Note: I have two excellent specimens of Raven fan art linked at my profile! Huge thanks to SouvenirsFamiliers and Synekodokee for their immense generosity of time and effort in producing art for this fic!
Dancing polarities
"You're going to owe me," Erik says, as he puts the Frontier into park, turns off the windshield wipers, and pulls up the brake. "Coffee for a week and those meth-laced lavender cookies."
The rain has passed back to a more penetrating drizzle. It collects silently on the truck's paint and glass in growing beads until they're large enough to run in silver rivulets down every vertical and sloped surface. The cloud cover has triggered the lights early; the fallen rain sparkles, reflecting the lamplight from all around the garden's parking.
With a twist on the keys, Erik turns the six-cylinder engine off. He pulls the key out and slides his key ring into his olive green raincoat. Erik pulls the hood up out of necessity; he may like rain, but getting soaked will just make him cold, after all. He opens his door into the rain and steps down to the wet asphalt.
The black truck is the only vehicle present in the parking lot. Normally, the Rose Garden is more popular, but Erik suspects the rain and late afternoon hour is keeping people away. It frees him to enjoy the smell of roses, fir trees, and rich, wet earth. Nearby, he hears crows calling to each other.
"This is hardly the worst thing you've done on a Saturday." Raven pulls up the hood on her rain coat and follows him out, splashing in puddles in her purple Wellies with white polka dots.
"Yeah, but you're supposed to be my Shabbos goy," Erik replies as he walks around the truck. "Not the other way around."
In truth, Erik often works on Saturdays, even goes in to the shop to meditate; a habit which leads to cleaning, upgrading the autoclave, or otherwise improving his business. He doesn't feel bad about violating Shabbos; his mother's disapproval and frustration were light in the face of his industriousness. Especially when she'd discovered that he sometimes worked to tease her.
He pulls the tailgate down and reaches in for the collapsible metal canopy frame Darwin loaned Raven on last minute notice. He pulls the frame forward with his off hand in order to avoid stretching the new tattoo on his right. It's a strange feeling to have his still freshly-tattooed skin stick a little to the underside of his t-shirt. It burned during his morning shower, but no worse than his ribs when his blackwork was fresh.
"You're just jealous nobody's done something like this for you," Raven says, snagging the bag with the canopy's vinyl cover. "Though, you know you can always do this for somebody else. The Sentimental Ink photographer was into you."
"Too much work for a one-night stand." Erik takes the metal frame under one arm and heads for the sidewalk that eventually leads to the test garden. On a clear day there's a lovely view of , but that's a rough bet until June.
"That's rich, coming from you," Raven says from beside him. She has her face down, watching the splash of her boots as she hits puddles and sends the wash purposely over Erik's shins and thong-style sandals. If he were wearing shoes he'd have long since wrestled her to the grass and shoved mud down the back of her shirt.
"Is it?" he asks automatically. "You're thinking of setting up at the bench that has the view of ?"
"That's the place. Bench'll be wet, but I brought towels." She switches back to his first, mostly rhetorical question. "And yeah it's rich, because, it's too much work for a one-night stand but here you are helping me."
Erik's pleasant mood falters, but he doesn't miss his step. "We agreed that night was a mistake."
"Better to laugh about it," she replies, as they head up the stairs. "Because sooner or later you might give up the occasional one-night stands for a commitment. And if that happens you'll have to tell somebody we fucked. I had to tell Hank before he and I got serious."
"That won't be a problem." He'd shrug, but the frame makes the effort too much of a burden. "Is that why I've never met Hank? Territorial pissings?"
"Pffft! No." Raven chuckles. They're almost up the last flight of stairs. "He was a nervous wreck before and after meeting my brother and Charles is capable of being one hell of a charmer. No, Hank needs exposure to you a little bit at a time to build his immunity. Once we move in together, I think that'll be more doable."
"You're going to have to buy a car, if you move to Corvallis." Erik sets the canopy frame down by the bench and starts pulling the legs out to expand it. Raven's plan of a slow introduction suits him just fine. "Speaking of Charles, I knew somebody in France that used to have access to ink that fades within a few years. I wouldn't tell your brother that, but it would save him laser treatment if the ink is still available."
At first Raven doesn't respond. She pulls the canopy's top out of its bag and starts unfolding it. It isn't until she starts to drape it over the frame that she replies. "Get me your contact's info and I'll make some inquiries, but Erik, I'm serious about this. Charles needs to accept his consequences. Also, I have a feeling you can get through to him where I can't. You already got him to talk to you about it; he just ignores me."
"Of course he ignores you," Erik replies. He has the legs almost completely expanded and so turns to help Raven slot the vinyl cover in the perimeter posts. "Familiarity breeds contempt."
"No, it's more than that." Raven pauses and looks out over the rain gathering on the blue canopy's expanse. What light there is to be had reflects up from the tarp, painting her skin an ephemeral blue similar to that of her chimera's serpents. "You bother him, Erik. Pardon the pun, but people just don't get under his skin like that. When it comes to my friends, he defers politely or ignores them when he doesn't agree, but he's only just met you and he's shown teeth."
Erik doesn't look away from Raven's face within her colorfully-striped hood. He wonders at the little jolt that strikes his stomach at her words. He's not sure if it is nausea or interest, but either way it doesn't feel particularly pleasant. Finding the canopy's construction more comfortable by far, he finally returns to its completion. He concentrates on the feeling of the drizzle as it washes over the backs of his hands and glides down his forearms past the elastic at his wrists.
"He's taking this seriously now," Raven continues. She has her half of the vinyl secured and makes no move to do more. Her bare hands rest lightly on the tarp; she seems to have lost focus on her part of their task. "I really think you can convince him, Erik. He said he'd work with you and I believe him."
"He might be thinking he can put this off for a few years," Erik replies at length. He finishes hooking the last few tarp corners over their corresponding rods. "How often is he in America?"
