Painting lessons
You found him once asleep on the fire escape; naked and curled in a nest of thick blankets like a fairy tale waiting for you. Like salvation for the world and it would destroy you to wake him, but it felt so good to be destroyed. He smiled when he woke and welcomed you in and you felt your heart burst in your chest and flood down your body, but it was all right. It felt good.
"Pull, Emmett. Pull, pull, pull. It needs to stretch a little more."
"You know, sweetie. When I said I wanted to experience art, I meant more like ... go to a museum, be pretentious in front of a couple of paintings, that sort of thing. Not … this."
"That's not art. That's um. Something else."
"Oh. Well. That's … that's um. Deep, sweetie. Really deep."
"What the fuck are they doing?" Michael's voice is warm against your ears, relaxed and amused in a way he hasn't been in a while and the beer he held out was cold and welcome. You cradled the cool wet bottle between your palms for a while, before drinking.
"Stretching a canvas. Emmett wanted to see what being an artist was like, so Justin's showing him."
"And you're spectating?"
"Naturally. You know I love a good comedy."
You found him once asleep with a wet brush in his hand, his forehead resting against the wet canvas. Muses, apparently, didn't realize the limits of human endurance and pushed at him 'till he fell asleep. And you tried not to laugh when he woke and wore his ideas like war paint, smudged over a bemused and sleepy face. And you kept that painting, too, face plant and all.
Emmett shot you and Mikey both a dirty look, where you lounged on an old warhorse of a couch, watching, while Justin made a strangled noise, deep in his throat.
His voice was tight with control and something else, when he spoke. "Emmett, you just stapled my finger." Ah. Pain. That's what it was.
"Oh my God!" The staple gun dropped from Emmett's suddenly nerveless fingers and every muscle in your body tensed, ready to bear down on the situation and pare away every unnecessary thing. Which was everything but him. You didn't move, though. Not yet. While Emmett fluttered and flustered, you kept a death grip on Michael's arm, fingers digging in to keep him from rushing over. To keep you from rushing over.
"He's done worse," you explain, your voice at odds with the vibrating tension singing through you. Mikey just looked at you, a silent 'OW!' smeared across his indignant face. But you didn't relax until Justin looked over at you and rolled his eyes in exasperation at the nervous birds Emmett's hands had become. And popped the bloody finger into his mouth to suck clean and closed.
"War wounds," he uttered around himself and laughed softly. "It's fine, Em. I'm fine. Don't worry, I've done worse to myself."
"But I made you bleed all over the canvas!"
You found him asleep once in your bed in an odd mish-mash of clothing that you had to get him to explain. He was hot, he mumbled sleepily, so his underwear came off, but not hot enough to take off his tee shirt. But his feet were cold, only he thought he must have lost a sock in bed somewhere, since only one foot was snugged in plush fabric.
"Yeah, I have. Shit." Occasionally, he pulled his finger from his mouth to examine it and it was during one of those examinations that you stretched out a hand, reaching for him, for the finger, unwilling to just sit anymore. This wouldn't give away your tension, your need, your worry. This was just simple concern. When the red welled up and threatened to spill, you popped his finger into your own mouth without thinking, while Justin stared at the minor mess of his canvas and considered.
"It's fine," he finally decided, while you wrinkled your nose at the weird, coppery taste of him. "A couple of coats of gesso should cover it. … What?"
It was then that you finally noticed the odd look you were getting from both Michael and Emmett, wide eyed and staring like you had lost your mind and went and mooned the mayor or something.
"You … Brian, that's … dangerous," Michael was murmuring, soft voice fit for a hospital. "You … both have been tested, right?" Michael with his sweet, soft concern. Justin's finger slipped from your mouth and you wrapped your own around it, putting pressure on the staple bite. The artist shrugged and tipped his head while his acolyte blinked several times, considering.
"Yeah, but we've been barebacking for a few months now. This isn't really a big deal anymore," Justin explained. It wasn't, once you played connect the dots, only Michael wasn't the best at that game. You watched his mind wriggle down the halls of the mental maze and come up flat against a dead end.
"You …! Are you fucking nuts?!"
"I think he means that they're … well. That they're just them, Michael." Emmett was always better at leaps of faith, anyway. Justin nodded absently, already thinking about the canvas again, and reclaimed his finger to poke absently at the puncture.Michael simply stared.
"Holy shit. You mean monogamous?"
"Weirder shit has happened," you quip and sit back with your beer while the artist spares you a moment to flash a grin. All for you. A moment of pure summer sunlight before Emmett's being hauled off to his next lesson involving gesso and staying away from fingers with sharp objects.
And every time you found him, you breathed in a soft breath of relief and life and anchored yourself in him, in his safety, while well meaning storms raged around you. On the fire escape, in war paint, wearing nothing but a sock and a shirt. And it was good.
