades, raising the hairs at the back of his neck. Barry sits at one end of the bar, two fingers spinning around an empty bottle of beer while the bartender chats with a costumer at the other end—and his entire thing clashes with this sunken hole-in-the-wall dive; the black slacks, crisp clean white shirt, sleeves bunched up right above his elbows, a few buttons loosened at the collar, a complete picture of a man in stark contrast with where he is. The Hole is an unimaginative place, never filled yet somehow continually crowded, the bartender at odds with the active ebb and flow of people. All he's missing is a waistcoat and he'd belong in a high-end fashionable establishment, not this dump people frequent for convenience sake.
The head of blond hair at the other end of the bar turns and catches him staring; he blinks out of his artsy stupor, heat diffusing in his cheeks. It happens more often than not, coated in his (capital A) artist persona, as Iris likes to put it, he could see the beauty in leafless trees, garbage by the side of the road, a man out of place and pace with his surroundings.
"Another drink?" a rusty voice idles closer, a hand taking his empty beer bottle.
"I don't really drink," he confesses, looking up to find two bright blue eyes fixed on him, a full smile and those same eyes giving him a quick once-over, up and down, while the dot dot dot where his shoulders and neck meet intensifies. He swallows hard, his own eyes tracing brush strokes over the other man's face, light freckles dusted along the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, the subtle hint of stubble, pretty features for a man who must be a few years his senior.
The bartender smirks, "You've come to the wrong place", wiping a wet cloth over his section of the dark oak counter.
"My roommates kicked me out."
"They having girls over?"
When he snorts it's not so much over the thought of Caitlin willfully setting foot in the loft, rather than Cisco mustering the courage to invite Lisa upstairs. He scratches behind his ear. "No, I've been driving them crazy."
"Finals," the bartender concludes, a distinct lack of a question mark at the end of the phrase.
His eyebrows rise, before the other man disarms him with a smile. People fall in love with smiles like those. "You have that fresh student desperation about you," the man says, then points at his fingers. "Art student?"
"Not lately," he sighs, staring at the red and blue paint smudges he'd been unable to scrub off before Ronnie quite literally showed him the door. For the past week or so he'd been running around the loft in circles in an attempt to stir up some creativity; all in vain, as it turned out, and both Cisco and Ronnie got fed up with him being around 24/7. They'd instructed him to go unwind, get drunk, and not be home before either of them was. And since he'd somehow lost his imagination, what better place than the bar across the street?
He shrugs. "Kinda lost my muse."
It was stress, pure and simple. He could work under pressure, he could work on a deadline, but he could do little actual work with his inspiration fled to more fertile grounds. He had about a week to finish his project, with little more to show for it than the materials he bought at the store gathering dust.
"And you thought you'd find it in a dive bar?" The bartender offers him a sympathetic smile, vaguely reminiscent of the good old saying how bartenders make great therapists, softly sifting through his apprehension about coming here in the first place; it's nice to get away from the art supplies and lack of inspiration. A change of scenery might've been exactly what he needed.
He draws in a breath, arms folded on top of the bar as he hoists out of his chair a little, grinning giddily. "You clean up pretty nice for a dive bar."
The bartender's breathing stutters to a momentary halt, while his confidence stutters out of him in straight unimaginative lines. His eyes fall shut mere seconds after the words paint the distance between them. You clean up nice? Did he lose his game too?
Did he have game?
He covers a hand over his face, sinking back down in his chair. "I'm sorry, I'm–"
"It's fine." The other man recovers. "I'm flattered."
Somehow he finds the bravery to peek through his fingers, but when he does he finds the bartender wholly preoccupied with making a drink. His hand falls away from his face. He hadn't heard anyone place an order; is he getting ignored after that embarrassing attempt at flirting?
He can't seem to look away though, the man's hands moving swiftly between three bottles –Grand Marnier, tequila and orange juice–, all poured into a silver container, a couple of ice cubes before the lid goes onto the cocktail shaker and a rhythmic shhk shhk shhk mixes all the ingredients together.
Out comes a deep orange liquid curling precipitously into a highball glass, finished with a layer of yellow grenadine.
And it's a work of art if ever he saw one.
The bartender slides the drink over to him.
"What's this?"
Mischief teases at a corner of the other man's mouth. He winks. "For inspiration."