"Charles is usually here for conferences and holidays." Raven places her hands on her hips and nods to him knowingly. "And you're doing the London show in September. But where either of you are won't matter until he agrees on the design. After that, well, Charles might seem like his privilege has made him soft, but he's tough. If he prepares properly, he could probably take a well-planned six-hour session."
"No, I agree; he probably can take six hours," Erik muses. He spreads the legs the last of the way out and lowers their supports to lock them in place. "I'll keep that in mind as I work on the design."
"Have any ideas yet?"
"I thought I might try to do something like your chimera, only on a less detailed, smaller scale." Erik ducks under the fully seated tarp and starts raising the four corners of the canopy a bit at a time. "Something suited to him, so he's more likely to accept it. Maybe a sphinx."
Raven ducks underneath the canopy and pulls her hood back from her head. Her dark roots are beginning to show along the part of her hair. More importantly, she's looking at him curiously. "He'll think you're trolling if you send him a sphinx. Naked boobies, right? Anyway, he's not so mysterious. Last night he sounded interested in text."
"Text would leave the ball in his court," Erik comments. "If left to his own devices, he won't choose a quote or create his own. I'm going to have to push him every step of the way."
"Yeah," Raven sighs. "That's true. And quotes can be even trickier than images; they don't grow with a person as easily."
With the four corners raised to their full height, all that's left is to go back to the truck and grab the sandbags to keep the canopy blowing away. It isn't a likely event, with the lack of wind in the seeping, omnipresent drizzle, but Erik prefers to be prepared in case of disaster.
Charles is in a seminar discussing information analyzing strategies to mitigate the genome sequencing data that continues to flood the field. Since this morning, he's been thinking about Raven. It hasn't been entirely a pleasant experience between his hangover and multiple strange dreams.
He can still remember the last dream of her walking around the convention naked and forcing him to go naked, too. He even recalls hazy dreams about Erik's black stripe turning flat and opaque. In the dream he and Erik had resumed a conversation about Raven, but he couldn't remember what either of them said when he woke up.
It was a compelling dream and it has nourished a kernel of thought he doesn't want to examine. Unfortunately, the damage is done, the seed has cracked and roots have sunk into the fertile soil of Charles' restless mind. Charles is, for the first time, exploring the vague notion that he might be slightly incorrect, only a little misguided in what is best for Raven.
He'd thought their bet would force her to realize that her earnings in the tattoo industry would not afford her a decent life without a strong reliance on her trust fund. She's always hated the idea of depending on the money that came from Brian's, and then Sharon's, death. Even though it was cruel and manipulative, Charles had counted on Raven's abhorrence of depending on that money to cure her of her desire to work in an unsavory service-related business.
But she'd made the sacrifices necessary to go on and had, in fact, mentioned that she could have done it for the rest of her life only relying on her trust fund for health insurance.
He'd brushed her commentary off as contrary and self-deluded, until he'd seen how happy she was at the studio. Heard Erik make his matter-of-fact commentary about how she had bloomed as an artist by working in the so-called real world and even reiterated the sacrifices she'd made. Then Charles had seen with his own eyes how professional and precise she was preparing Erik for his tattoo even under watchful eyes. Finally, Angel, the magazine writer, had affirmed Raven's skill and genius.
It doesn't help that traces of the two-headed dragon continue to linger beneath his eyelids. The trouble is that Raven's tattoo for Erik is the sort of revealing, personal work one rarely sees in museums. It's a masterpiece not made for public consumption or approval; few would ever look beyond the initial clichés to the profundity of their relevance. A masterpiece profoundly relevant to the individual who wears it skin deep. Erik is the key to the dragon just as the dragon is a key to Erik.
Charles should be listening to the seminar and the creative as well as the pedantic suggestions flying around the room. He should be joining in and taking his usual hand-written notes. Instead he has the recording app going on his phone and his tablet in hand. He takes his time browsing Raven's portfolio on the Quicksilver website. While he's at it, he checks her bio and chuckles at how informal and personable it is. Erik's is nothing more than a fully-referenced, bulleted list of skills, achievements, and awards; there's nothing about where he learned his trade or where he's worked.
It is against the website's backdrop that he sees the incoming message icon. The text is a simple message from Raven telling him her picnic invitation to the Rose Garden is good rain or shine and that she will pick him up from the hotel at six. The message cheers him, despite his churning thoughts and the terrible headache from drinking too much with his colleagues the night before.
The rest of the day moves on and he gets right back into his groove; studying both the lectures and the general attitude of the assembled academics. On Sunday, one of his colleagues is presenting her work and, if the preponderance of the attending scientists seem antagonistic, he intends to be in the crowd to support her against any frivolously dissenting comments. He's good at that and bringing a people over to a point of view he champions. The only person he doesn't seem to be able to do that to, other than Raven, is Erik.
At the end of the last seminar for the day, Charles is so caught up in a discussion about fraudulent research out of several prestigious international universities that he forgets the time completely. He and a few others are arguing about the need for more or less oversight when he hears a familiar voice.
"Oh my God, Charles, do your students have to come get you for classes?"
Laughingly chagrined, Charles turns toward Raven's voice. "There's a reason I have no first period classes!"
"Charles, it is 6:30 in the afternoon."
Her jeans are tucked into polka dot Wellies and there's a furled umbrella in her hand. She's wearing a judiciously butchered Oxford sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder and displays several square inches of blue skin.
"Christ, man," laughs a colleague from ColumbiaUniversity, "you have somebody in every port, don't you? She certainly looks like a wild child, Xavier."
Charles' expression darkens, counterpoint to the deceptively light tone he uses in reply. "Why this lovely creature happens to be my sister, Professor."
