The sun shining red in the blue sky above, he longs for the embrace of the moon, his one true love.
He'd asked her to write on his skin, anything she wanted. She'd been tempted, to the point of giggling, to paint 'fuck' over and over on his shoulder blades.
But this wasn't something to be taken lightly. No, he wanted to become her art. He'd wanted to become something pure, abstract. He understood the blockage she was in, the wall in her mind. He'd hoped to clear it.
So she took a paintbrush, dipped in cerulean paint, and wrote those words on his back, the elegant cursive like a tattoo on his alabaster skin.
"You're not writing anything vulgar, are you?" Andrew said quietly, trying not to ruin the precious peace that had settled over them.
Allison smirked. "Would I ever do such a thing?" She painted a tree, in ochre. "Don't answer that."
He bit back a laugh, but continued to stay still. "Is it helping?"
"Yes, but I'm not done yet."
The tree had been the final touch for the landscape, for in the hour and a half that had passed she'd painted an owl, a river complete with riverbank, and a dark skyline.
"For all I know you could be painting elegant dicks on my back."
Allison snorted and rinsed the brush, this time dipping it in silver. "Nope, just moonbeams and life."
"Life?" He shuddered, and Allison glanced at the open window, the chilly night air had finally crept in, like a monster. She watched as his back became covered in goosebumps, the lightest parts of her creation noticeably raised, no longer solid as a whole, and she frowned, but continued painting anyway.
"Life, as in nature, Andrew." Allison whispered, watching as the moon she had painted began to dry. She leaned forward, near Andrew's face, and kissed him lightly, her tongue tracing the outline of his lips.
Andrew made a small whimpering noise, eager to taste her mouth. She granted him entrance, and he moaned, savoring the taste of Coke and what was uniquely Allison.
Before he could move any further, she pulled back, smiling at him. "I don't want you moving too much. You'll ruin it."
Andrew laughed and sighed. "Fine. But you can't do that to me, Alli, it's unbearable."
Allison got up to close the window, and laid next to Andrew, their faces inches from each other. "But you like it."
Andrew closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his back rising and falling, expanding the words. "You know me too well."
Allison watched as he drifted off, minute by minute, his mouth slowly falling open, his warm mint breath gently washing over her face. His eyelids fluttered and his brow bunched; he was sleeping. An hour and a half of laying still had taken its toll.
She got up and grabbed the Polaroid from her desk drawer, and straddled his legs, aiming the camera at his back. It was intimate for her, knowing he'd let her do this. The paint, the silence. It was what their time together always felt like: just one big stretch of intimacy. And they barely touched.
She snapped the photo, and vigorously shook the picture, eager to see her work on film. It finally showed, and she smiled. It was perfect.
The moonbeams coming from the window had illuminated his back perfectly, giving her painting a sort of soft, aesthetic edge.
Andrew stirred when she had put the camera away and started cleaning his back with a warm soapy towel.
"Did it work?" He said, and she finished cleaning him before she answered.
"Yes." He turned over and she held up the picture, his eyes wide in amazement.
"It turned out beautiful." He held out his arms, and she gladly embraced him, laying on his chest, careful not to crush him. She wasn't heavy by any means, but you could never be too careful.
She kissed his neck and he sighed, relaxed with her in his arms.
The sun has what he needs: the moon in his embrace, and she bathes him in her precious beams.