Never Meant To Cut So Deep
Gilbert woke to a crippling thirst and a head which felt swollen twice its usual size. He cracked open an eyelid from the side of his face that was not pressed into a thin, shapeless pillow and found that he was in a darkened room lying on a sizeable bed. He was also naked save for the bedcovers tangled around his body.
His gaze flitted over the contents on a side table; an ashtray, a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, half empty, and some stray packets of condoms. He shut his eyes, blinked them open, and made to struggle out of the stifling covers when a voice called to him, "Don't move."
He tilted up and looked to the foot of the bed. He caught sight of the man he had allowed to seduce him the night before; a tall, broad-shouldered guy with an accent and a long, ridiculous scarf, who sat now in a chair with his feet propped up on the bed and a large sketchbook propped against his knees. He was wearing the scarf wound loose around his neck with the ends tossed over his shoulders, and a pair faded, loose-fitting jeans stained with paint and frayed at the hems.
Ivan, he half-remembered. That's his name.
He flopped back down with a groan, bringing his hand to his face. He swallowed and licked his lips, and found his dry, swollen tongue to provide all the comfort of sandpaper.
"Water," he rasped.
Ivan set down his sketchbook and charcoal pencil as he got up to pad into the bathroom. Gilbert could hear him run the tap before he re-emerged with a full glass of water, walking around the side of the bed to offer it to him. As he drew close, Gilbert almost snatched the glass from him. He drank from it in big, greedy gulps, the water spilling from the corners of his lips to dribble down his chin. Ivan returned to his seat at the end of the bed, and he picked up his sketchbook and pencil once more.
Feeling much less like reanimated death and all the better for it, Gilbert set the glass aside, settled himself against the headboard, and took a better look around him.
They were in a small studio apartment, with a floor-to-ceiling window to his left and the blinds drawn against the afternoon glare. On his right, there were art canvases of various sizes and differing levels of completion stacked against the wall, as well as an empty easel and a spindly table with a tall vase of sunflowers. The room split at the end into the bathroom and the kitchenette. He could see that the breakfast counter was littered with art materials; tubes of paint beside a heap of colourfully-stained rags, and clusters of paint brushes set in recycled pickle jars filled with turpentine.
"You some kind of artist?" he asked a little redundantly.
Ivan turned a page in his sketchbook and drew his pencil across a fresh sheet of paper. "Something like that," he said.
There was a pause.
"So what're you drawing?"
"Why, you."
"Can I see?"
Ivan scratched in a few final lines before handing his sketchbook over to him. Gilbert twisted it round and stared at a charcoal image of himself – all high nose and bed-tousled hair, with a few faint traces across his torso marking his scars.
"Very handsome," he said approvingly.
He made to hand the drawing back to Ivan, but fumbled and dropped the book with a muffled smack, the loose pages flying out to scatter all over the bed.
"Ah, shit!" Gilbert cursed as he scrambled to gather all he could reach. Ivan leapt up to do the same, plucking back his sketchbook.
When he was sure that they have caught all the stray papers, Gilbert fanned out the ones in his hands and ran his eyes idly through them. Quite a few of the sketches were of one particular woman, he noticed, or a very pretty man…
Ivan snatched the papers from him, looking more than a little flustered, his eyes avoiding Gilbert's. As Gilbert watch him stuff the sketches back into his book, he felt a grin slowly forming on his lips.
"Who was that?" he asked, his smirk seeping into his voice.
"No one," Ivan said automatically, in a tone that anyone who knew him would take for a warning. But Gilbert did not know him and only pressed recklessly on.
"Someone out of your league?"
Ivan finished cramming the papers back into his book and he looked up hollowly at Gilbert.
"Something like that," he said quietly.
Gilbert took the hint to shut up this time.
His eyes remained cold and the smile he had fixed to his lips did little to ease Gilbert, but the hand gliding uphis arm was warm and gentle, and the lips seeking his were soft.
Gilbert allowed Ivan to kiss and taste him, and accepted his probing tongue into his mouth, sucking a little at it with loud, smacking sounds as Ivan's fingers combed into his hair, gently cradling the back of his head. Then suddenly he tightened his grip, tightened it hard enough to hurt and tear, and Gilbert let out an indignant yelp of pain as their lips tore apart.
Ivan descended on Gilbert with a new urgency, his mouth trailing down the side of Gilbert's jaw and neck as he alternated kisses with quick, little nips of his teeth. Gilbert sat curving bodily into Ivan's grip, eyes watering and breath ragged as his own hands clawed at Ivan's, willing him to loosen his hold. It hurt, but the pain was mixing deliciously with the sensation of Ivan suckling at his neck, and he felt himself quickly turned on, his groans tinged with more than a hint of pleasure.
"Such an honest body you have," Ivan said, his hot breath ghosting over the wet, angry bruise he had left on Gilbert's skin. He gestured towards Gilbert's naked arousal to indicate what he meant.
Gilbert squirmed with want, with need, his muscles taut and flexing with tension, and oh his body simply begged to be touched, but he was not going to give Ivan the satisfaction of hearing him plead.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" he wheezed.
Ivan let out a light, ringing laugh.
"I've heard worse."
Entry for Day 3 of the 30 Days Of Writing A Drabble A Day (Or Whatever) Challenge.