The man pales and begins sputtering an apology, but nobody is listening: all eyes are on Raven as she walks up to Charles and kisses his cheek. "This lovely creature has arrived to sweep you out into the even lovelier Portland weather for a picnic."
Charles feels his colleagues' stares as if they were on him rather than Raven. Instead of kissing her back, he reaches up and picks at the neck of his old Oxford sweatshirt, trying to cover up the blue. He's momentarily thankful she doesn't have any visibly unusual piercings; her gauged, wooden earrings are hidden by the mass of her dyed blond hair.
"You must be cold," he says. "Where's your coat?"
The smile drops from Raven's face; she pushes his hands off her shoulders. "Out in the truck with my abaya."
"Wonderful," Charles says, his smile bright and plastic. "Let's go, shall we? Before the weather takes a turn for the worse."
"Sure." Raven shoves the umbrella at him, turning away before he's even got his hands on it; he manages to catch it before it hits the floor. He shrugs and gives his disbelieving colleagues an apologetic smile in farewell, and then jogs to catch up with Raven.
The drizzle is now a light rain; the umbrella is a good choice. Raven waits for him to unfurl it under the shelter outside the entryway. He undoes the closure and presses the button along the aluminum shaft and the canvas spreads out with a rush and a snap. Though her arms are crossed over her chest and her eyes as icy as frozen earth, he steps close to swing the umbrella up in an arc above both their heads.
"Lovely weather for a picnic," he says. "We could stop and I could buy us some brandy or schnapps."
Raven unfolds one arm to shove a hand in her pocket to pull out a set of keys. Then it's right back up, covering her chest; the motion up nudges one shoulder of the sweatshirt down to uncover more blue scales. With his free hand, Charles reaches out and tugs the worn fabric up again.
"When did you steal this? I don't remember when I noticed it was gone."
She looks at him, her eyes liquid with emotion he fears might overflow borders and flood over her round cheeks. "My first year at SVA. The Christmas after Sharon died. The winter of my discontent."
Winter of discontent was an understatement for them both, Charles thought. It was that messy winter when he broke up with two different lovers, fell in love with every single one-night stand, and died every morning he woke up alone. All while trying and failing to take in and shelter the ocean of Raven's emotional turmoil.
"I gave you vintage Tiffany that year," Charles tries, "and you stole my rattiest sweatshirt. Well, young lady, I shall mend the error of my ways and from here on save all my rubbish clothes for you."
Raven looks sharply down and the motion sends two trickles down her face. Charles makes more mistakes than he cares to admit, but this is one he hopes he will never make: he swallows her up in his arms and presses her to his painfully clenched chest. Though they remain under the parking lot shelter, he keeps the umbrella aloft, over their heads.
Raven hesitates before finally putting her arms around Charles' ribs and setting her chin on his shoulder. When she speaks it's with a slight croak to her voice. "Please, Charles. Please stop thinking I'm something to be ashamed of. And don't insult me by pretending that you don't; I'm not stupid."
Charles loosens his fingers on the umbrella so the shaft slides down until the armature hits his knuckles. He angles his wrist to tip the umbrella back to shield them both not from rain, but from observers. "I'm sorry. I'm ruining everything again, aren't I?"
Her chin doesn't dig in but inscribes an invisible quarter circle on his shoulder, back and forth across his wool blazer as she shakes her head. "Sometimes I feel like I'm one of your girlfriends or boyfriends, but you can't dump me for being too emotionally invested, because we're related. Except, no, you would never date a SVA drop out, let alone a tattooist."
"Raven," Charles whispers, trying desperately for soothing, "you're right; I would never date you, but not because you dropped out of SVA or because you tattoo people."
He pulls back enough to look her again in her eyes. She looks back, chin ducked and still defensive, but waiting. "You're scaring me."
"No, don't be scared." He lets go of her with his free hand just long enough to pull his arm up and tap her nose and offer her a fragile curve of lips. "I wouldn't date you because, as you always remind me, I have awful taste in partners. Don't you always say I chase the bad ones and dump the good ones? I might not approve of Hank long-term, but obviously he knows quality when he sees it."
A few more tears navigate her cheeks, but she matches his weak smile with one of her own. "You know, I want your approval, but I've stopped making decisions based on it."
The admission stings, it always does, but Charles nods this time and says nothing more. None of the so-called domineering mantras about her age or maturity leave his mouth. Nor does he apologize, but he would have to decide he's wrong before he'd offer Raven one of those.
"C'mon, Erik's waiting for us," she says and pulls away. But she slips her right hand down to his open left and holds it.
They step into the rain and splash across the blacktop to the far rows of parked vehicles. He keeps her hand in his as they go, but doesn't ask the question bothering him until they get to a black truck.
"Why is Erik waiting for us?"
Raven pulls the proper key to the fore from amongst the other keys on the ring. She slots the key and turns it to the right, opens the door, and hits the driver's side button to unlock the passenger side. "Because he's guarding our picnic set up and this is his truck."
Again he remembers Erik's words. Raven didn't just eat ramen, she had to sell her car and move in with friends. Last she'd told him she was still living in a drafty loft with two friends; a DJ trying to get out of his Nike day job and a Spanish model that's almost never home and rumored to be dating a Russian mobster.
Once they're both inside the truck and Raven has pulled out onto the rainy streets, Charles says, "You know, it's been several months since you won the bet. You can buy any car you like now."
"Yeah." She nods and glances at him with another weak, yet hopeful, smile. "I know."
The ride over to the Rose Garden is filled with the rain's calm surrusus. The leaden sky has deepened into full dark by the time Raven pulls into the garden's rain-slick parking. She eschews the umbrella she gave Charles for a colorful, striped raincoat which she rests it across her thighs. She reaches back behind Charles' seat to the half cab to lift a pair of black rain boots through the seats' divide. The boots are deposited unceremoniously in his lap. "Wouldn't want to ruin your shoes."