Left a little breathless he studies the glass more closely, how the colors don't blend, they don't even seem to touch, but simply become the other somewhere in the transition between yellow and orange. It's like a sunrise in a shot glass, a piece of the bottled rise and set that peeks over the horizon.
He's almost afraid to drink it. What's the point of temporary art when it's not admired for a while?
So he takes his time.
It's another half hour until midnight –his self-imposed curfew after he'd been kicked out– and he doesn't see the point in trying to get back in until that time. Ronnie would more than likely sleep over at Caitlin's, but if Cisco's home he's sure to be kicked out again.
Though he wonders if that would still apply should he bring anyone home with him.
He almost chokes on his sip of tequila as the thought occurs, splattering itself on the inside of his ribcage, but he can't stop his eyes from wandering to this oddity of a man: a high-end bar might be more his pace, there'd be jazz music playing rather than Uptown Funk and he'd be able to serve these colorful cocktails more often. Hell, he'd probably have an audience.
Would his world come down crashing if he asked the bartender back to his place? Is he the kind of guy who does that? Tonight he wants to be, he wants to act artless and without caution, and even if he were to get a no at least he'd know he tried. He's already certain he won't be uninspired for much longer.
Instead of any questions though, he lets the next half hour wade in secret fantasy, of the body beneath that crisp white shirt, so white, of the tease of a hipbone that would show once he eased that shirt from the man's pants, loosened his belt and pulled the zipper down, how heavy he'd feel in the palm of his hand.
He opens his legs for a little more space to breathe.
The bar slowly empties as the clock inches closer to 1am, costumers trickling out in groups of two or three, like paint dripping along a blank canvas. Everyone leaves, but the bar tints towards the bright anticipation of being alone with the man behind it. It's not unlike watching paint dry, the first hint of matte on the outside—a premature promise of the finished product, an empty bar; then the slow chemical process of evaporation—the bartender watching him from a corner of his eye, waiting, anticipating his next move.
"You need me to call you a cab?" the bartender calls, testing the nature of his sticking around.
"I've had two drinks." He rubs at the back of his neck, the dots there transmuting into raging splashes, a gestural abstraction of his wanton desire. "Besides, I live across the street."
The bartender cracks a smile and tosses him a wet rag and a towel. "Make yourself useful then, Finals."
He chuckles, the rag falling to his left hand, but decides to do exactly as he's told. He'll work for it if he has to, if he has to stay for another hour or two, even if he's sent home packing afterwards.
He can't face another uninspired sleepless night.
Shrugging out of his jacket he gets to work; while he cleans the tables and chairs the bartender remains behind the bar, cleaning used glasses and the bar itself, taking out the empty kegs beneath it. He trades empty glasses and bottles for smiles and the occasional "Thanks", and sweeps the floor, the bartender coming to his aid hoisting all the chairs upside down on the tables.
It's near 2am before they settle next to each other at the bar, two adjacent stools, and his right knee knocks into the bartender's left—two fresh beers, the last of the night, perspire on coasters. He takes a quick swig, letting the beer flow bitterly over the back of his tongue, and gives his eyes leave to taste around a backlit profile; spikey blond hair, a light slope to his forehead, nose a straight line, then thin lips that make his itch for a kiss. Another button has loosened on the man's shirt, revealing a dusty coat of hair over tanned skin, and his mouth waters.
He'd be disappointed if after all this he'd be forced to leave empty-handed.
"I haven't seen you here before," he says, eyes skipping back down at the bar, thumb prying loose the label of his beer. He's not sure how to go about this; the few times he'd ended up in bed with people he barely knew he hadn't been the first to show an interest. Lisa's brother, Leonard, had kissed him first while snow knitted into their hair, and they'd spent one heated night and day fogging up all the windows; and that one drunk thing he had with Cisco it'd been his friend initiating everything that followed.
He's not someone who could look at a blank canvas once and start painting—he made a careful plot outline for every step, imagined the colors and mixed them carefully before applying, and still had to start over somewhere else sometimes.
Right now, he's exactly where he needs to be, he has all the supplies, but he can't see the artwork yet.
"It's a friend's place," the bartender replies. "I'm taking care of it for him."
"He okay?"
"Sprained ankle."
