Hullo! I am pleased that those of you who reviewed liked my story, more or less. I also got feedback from some of you, which was lovely too! All of you are lovely. I hope you enjoy this part, and that your Veteran's Day festivities were fantastic, if you celebrate that holiday. Let us venture again into the unknown together!
Reds Like Bloods and Blues Like Sky
Chapter Two: Mauve Shame
Emrys is a fucking painter.
Mordred hates painters.
He's the kind of person who wants to press a lit cigarette into the arm of a painter and say "Good luck finding a doctor to fix that up with your salary. Get a real job, asshole."
This is also something he has neglected to share with his therapist.
But like every other rule Mordred has painstakingly set up in his life, Emrys tears it down with cheery abandon and dances happily on its grave. Mordred walks in on him one time, completely by accident (shit, he's touching his neck again-FINE, it was on purpose, happy now?) as he's in one of the art classrooms. He's got paint in his hair and on his face, curving down one ear, somehow on his fucking ass. He looks like he just sat down in a pool of it and rolled around like a fucking toddler.
"Er," says Mordred, because he is fucking articulate and should become a professional diplomat.
"Oh, hullo," says Emyrs. There is yellow on his cheek. 'Sunshine,' thinks a small mortifying part of Mordred, and he feels his face going red.
"Er," he says again. Fuck, really? "S-sorry. I didn't know you were-bathing. In paint. I'll just... go. Sorry."
BATHING in PAINT? What the FUCK?!
"Oh, don't apologize," says Emrys, his eyes twinkling like they're sharing some sort of secret. "I just like to come here and get all my thoughts out. See?" He gestures to the wall.
"Those aren't thoughts. That's paint," he says flatly, and then realizes that he is achieving a new level of fuck-up in this conversation. He should get a medal.
"You're right," Emrys says, arching an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth at the same time in a motion that seems way more sexy than it has any right to. "Wow. I never realized."
"S-sorry," he says lowly, almost grinding his teeth together in his frustration. "That was stupid."
"Yes, a bit," says Emrys, grinning. "C'mere."
'He wants me to GO THERE!' he thinks shrilly, then has a moment of realization, condemns his girly subconscious to hell, and takes awkward, shuffling steps until he's standing beside Emrys, not quite touching but almost.
"Grief," Emrys says, taking his hand and pointing with it to a deep, pale purple. "Anger." Mordred's hand points to a cold, sharp blue. "Confusion" is a painful burnt orange, "Excitement" is a bubbly green, and underneath all of it is "Happiness", a bright red spread across the whole canvas like a firework.
"Wow," breathes Mordred, and he'd be happy to coexist in the space forever, with Emrys' dextrous fingers and his knowing eyes and teasing grin. It is something incredibly fragile and precious, and like all precious things, Mordred will end up smashing it and picking up the pieces with his bare hands, leaving them blood-streaked and painful. He drops Emrys' hand like it's fire (which it is, warm and encompassing and dangerous, but nothing is sexier than danger with a touch of darkness behind angel eyes).
"It's nothing special," says Emrys modestly. It has to be modest, or he's fucking high. Everything this boy touches is gold. For a sudden, he looks at his own hand, but it's still sullied. So much for that.
"You've got to be a fucking idiot," says Mordred, then clamps a hand over his mouth. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, MORDRED?! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!
"I actually sort-of am one," says Emrys with insanely cheerful self-deprecation and Mordred almost cries.
"No you're not, Jesus christ, I swear I didn't mean it. You're brilliant, absolutely brilliant, and kind, and warm and oooooh, fuck." He ducks his head and pulls his hood over his face in a vain attempt to block out everything.
"Aw, you're cute," says Emrys with a cheeky grin. Mordred has NEVER been called cute, EVER. He feels vaguely dirty, like he fell in a scummy pond.
"Uh," he murmurs, face glowing. He can't decide if this is a step up from 'er', then wonders when it became a matter of keeping score. If it ever was, Emrys has completely decimated him. Taken him to the cleaners, got a discount, and poured bleach in the store clerk's face.
"Not very articulate, are you? Ah, don't get embarrassed! It's fine. Here, take a brush." He offers the coffee can to Mordred, who gingerly picks one like it's going to blow up and singe his eyebrows off. "Great! Now grab some paint and get started!"
Mordred paints for fifteen minutes, realizes suddenly that all he's been painting is a horribly infatuated shade of pink, and then drops the brush like it's Morgana's genitalia.
"Hey," says Emrys mildly. "That was my favorite brush." And NOW Mordred feels like a grade-A douche, because that was Emrys' FAVORITE BRUSH, and he DROPPED it.
"Oh my god, was it really?" he asked in a voice so tiny it couldn't have possibly come from his throat.
"Yeah, it's made of gold and diamonds and everything. And it's been blessed by Saint Thomas Becket himself. It's just a paint brush, Mordred. Don't worry so much."
Mordred feels himself going bright 'Happiness' red all the way to the roots of his hair. The fact that Emrys remembers his name is something he never dared to hope for, because he's just the angry little asshole that sits behind him in their hippie Magic class and composes sonnets about the freckles on the back of his neck. "Sorry," he says again. It isn't lost on him that he's apologized more in the last five minutes than he ever has in his whole fucking life. If that isn't pathetic.
"You're forgiven," says Emrys with an air of mock-seriousness, and Mordred nearly blurts out 'God, I want to ride you like a bicycle.' Instead, he manages an awkward twist of a smile that looks a bit like he's about to vomit.
"Well, uh, thanks. Thank you. For your forgiveness." He realizes how much he fucking fails at banter in that moment, feels his parents beyond the grave laughing hysterically at him. He only thinks of that for a few seconds, though, because Emrys leans forward, his favorite brush in hand, and gently paints a pink stripe along Mordred's nose.
Mordred shrieks at the top of his lungs.
No, that wasn't a misprint.
It's a horror-movie shriek, like he just saw someone with a stabbing knife, and Emrys looks utterly baffled. He drops the brush too, and Mordred leans down to get it, trying to at least make up slightly for his fucking freakdom.
He leans forward too much, and goes facefirst into Emrys' bony (adorable) knees. The other boy completely loses his center of balance and falls on top of Mordred in a sprawling, painful mesh of bone and white-hot embarrassment.
OKAY. THAT IS FUCKING ENOUGH.
He stands up abruptly, probably stepping on Emrys' hands in the progress, but he can't be assed to apologize now. He grabs the paintbrush, sets it on the counter, yells, "HERE IS YOUR FUCKING PAINTBRUSH, NOW TAKE IT AND PAINT SOME MORE FUCKING BRILLIANT ART. I AM GOING TO GO SEE MY CAT AND TALK TO HIM, AND HE WON'T TALK BACK BUT IT DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER, SO GOOD DAY TO YOU."
That prediction is the one thing in his life that goes as planned.