Charles rolls his eyes, but is thankful: he may have a tendency to wear the same combinations of color and fabric when it comes to suiting, but he has always had an avid interest in good shoes. He pulls his dark leather shoes from his feet, noting their relative need for polish and shine as he removes each one.
The boots Raven has given him are Columbia-branded rubber; they have no laces and the tread is only slightly worn down on the heel and ball of the foot. They're too big to be Raven's, but too small for her boyfriend. If she's borrowed Erik's truck, he supposes she's borrowed his boots as well. Today I shall walk, not a mile, but the short distance to a soggy rose garden in your shoes.
"What's so funny?" Raven asks from within her adorably striped hood. "You're smiling all of a sudden."
Charles pushes his right foot into a boot first. "Ah, just wondering whose shoes I'm walking in today."
Raven's smile is wider now, her eyes crinkling a bit at the edges. "Erik's. Too bad his feet are so big; he seems to want to walk in yours lately."
A shock hits Charles' in an instant. He can feel his heart squeezing his fingers tight and then loose with every pulse of frantic blood. "Why would he want to do something like that?"
"He's starting to come up with ideas for a design," Raven replies. "He's trying to make it something that'll suit you. That's new to him; he's more technical and design oriented, not into personalities. So, your tattoo will either be a new direction for him or a one-off. Either way, an important piece for both of you."
It is amazing he can hear her over the blood rushing through his head. Is she saying that Erik wants to get to know him? It's terrifying. It's electrifying.
The driver's side door opens and the sound of the rain grows all the louder without the door's protective seal. Cold air drifts in, chasing the warmth in the cab generated by their bodies in the confined space.
"Are you coming?"
Raven's voice galvanizes him from his deep pause. Fumbling with the second boot, Charles finally slides his foot home and snags his leather shoes with his index and ring fingers. "Do I leave these here or take them with me?"
"Leave them," Raven says, her voice now soft, harmonizing with the falling rain. "Erik will pick us up later."
He leaves the shoes on the gray rubber foot mat and lets himself out of the truck, umbrella leading. Both doors lock automatically when Raven locks her side.
Rain is nothing new to Charles; Oxford is no stranger to clouds or unrelenting rain. The boots are also nothing new, only a little big; something he could possibly cure with an extra pair of thick socks. His folded over trouser legs work well in that regard.
Portland's Rose Garden sparkles under the various streetlamps. In the contrast of the bright lamps and shadows, the conifers and rose vines are nearly the same shade of blackish-green. The roses are bursts of riotous color; a multitude of variations on white, yellow, orange, red, pink, and purple. They are made all the more bright by the darkness hemming them in and the reflection of light in the rain on their petals.
Charles sees and smells their beauty and his hammering heart gentles. Even as his senses are captivated, his emotions turn again to appreciate Raven's forethought. While the garden might be a beautiful array of flowers on the outside, it is clearly a test garden on the inside.
"Raven, how do you come up with things like this?" he asks. Maybe it's simple, but a test garden is just as much a stunning example of Gregor Mendel's work as Charles' middle school pea plants had been. Rose blooms, thorns, and fragrance trump the humble peas with their extravagant displays, however.
"I guess brilliance runs in the family," she smiles as they advance along the paved path to the top of the rise. He agrees with a wink and a squeeze of her hand. Charles can make out a canopy that becomes clearer with every veil of rain they pass through.
When they finally clear the last set of stairs, they are just to the blue canopy's right. Charles can see two duffle bags on the damp grass and a rain coat hooked on one of the aluminum struts. There is a garden bench beneath the canopy and Erik's long body, folded up to fit within its limits.
His shoulders are pillowed against one handrail with two folded towels, chin tucked to sternum, his arms are crossed over his broad chest. His knees are the highest point, stuck in the air like 's currently elusive peak, his bare feet braced against the opposite handrail. His eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths.
"Sweet Jesus," Raven sighs. "It's like he can fall asleep anywhere but his own apartment."
"Maybe the rain on the canopy made him tired?" Charles suggests, but he's looking his fill while Erik isn't awake to see him.
Shirtless though he was the other day when Charles and the magazine people perved on Erik's torso together, it was still a sight broken up by the harsh, black tattoo that dominates his body. A loose, short-sleeve shirt covering his torso now makes sure there's no optical illusion to obscure the breadth of his shoulders in relation to the slimness of his hips. The quiet sight makes it hard to remember his previous anger with Erik or the annoying script left in last night's smoke-scented trousers.
"Maybe," Raven comments while slipping her hand into her pocket. She retrieves a battered smartphone from the denim and swipes her finger across the face. The backlight casts white blue light across her face. "But we have rainy season for like nine months of the year. Probably the adrenaline depletion from six hours under my needles last night."
"How much did you get done?" Charles asks. He tries to make the question sound casual, but Raven knows him well, so the desired result isn't assured.
Seemingly unaware, she taps the face of her phone twice. "Ask him."
Erik's raincoat begins to buzz and one of the pockets glows blue. Raven grabs the coat by its hood and walks it over to Erik. She swings the coat out as close to his head as she can without entering his reach. Even in sleep Erik's face is not serene, Charles has yet to see the line between his eyebrows recede. That doesn't change when his brow furrows and the lines around his eyes deepen. Erik's long hands pull away from his chest and pat at his pockets. Coming up empty-handed, his eyes open and he squints up at the jacket hanging near his head, then past it to Raven.
"You're late," Erik says, hooks his feet under the armrest they were braced on and uses the leverage to sit up straight. Charles doubts Erik knows how unconsciously attractive little things like that are.
Raven hands him the drab coat. "You'll forgive me."
"Double the coffee," Erik grumbles, and swings his long legs over the bench while rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand. "Double the meth cookies."