He swallows down another swig, his stomach bottoming with a foretaste of what might come as the bartender's mouth wraps around the lip of his beer bottle. "What do you do?" He licks his lips, chasing the remnants of foam and delayed pleasure.
"I'm a cop," the bartender says, "A detective, actually."
He blinks. Colors shift and rearrange, the image of a waistcoat replaced by a holster and a gun, a black tie added and a notepad, and a cold flash rushes up his spine; he could paint this man seven ways to Sunday and it would look different every time. "Where'd you learn to make cocktails?"
"A guy needs his hobbies." The bartender chuckles softly, and holds out his right hand. "Eddie Thawne."
He shakes the man's hand. "Barry Allen."
For the next ten minutes they sit drinking their beers, while the headlights of the cars that pass outside play bronze shadows over Eddie's face—they simply look at each other, no words exchanged, but Eddie's left knee falls against his right and stays there. There's no rush, no grating hurry to their movements. He won't leave alone tonight. That leaves him all the time in the world.
Grabbing his jacket they make their way out the front of the bar, Eddie locking the doors and pulling down the security shutters, fastening them to the pavement with a heavy padlock. Night's soft and quiet around them, post-impressionist, the sky bold and dramatic while down here between them a landscape of possibility stretched rife with color—pastels and shadow play, honey squash spice.
Eddie pockets his keys and regards the vacant sidewalk around them, the streets abandoned at this hour. "Across the street, right?" Eddie asks, inching a step closer, his eyes sweeping along his lips.
He nods in the small space afforded him, nearly unprepared when Eddie steps forward and presses his lips to his, a quick and too short taste of more to come—his lips had longed near two hours for this, for the taste of beer on the other man's lips, the taste of his skin that's yet to follow, the taste of sweat and come and spit.
Eddie pulls back, his shirt white, so white, such crisp blond hair even in the rust of the streetlights and for a moment or two his breath hitches in his throat, thinking, sunshine –the tequila, the grenadine, Eddie's summery freckles– Eddie looks like sunshine.
Sunset, now.
He skips across the street with Eddie close behind, keys at the ready as they ascend three flights of stairs. He's lived here with Cisco for two years, a significant step up from the shitty two-bedroom dump they rented freshmen year, Ronnie an addition they made a year ago to stifle the costs of living large. Cisco argued he needed the space for his drawing boards, his gaming consoles, and they needed a bathroom that didn't have them knocking something over every two seconds; he, in turn, required room for all his art supplies, and the largest bedroom in the loft afforded him plenty.
It'd been a fixer-upper, but between Cisco's architectural skills and his grease paints, they'd made it into something decent.
He opens the door, met with a fiery red glow falling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Ronnie's bike is gone and Cisco's nowhere in sight; he couldn't have planned it better himself. He lets Eddie push ahead, and locks the door again behind them—they live in a bad neighborhood and he's too poor to get his things stolen. At least he's with a cop.
"Your room?" Eddie points at a bedroom door across from them, tucked in a corner of the loft where most of the light can reach inside—there may be more than a few paint smudges on and around the handle of the sideways sliding door. He can't always bother cleaning his hands when he runs to the kitchen for water.
He nods, and follows Eddie to his room. It isn't much; his bed stands off center against the back wall, a wardrobe squeezed in next to it, the rest of the room entangled in chaos—there's newspapers on the floor so as not to stain the floorboards, two large tables stacked with jars of paint water, jars with brushes, empty and half-empty coffee mugs, stacks of papers, all kinds of glues, cans of paints under, on top and next to the tables. There's a system, he knows exactly where everything is, but a stranger might not think so.
There's a large easel by the window, currently lacking a canvas, and a smaller one behind it, where another one of his projects has been drying for a few weeks—one can never be too safe with oil paint.
But the centerpiece of the room, the Big Project he hoped to finish sometime this week, is the second-hand life-sized dummy standing free in the corner. Still as white as Eddie's shirt.
"A project I'm– failing to complete," he explains, even though Eddie hadn't asked. He drapes his jacket unceremoniously over the back of a chair, and closes his bedroom door. The promise tonight holds scintillates along his nerve endings as he approaches Eddie, one hand sliding deep into a pocket of his pants while the other reaches timidly across the distance, hooks around one of Eddie's belt loops, and urges the other man closer to him—he's done the work, he wants the reward.