He sets the coat aside on the bench; the phone stops buzzing as Raven ends her call. She crouches down to one of the duffle bags and draws the zip down its blunt-toothed track. She reaches within and brings out an electric lantern. It lights the canopy immediately with its cold LED glow the moment she opens it.
Raven sets it aside and then retrieves a wine bottle, plastic containers of sauce and tortellini, a set of silverware, and another, smaller, container filled with chocolate chip cookies. All but the cookie container are set on the damp grass. "One dozen lavender chocolate chip cookies, boss."
Erik accepts the offering in his left hand with a twist of his lips that is both a smile and exasperation rolled up in one. His right hand goes for one corner of the lid and begins to pry it from the container, but then he lets go. He smoothes the plastic back down with a thumb. "Good plan, Raven."
Charles bites his lip at the sight. Not Erik's smile, but the appreciation of the cookies and the secret knowledge of their origin. Raven has addicted her intimidating employer to one of the recipes Charles saved from their late paternal aunt's estate auction. She'd had an obsession with flower-themed foods, French teas, and corgis.
Raven flicks her hair back in mock self-congratulation. "Yeah, I know."
Erik shakes his head and Charles chuckles as Raven preens. Then Erik slips his feet into a pair of sandals and stands up. "I'll be back around nine."
Raven hands him the key ring. "As much as I want you to get some sleep, don't forget about us, okay? Keep your phone on you."
"You must be very tired." Charles wants to shut up, but he also wants to know, wants to see the progress on the tattoo. "Raven said she did six hours of work last night."
Erik shrugs. "I sat ten at a time for my black work."
"Can I see the progress?"
For a moment there is only the sound of the rain on the canopy and the growing chill of evening. Erik's eyes are on him, his body not moving but for his breathing. Raven stands next to Charles, waiting.
Finally, Erik slips the truck keys into his pocket and sets the container of cookies on the bench with the towels. He grabs the edge of his t-shirt's neck and pulls it aside; it's such an over-sized fit that it easily reveals the two dragon heads and the beginning of its torso. The tattoo is dark with pigment, but the colors are indistinct in the lamp's blue-white light.
Charles stares at the dark beast, at the bloodied head that rears back with the unicorn horn in its eye. There's something compelling about it. Where's the unicorn? Why would Raven show a symbol of purity killing one of the dragon heads? Or is the horn, being singular, a symbol of independence or solitude? And if so, is one or the other damaging an aspect of Erik's personality?
"In a day or so it will scab a bit and look terrible," Erik says and releases the fabric to conceal the design again, but the unwounded head still looms over the stretched-out cotton. "You'll have to wear loose clothing like this, too."
"Why wear a shirt at all?" Charles asks and then squawks in indignation as Raven pinches his arm.
"Hypocrite!" she cries, but then winks.
Erik acts as if no question was asked at all. He puts on his raincoat, takes the container of cookies, and heads into the rain with a simple wave on his way. "Nine o'clock."
"Don't eat 'em all, Lehnsherr," Raven says to his back. Then she turns to Charles, eyes and teeth shining slightly blue in the lantern light. "Let's get this picnic started. There are bowls for the pasta and sauce plus I've got some garlic bread in there. The bench should be dry, so we can sit there while we eat."
"We're missing music," Charles responds. He's still a little distracted, watching Erik as he blends in with the darkness beyond the lantern's light. "Shall I find a mutually admired playlist on my phone?"
"No," Raven replies as she digs through the duffels, "that'll kill your battery and I can only take so much classic rock, though I will take that over Erik's latest thing for his German so-called post mortem folk; most of it sounds like a soundtrack for assisted suicide or that cannibal movie, Ravenous. I brought a radio if you want to set it to 89.9 on the FM dial, we can listen to classical. Or we can turn on the college station at 98.1 and listen to dueling hipsters."
"As long as you don't force me to listen to Wilco or cannibal folk music," Charles says lightly and crouches down with Raven to find the bowls. "I think classical is probably our best bet. Though a soundtrack of cannibals eating Wilco might be acceptable."
"I knew there was a reason I love you," Raven says with clear approval ringing bright in her tone. She passes him a small radio. "89.9, please."
Before long they are sitting on the garden bench, eating tortellini, drinking wine, and largely ignoring the music they chose. And laughing. Laughing at everything from their pranks on Kurt, to Charles' awful break up stories, to Raven's fight with a professor at SVU that culminated in a triptych of gigantic canvases featuring heavily textured close ups of vaginas and penises.
"Oh God," Charles laughs. "The last time I was in Westchester, those still weren't dry."
"Did I ever tell you how much the paint cost?" Raven groans. "Like thousands of dollars. Just to piss off one person. It's like those stories you hear of people throwing money at somebody to insult them. I could have made a piñata of that jerk out of hundred dollar bills and filled it with silver dollars and it would have been more effective and less expensive."
"Plus beating it apart would have satisfied a performance art requirement and an installation credit," Charles chuckles.
"And been immensely satisfying. Three birds with one cricket bat." Raven shakes her head. "So, speaking of vaginas and penises via my art, are you seeing anybody?"
Charles brings his wine glass up and takes a lingering sip. If there's any topic he doesn't want to talk about, it's his hopeless love life. He takes the glass away from his lips, studies the strange play of the lantern light on the surface of the red and struggles with words.
"It depends on what you mean by seeing," he finally admits. He doesn't look at Raven as he speaks, concentrates on the wine and how it coats the glass as he swirls it. It's a good wine; Sharon taught them well. "If you mean 'having sex with' then, yes, I'm seeing a couple people. If you mean 'having a relationship with' then, no, I broke up with Stuart, hence the 'having sex with' bit."
"Stuart the fireman?" Raven's face, seen through the wineglass bell is a funhouse distortion; much more amusing than the words coming out of her mouth. "Let me guess, he started to smother you?"