Eddie laughs, somewhat breathless, his hands settling along his hips. Such a stainless smile. Such bright blue eyes. He could paint those eyes and never approximate the color, no matter what pigments he mixes, no matter the solvents he uses. He reaches up and sweeps the pad of his thumb along Eddie's lower lip, watching a breath hitch along the column of his throat. Their mouths meet again, tongue and lips and a little bit of teeth, and Eddie doesn't taste like beer at all—there's mint and tangerine and the coarse slip slide of his stubble, Eddie's mouth hot and greedy. His other hand cups Eddie's face too and he traces every detail; the shell of Eddie's ear, the curve of his earlobe, leaving fingerprints along the pulse of his jugular. He commits it all to memory, sculpts Eddie's face in his mind's eye, calcite deposits setting in the grain of his fingertips.
His tongue massages Eddie's when he feels the sudden tug of his shirt down his arms, Eddie insistent it comes off—his arms dangle at his sides, shirt sliding down his arms and dropping to the floor. His fingers feel for Eddie blindly, meeting cotton after about an inch of space, whatever buttons left to unbutton giving way at his fingers' insistence. The crisp white shirt joins his on the floor.
Another few kisses are traded back and forth, his teeth sinking into Eddie's lower lip eliciting a moan that leaves pinpricks at the small of his back, a steady dot dot dot unraveling him. He opens his eyes to a half naked body, and for a moment he thinks Eddie Michelangelo's David, one solid mass of Carrara marble in the moonlight, veins bulging on his forearms, poised between conscious choice and action.
Eddie Thawne's a work of art, all the same.
Grabbing back between his shoulderblades he takes off his t-shirt and toes off his shoes, stepping back into Eddie's personal space—he allows his lips to linger shy of Eddie's, lays his hands on top of two strong and broad shoulders, and allows them to caress down flawless skin one painstaking inch at a time. They breathe the same air, but don't kiss, Eddie's hand sliding up around his back, fingers interspersed along his ribs, and they play with the space between their mouths as their bodies settle together pliantly. He could stay like this until the sun comes up, let the morning light catch around their tangled bodies one outline at a time, but his heart jackhammers at his ribcage, his body demands attention below the waist and he's faint thinking up all the scenarios.
Right over Eddie's shoulder, quite unconsciously, he catches sight of the lonesome dummy, want for a splash of color. What if–?
He kisses Eddie again, the back of his eyelids detailing a plot outline so elaborate he can't ignore it.
He pulls back, breathless against Eddie's lips. "Can I paint you?"
"Hell of a time to be inspired." Eddie laughs, but there's nothing disingenuous about the soulful "Sure," that follows.
Without a second thought or doubt he drops to his knees, looking up at Eddie for permission, for this short distraction that might temper his muse, now screaming in his ears.
Eddie nods, raking fingers through his hair.
He helps Eddie step out of his shoes, takes off his socks, eases down his pants' zipper once he unbuckles his belt—pulled so close he sees a vein pulse along Eddie's left hipbone, teasing above the waistband of his pants. He leans in and licks a long wet line over it, feeling it throb along the length of his tongue. Breathing heavy against Eddie's skin he hooks his fingers around the waistband of Eddie's trousers and his boxers, easing it down slim hips and strong thighs, pushing kisses to his groin the entire time.
Eddie's fingers tighten in his hair.
His head tips back, this gorgeous man looming over him, naked and open, trusting him with his body. There've been so few who have and stuck around, fewer still who have inspired him. Len disappeared after a few nights in his bed, chasing his next fix in the next town over, leaving Lisa in Cisco's loving hands. Cisco had been a one-time thing, a drunk thing, because they'd never cross that line again no matter how fondly they remembered that night. Of all the men in his life Harrison had been around the longest, the mentor who taught him everything he knew—he'd been seduced by Harrison's cunning tongue and skillful fingers, his Alexandrian knowledge of art and sculpture, of the past greats and contemporary artists on the rise. They'd spent hours in bed talking, sipping wine, fucking, with the outside world but a blip on their radar.
Yet like many other people in his life he'd left, and he remained behind to pick up the pieces. Harrison Wells had done one hell of a number on him.
Harrison never trusted him like this though; his tall, handsome and all-knowing professor liked to be in control, and would never have relinquished his body, not even in the name of art.