"He invited me to his parent's house," Charles snorts. "He wanted to introduce me to his parents, Raven, after dating only one month."
"Wait." Raven drops her fork and holds up one hand in a gesture for halt. "Didn't you tell me his birthday party was going to be at his parents' house? And what do you call the three months of sex that came before the dating, you know, when you were desperately in love? Was that not dating?"
"Are we having this conversation again?" Charles puts the wine glass down, no longer amused by its distortions.
"This doesn't have to be uncomfortable, Charles," Raven says. "Just… I never get to meet any of your lovers. I don't really get to know what they're like before you block them on Facebook. And, I don't know, that Lisbeth lady seemed really smart and witty, if a little self-absorbed."
"Lisbeth's an alcoholic," Charles sighs and places his free hand to his brow to cover his eyes. In hindsight, Lisbeth shared far too many of his mother's bad habits than he would ever confide to Raven. "And she's the one that broke up with me when I told her I loved her."
"Angha! The poet! You met her at her book signing and for Valentine's Day she posted that awesome poem on your Facebook wall!" Raven leans forward and places her hand on Charles' knee; he tries to ignore the warmth of her palms.
"She always wanted to know where I was and what I was doing," Charles says. His head leans further on his fingers, sending pressure down in a steady line to the elbow resting on his knee. "The poem was embarrassingly desperate. Raven, please, let's not."
In response, her fingers travel to the elbow that is digging further into his leg. He feels her eyes on him though his own are trained halfway down his wool sleeve.
"Charles," Raven says quietly, earnestly. "I'm your sister and your friend and I love you. That means you can burden me with your problems. That's what friends are for, even if family isn't."
It's tempting, so tempting to lean on her just the tiniest bit. He doesn't want to do it; she's the one that needs him, not the other way around. But nobody else would ever understand, much less be allowed to see him so weak, so Charles tells himself it's okay for just a minute. As long as there's a limit, he can do it. He checks his watch, sets aside his wine glass, and removes the weight from his knee.
"The worst is after the dinner parties," he confesses quietly. "I'm surrounded by people in my flat; the noise and the wine and the conversation and everything is so good. Sometimes somebody stays the night and that prolongs the resumption of silence. Sometimes I wake up and there's a warm person next to me, breathing softly. But once they're gone… I don't know. It's worse than if they were never there at all."
"Sometimes," Raven says, "the worst thing after Brian died was the silence. Sharon could be in the same room as I and never say a thing, never look at me, even when I would cry. Is it like that?"
Ravens palms are warm, but her fingers are cold. He wraps her hands in his and again leans his head down, this time on the mutual support of their joined hands. "It's like there's this silent, open space within me that is never filled. I don't know how long it's been there, maybe always, but I finally noticed it when I left for University."
Raven leans her forehead against the top of his bowed head and whispers, "We need to talk more, be around for each other more. Could you maybe come stay in Portland for summer recess?"
"What, at your loft with the DJ and Spanish model?"
"Sean and Janos," Raven huffs, a warm breath that dishevels his fringe. "Janos and his Russian boyfriend are having some issues. You might have a chance to grab some extremely hot Spanish ass on the rebound. If he wasn't exclusively gay I might have jumped him a couple times before I met Hank."
"I wouldn't mind seeing the Columbia gorge," Charles muses, ignoring Raven's attempt to appeal to his libido, "and Multnomah Falls."
"Erik could take you to the falls; he runs up the damn thing often enough," Raven murmurs into his hair with distinct disgust. "The weather here's much nicer than Oxford during summer. You should come."
"Maybe." Charles glances at his watch; it's been more than two minutes. He squeezes her hands once more and releases his hold. "Maybe, but no promises."
Erik would normally pass time down at Morpho chatting a little with Darwin or Kitty about activism, art, or business, but Saturday nights are open mic night at the vegan café. Darwin is exceptionally talented at marketing the event to hipsters and dyed-in-the-wool counterculture participants. The resulting crowd is huge and occasionally rowdy; though most people are committed to nonviolence. Erik isn't good with loud noises or crowds, but he's exceptionally talented at violence, so even though it is early yet, he doesn't attempt to wade inside to get coffee.
He lets himself into Quicksilver and goes over Raven's handwritten schedule, double checks the autoclave, and sets his work space up for a client that will be coming in at 10am. He'll be doing touchup work on a tattoo that lost ink during an infection. Raven has already printed out another copy of their tattoo aftercare sheet, but this time she's highlighted all the points specifically related to avoiding infections.
At noon he has a second consultation to finalize a design and at 2pm he has a young woman coming in for consultation about a nautical-themed back piece. At 4pm he's got five hours blocked off for a detailed forearm piece. Sunday will be a busy day for him, but Raven has rescheduled herself for a light day: only one consultation. He's amused to see No walk-ins! underlined three times at the top of the page. Maybe she's hoping she can leave early to see Charles off.
In anticipation of her possible absence, he retrieves his 'NO sign' from where it hangs near his desk. It's a tin sign he painstakingly painted back when he opened his shop. The text is the Frakture he learned as a schoolboy in Germany, with pin-striped embellishments and flourishes.
The NO sign reports a list of services and styles Erik refuses to render and, before Raven started work with him, used to hang on his door every day. It isn't an all-inclusive list, but hits all the usual suspects such as no hate imagery and no gang-related imagery. It goes on to include other subject matter he won't do; no Polynesian or other tribal designs on non-native people, no flash art, no copies, no homage, no sports-related imagery. Before going on to list specific body parts he won't work on; no eyes, no mucous membranes nor anything near them, no faces. He's made exceptions to a few of his NOs, but they are rare rather than the rule.
Raven hates the sign, but Erik hates answering the same questions over-and-over, so he hangs it when she's not there to compromise and answer the questions for him.
Erik is strong-willed enough to only eat one of the chocolate chip, lavender cookies as he leafs through the sketches that have led up to his current projects. He doesn't usually have a sweet tooth; sweets remind him too much of his parents, particularly the honey-drenched apple latkes his mother used to make for Rosh Hashanah. The lavender is unusual enough that it fails to conjure ghosts from his days prior to Portland.
When he's done, he places the plastic box on the bench between his small refrigerator and the steel sink he installed the winter prior. The tattoo shop is his baby and he's always looking for ways to improve it. The cookies make him think a toaster oven might be the next addition.
The rain has not let up nor gotten heavier by the time he leaves to pick Raven and Charles up from the Rose Garden. Erik doesn't mind; rain always seems to suit his mood. On the way to the garden he finds himself thinking about the touchup he'll be doing in the morning. The touchup leads him to the aftercare sheet again, and that brings him to Charles. What would the best tattoo placement for a professor be? Would Charles have somebody to help him with aftercare or will it need to be easily accessible?
From there it isn't hard to mentally strip Charles of his suit and begin to block off portions of his body with shapes, like living ink traveling over contour to fleshy contour. It's a common method Erik uses to plan the shapes and placements of his designs. He's seen enough, tattooed enough, sexual and sexualized portions of the human body that thinking of people naked rarely turns his crank.
But where he usually thinks of a client's body as an upright structure, he imagines Charles' as reclined. He's never imagined moving the constantly changing blocking shapes across a client's skin by hand, but he does that, too. And where there shouldn't be a sense of sensation, Erik can feel heat and skin under his imaginary fingertips. He can even feel the rush of blood and the pins and needles of lust creeping into his cock, putting pressure on his balls.
The car behind Erik honks at him for sitting at a green light. Startled from his daydream, he swears and puts the truck back in gear and takes off. He continues to swear, because not only is he fantasizing about Raven's brother, but he's also just gotten himself half hard over him. Since it's been a few months since he's gotten laid and a week since he's jerked off, he dismisses thoughts of Charles as biological needs.
Thoroughly annoyed with his lapse of control, he lifts his hips up to rearrange his cock so it bears a more comfortable left within his boxer briefs. The last thing he needs is to want to fuck Raven's brother. Despite Raven's words about Charles respecting him and his opinion, Erik considered him forbidden fruit the moment he discovered the two were related; adopted or not.
By the time he's parked and walking through the rain toward the canopy, he's almost reached zero from a slow count backwards from ten. He's five minutes early, but experience should lead Raven to expect that from him.
The light from Raven's camping lantern is moving across Raven and Charles' bodies as they pack. The play of the light across them and the shadows they cast spark his recent imaginings and he again thinks of the best way to block out the tattoo shape, only without the nakedness.
The rain covers the sound of his arrival, so he stands still, rain pattering soothingly on his hood and with tiny, gentle concussions on the top of his feet. He watches from the wet and the dark and listens to the sound and pitch of their conversation. It reminds him of something he once had, someone he once loved, a life that is gone; dust in the wind.
Erik starts forward again, shaking his head within the hood to clear away the true dark; the dark of night can't begin to compare. True dark follows violence, noise, and a flurry of sensation just beyond one's fingertips.
They've almost finished packing; Raven is stuffing the last towel into the one unzipped duffel bag. She's telling Charles about her plan to dye her hair red next week and he's saying how lovely the blond is, but that he's sure to take equally to red.
"I'll get the canopy," Erik says as a greeting. The lantern's light moves over him but he doesn't feel illuminated. Raven and Charles startle, but Erik is already moving toward the center of the shelter to unhook the lantern. He sets it on the ground and then reaches back up to collapse the canopy's top. The hood of his rain coat slips off with the swivel of his chest and arms.
"Where'd you come from?" Raven asks and picks the lantern back up again. She holds it near his hands so he can better see his work.
"The shop." Erik moves to the perimeter of the aluminum frame to unhook the sandbags he usually keeps in the back of the Frontier: a habit he brought with him from New York. "I saw a lot of eraser dust and correction tape in tomorrow's schedule. You want some time off?"
"Yeah," she says sheepishly. The plea comes with a display of her best puppy dog eyes. "Charles has a plane to catch tomorrow night and I was hoping to see him off."
"If it's no trouble," Charles cuts in. He's moved to the opposite side of the canopy to remove the other two sandbags.
"Do you want the first half or the second half of the day?" Erik asks. He never asks Raven to work the twelve-hour days he often has her schedule for him. "As long as you're the only one driving, you can take the truck."
"Charles gets out at two, so second half? He has to be at the airport by seven. I can get you dinner and be back to help with clean up and close after your four o'clock."
Erik nods. "You won't have to hurry back; that one might take longer than I quoted."
"What kind of hours do you usually work?" Charles asks, his voice starts bright in curiosity, but is subdued by the last word. Erik's not sure what to make of it.
"As many as I want." He just happens to like a lot of them. "I don't take walk-ins, so I can set my own hours. Raven's free to work as many as she wants as long as she's there when I need her."
Raven sets down the lamp again and hefts one of the duffels. She comes over to Erik as he works. With the usual ease that comes with their friendship, she sticks her hand in his raincoat to fish out the truck keys. "What he's not saying is that he needs me desperately because he works roughly sixty-hour weeks."
"Front right," Erik says and Raven's hand goes up the loose shirt and down his pants pocket. She takes the keys out with one hand and reaches up to smack his shoulder with the other.
"I'll be right back. Don't dump the rain in the canopy all over Charles, okay?"
Erik shrugs. "Don't get mugged."
She pulls her hood up and heads out into the rain. Charles moves to follow her, but Erik shakes his head. "Don't."
"Don't what?" Charles snaps, exasperated. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated beyond what the low light calls for.
"Don't follow her to protect her from my facetious muggers." Erik begins collapsing the frame at each of the corners. "She's a big girl."