He stands and kisses Eddie, hard and deep, because Harrison Wells ceased to have a place in his life the moment he walked out of it, so he won't waste another thought on him.
"Don't worry," he whispers, "the paints are completely safe."
Looking at Eddie he's struck by the dark of his eyes, pupils blown wide, a sliver of blue playing around a black core. He turns and heads for one of the tables, his paints still lined on top, all in a previous desperate attempt at getting started—he'd wanted the experiment with body paints for a long while now, and when he'd seen the dummy in the storefront window an echo of an idea had sounded, one finally molding into finality.
Eddie bites a few kisses into the back of his neck as he pops the lids off the different cans of paint, sketches of bite marks along his shoulders that almost stop him in his tracks, that near have him turning around and pin Eddie down onto the bed, stretch him wide open with one, two, three fingers until he has him begging.
Instead he mangles his hands into latex gloves and dips his index finger deep into blue paint, watching the excess flow from the tip of his finger as if his own body were spilling it. He turns in Eddie's arms, stealing another few kisses, before regarding Eddie's naked body.
Where to apply?
He's been painting his whole life—from the finger-paint smeared at odd intervals along the walls of his childhood home, to the backsplash in the kitchen here in the loft, he's used oil paint and acrylics, watercolors and alkyds, but this he starts with shaking fingers, lacks the vision of where to add which color. Maybe the art lies in its inarticulation, in the divine sense of almost, the imperceptible hint of Mona Lisa's smile, the impalpability of Michelangelo's Creation of Adam, the poetry of an implied word.
Yet once he does, once his paint-cooled fingers breach the almost and he sweeps a thick blue line right below Eddie's collarbone, it all becomes crystal clear. Eddie captures his mouth and sucks at his lips. "Don't stop now," he mutters, voice lowering a few octaves—he can't stop himself from pushing his tongue past Eddie's teeth again, Eddie's skin pasting a mirrored blue line along his own collarbone. He's not generally into becoming the subject of his own artwork, but he can work around this. If Eddie trusts him with his body, he should give him a reason.
Each of his fingers becomes a different color –lavender, gold, pink– each dipped inside a different can, his gloves replaced when the colors mix where he doesn't want them to, white, mint green and orange dabbed in an incohesive pattern all down Eddie's front, and all down Eddie's back. Eddie's body becomes his canvas from which he creates, a straight chocolate line down to his bellybutton, a purple one down his groin, three others marking a made-up flag in the small of his back. His breathing deepens along with Eddie's, the few kisses they exchange serving to turn himself into a work of art, dirty his pants, but the skim of the palm of Eddie's hand over his crotch spins him artless.
He doesn't allow any colors to blend, not yet, so each stroke loses coordination and precision because they don't need any. It's beautiful in its spontaneity; the dips along Eddie's shoulders red, a yellow one over one his nipples and by the time he's done, by the time he snaps off his latex gloves and tosses them aside, Eddie's hard and needy, and he gets hard simply looking at him. A work of art.
It's exactly how he imagined it would be on the dummy, Eddie lathered in lines of paint, one thicker than the other, some drying, others attempting to crawl down his skin. Yet somehow it's not finished. Not yet. They're not done. He has Michelangelo's David but the clay hasn't set, he's yet to rub out cracks and smooth the edges, and–
The bed looms behind Eddie. White sheets. Freshly washed. Too white.
He licks over Eddie's lips, parting for him like they've only ever been taught this one thing—Eddie palms circles over his crotch and he can't for the life of him figure out how he ended up here; Ronnie and Cisco meant for him to unwind, not find inspiration in the least likely of places.
He backs Eddie up against the bed, panic rising in the other man's eyes. "Barry, your sheets."
"Yeah," he breathes. They're too white, too pristine; he wants to muddy them up with their bodies, their come and their sweat but most of all his paints. He wants to paint the sheets with something of their making—not just his.
He unbuttons his jeans and steps out of them, his boxers following suit. His eyes draw down to Eddie's cock.
He's done the work.
He's earned his reward.
Once realization dawns in Eddie's eyes he doesn't hesitate scooting back on the bed, dabbing paint along the 200 thread count, bringing his vision to life on the cheapest sheets he owns. He quickly retrieves condoms and lube from the bedside table, before he crawls onto the bed and straddles Eddie's lap, his thighs and Eddie's hips smattering together orange, black in places. Ripping at a wrapper with his teeth he rolls a condom over Eddie's hard-on, repeating the same for him—the paints are safe as can be, but he can't be sure how they mix with bodily fluids. Better safe than sorry.