He sees the proverbial hackles rise along Charles' back in response; Erik finds himself inordinately pleased. "Who are you to keep telling me how to behave around my sister? You've never said you have one of your own."
"You're right," Erik says without looking at Charles. He'd like to look up from his work, just to see what sort of affect his words have, but he wants to get the frame back to Darwin before the crowd gets thicker at Morpho. "I never said. But even without a sister I know the difference between a sibling and a parent."
Erik hears Charles take in a breath to respond, but the expected repartee never comes. Though he wants to keep to himself, Erik takes a glance over at Raven's overbearing brother. Charles' fists are back in his trouser pockets, his stance again solidly defensive. His bright eyes squint under an intense look of concentration, of which Erik finds himself the focus.
"You." Charles says, his voice solid and unyielding as steel. "Are you aware what an asshole you are?"
It takes more will power than Erik thought to hold back a smirk. Maybe Raven is right; maybe he does get under Charles' skin. He's sure Raven mentioned it because she wants him to like her brother, but maybe there could be something more.
No, he reminds himself, Raven's brother is off limits. Not just because he's her brother but for the same reason Raven doesn't want to tattoo him. The last thing he wants is for the tattoo to become an eternal memorial of a one-night stand or an awkward seduction.
Regardless of Erik's nonresponse, Charles forges on. "Are you trying to make me mad? Are you taking advantage of the tension between my sister and me for sport?"
Good question, Erik thinks. But even if he is, Charles' self-centeredness is showing and opens him up enough for Erik to make another jab. "You think I'm using Raven to make you angry? That's an impressive attempt to reframe the argument to cut her out of it."
"You aren't denying," Charles challenges quietly.
Erik shrugs; he feels the loose cotton stick a bit on his tattoo in the process. "Is there a reason you want to think this is about you and I rather than about you and Raven?"
His hands stay in his pockets, still balled into fists, but Charles advances, in Erik's rain boots no less, until his nose is mere inches from Erik's chin. Charles moistens his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. "You should be aware that I am the type of person to consider all possible motives. It's what makes me a good scientist."
Without consciously thinking about it, Erik releases the aluminum frame. His hands curl into fists, one of which catches around a handful of Charles' vest. He feels it in him, the roiling desire to do more. To either use the fist holding Charles to keep him in place while the other fist comes into repeated and violent connection with his puckish face or to drag him forward into something far more disturbing. It's all horribly, horribly wrong either way, but he knows for certain if he starts with violence he'll end up back behind bars. This is why Erik contents himself with masturbation and one-night stands. This is why he avoids relationships; because deep down, he suspects he's a monster.
Later, he will castigate himself and tell himself he was responding to Charles' proximity, his fists digging into his trousers, and the intense glare in Charles' eyes, or maybe the wide span of his pupils and brief moistening of Charles' lips. Now, Erik carefully, slowly, uncurls his fingers from Charles' vest and drags his eyes from the incredulous glare.
He turns stiffly back to his work, making a point to angle his body away from Charles'. "Consider me aware."
Charles doesn't change his stance, though his hands come out of his pockets and hover in loose fists above his thighs. The rain hitting the plastic above their heads doesn't drown out the tension that reigns between them for several tense seconds. It's only interrupted by the approaching sounds of Raven's purple boots as she nears the canopy.
"No," Charles finally huffs, though he takes a healthy backward step in the process. "No, I'm not going to pretend that you didn't just do that."
"Good," Erik replies. "I wouldn't want to waste the moment."
Raven's proximity prevents Charles from saying more. With her help, it takes little time to pack the blue plastic up and for Erik to return the frame to its compact size. They stow the equipment and pack Raven into the Frontier's crampt half cab. She keeps the mood lively by talking to Charles after her attempts to draw Erik in fail. Erik hardly notices them, so caught up in counting, breathing, and trying to look normal
Running on autopilot, Erik drops Charles off first and then Raven, but takes the canopy back to his apartment rather than risk further incident with the throng at Morpho. Erik strips to his boxers before walking around his loft, opening all the windows a few inches to get cold, humid air circulating. The scent of rain and old incense swirls around the place while he tends his tattoo. It's still smooth, but he anticipates the dragon will be a bit scabbed or flaking by tomorrow. The injured head seems more appropriate tonight.
He retrieves a box of sandalwood incense, a plate for ashes, and a stale pack of cigarettes from the same kitchen cabinet. Apartment lit by his laptop's backlight and the tiny tips of sandalwood sticks and a cigarette, Erik ends the evening on his couch. By morning, the smell of cigarettes will overpower the incense and his tattoo will itch.
Back in his hotel room, Charles charges immediately into the bathroom, strips the layers of his suit off and leaves them in haphazard heaps. He sets the shower to full blast and throws himself immediately within the pounding spray to scour unwanted lust from his mind and blood stream. Attraction to the worst possible candidate is so typical of him he wants to bash his fists against the shower's tiles.
Charles can't decide if it's better to have the water burning hot or ice cold. Thoughtlessly, he opts for cold and ends up with a sensation akin to Portland's rain. When the frigid water doesn't do in his hard on, he takes his cock in hand and enjoys the juxtaposition of cold water on heated skin. Sometimes the best way to get rid of an unwanted erection is just to ride it out.
As he jerks viciously at his cock, he emphatically does not imagine an amorous struggle with a tall, tattooed man in the rain. Doesn't lift his right foot onto the bath's edge so he can thrust into the tight squeeze of his left hand and comfortably finger himself with the right. Doesn't imagine that man fucking him over the park bench in the rain, in the muddy grass, or on the path. He certainly doesn't come so hard in the shower that his balls ache spectacularly with the clench of it. Nor does he collapse, exhausted and still wet, on his bed only moments later.
But Charles does dream, because he can forget those. Just like he will try to forget how alone he is in the morning.