Eddie sits up and captures his lips, and he hastens to find perch, to curve his back and account for their height difference, one hand landing behind him, the other in the paint on Eddie's shoulder, white, blue and lavender. Their cocks rub together rhythmless, but their mouths prove too preoccupied to care—he could do this, only this, until they have to part ways.
He finds a balance and lets his free hand wander up Eddie's leg, scratch at his thigh, but the itch gets to be too bad—he longs to make fantasy a reality, another request poised on the tip of his tongue, bit at playfully by Eddie. He laughs against Eddie's lips, "Can I– Can I fuck you?"
The only response he gets comes in the form of Eddie letting gravity take hold, lying back against the sheets, allowing him to hover on all fours. He pastes a handprint by the side of Eddie's head, settling in between his strong thighs, blue and yellow making green. There's no rush, no grating hurry to their movements—Eddie squirts some lube onto his fingers, one of the few body parts still paint free and tests a tentative first caress, and another, before easing a first knuckle inside. Whatever preferences Eddie has he's more relaxed than any other of his other bed partners, so trusting, so he pushes a finger inside all at once, curling it at the end.
"Oh God–" Eddie's back arches off the bed and his neck cranes, a vivid contrapposto, more sensitive than anyone he's ever been with—maybe it's the anticipation that's led up to this moment, maybe Eddie does this all the time. He doesn't really care. Red and blue have made purple below Eddie's shoulders, a streak of gold below his neck and he lathers a bruise where he crashes their mouths together. He could taste red and he wouldn't mind, Eddie could leave permanent bite marks and he'd welcome them, trace them with careful fingertips in the morning, wear them proudly.
He adds another finger, Eddie clenching beautifully around him, his body trashing left to right in a mad dash for sanity—he draws his fingers in and out, Eddie's legs draped over his thighs, where they've pigmented maroon and violet between them and every second that passes Eddie spins into a bigger mess, a greater spectrum of colors than his eyes have ever seen, erasing white and replacing it with something of their making. Their creation.
"Barr–" Eddie pants, losing any further coherency.
"Yeah." He brings their foreheads together, and pushes inside, pausing so they can both find their bearings. There's a mad scratch at the small of his back when he tangles one of his hands with Eddie's, when Eddie nips bites along his jawline and locks his ankles together around his back, when all he can see and feel is Eddie and color and paint and the sunset, and it's all a bit much. His passion never met his desires before. Not like this.
"Let me turn around," Eddie whispers, no doubt meaning to paint the sheets further with all the color spread incoherently over his chest.
"No," he breathes, "No. Want you like this."
He tilts his hips, and he thrusts inside, Van Gogh's vibrant skies opening up in his chest, one of Monet's water lilies blooming where their lips meet, their hands clutching at the sheets like they're canvas that might audibly crumple in their grasp, again, and again—Eddie's thighs create cobalt and indigo and teal, his lips down Eddie's neck magenta, Eddie's palm prints at his back a deep cerulean blue, guiding his hips in their easy rhythm. He loses all sense of self buried deep in an enigma of unsaturated colors, more colors than the human eye has ever beheld—they breathe as one, as each other's only, pasting kisses across the distance.
Neither of them lasts long; Eddie pulls off the condom and comes whispering his name, coats his chest with come, mixing viscous with the paint still on his chest and it's enough of a sight to make him climax deep inside Eddie, to collapse on top of the entire spectrum of colors, visible and invisible.
Strong arms wind around his shoulders and keep him in place as come and sweat and body paint slowly mix together—the cop and the Artist, he wonders what they've been sculpted into, what the sheets will become once all the materials set, what their bodies look like entangled like this. Rodin's The Kiss. Laocoön and his Sons. Michelangelo's Prisoners.
Eddie cards fingers through his hair, they shift enough to lose themselves in kisses, but they don't detach. Not once.
No pointillist ever blended colors. Each dot consisted of its primary color, secondary and tertiary colors created in a game of light and dark, an optical illusion in the play between each dot, a trade between the art and the beholder's eye. Up close a million distinct dots. From a distance a trick.
He never did learn to appreciate art from afar.
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fin
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