Chapter 10: Charcoal

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again
Lovesong, The Cure

Emma sat on the floor in the middle of her studio, looking at the vacant space where her latest pieces used to be. She'd sent them that morning to the museum, not daring to write up a note to Killian. There was nothing to say. Soon it would all be over, the exhibition would be ready and she'd avoid him as much as possible during the opening. And after that she'd never have to see him again.

The bang of the door pulled Emma out of the somber thoughts she'd been immersed for the past few days. She turned around to see Mary Margaret coming in, carrying a paper bag, a couple of Styrofoam cups and a resolved stare.

"You're going to tell me everything." Mary Margaret said firmly as a greeting, dropping herself on the floor next to her.

Emma made an attempt to protest but Mary Margaret cut her off by handing her cup, "Don't even try that on me, Emma Swan. I know you. Here's some hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon and half a dozen bear claws to make it better for you. But you will tell me about it."

Emma sighed as she sipped the chocolate, letting its warmth envelope her. "It's Killian." She finally confessed.

Mary Margaret lifted her eyebrows as she sipped her coffee and Emma shook her head in disbelief. "Was it that obvious?" She asked hesitantly.

"Just a little…" Mary Margaret replied. "But you forget that I have a sixth sense for true love." She smirked and Emma scoffed at her.

"That wasn't love."

"And what was it then?" Mary Margaret asked.

"A mistake." Emma said before grabbing one of the bear claws and telling Mary Margaret the story.

"Oh, Emma." Mary Margaret said as she squeezed Emma's hand in a comforting gesture, "I'm so sorry."

"I just can't believe he wouldn't even consider it." Emma ran her hand through her hair, trying to avoid dealing with the sadness that invading her.

"Emma, he's been a curator for years, it's clear is something he likes to do." Mary Margaret offered. "And he's good at it, isn't he?"

"He is." Emma admitted. Damn good at it.

Mary Margaret cleared her throat before speaking her next words carefully, "Did you imagine how it must have felt for him? It was almost as if you were only seeing something he hasn't been in a long time… And what he has been, what he has shared with you, what he's proud of, it was like it didn't matter to you."

"It's – it's not like that." Emma stuttered, "It does matter, but I just don't get why he is so afraid of even trying..." She sighed. "He's good, Mary Margaret."

"What if he tries and he can't?" Mary Margaret replied honestly. "Would you still want him?"

"It wasn't about that…"

"It probably was for him. Look at it from his side: you regretted kissing him when he was just a curator. And then only show interest in him as long as he was willing to be an artist again."

Emma's eyes filled with tears. "But that is the thing, isn't it?" Mary Margaret pressed on, "When you couldn't sleep that night and went for a walk, it wasn't a graffiti artist you were thinking about, it wasn't an artist the one that had torn down your walls. It was Killian, just by being who he is everyday."

Emma sighed, "I've hurt him, haven't I? He trusted me and I just…" She looked at her friend, "I don't know if I can give myself to someone again. What happens when it doesn't work out?"

"You don't know that it won't." Mary Margaret said with her eternal hope,

"It never did…" Emma scoffed.

"Emma, ever since I've known you, you haven't really tried. You haven't let anyone in, really in." Mary Margaret said, "Anyone but him. And the funny part is, you didn't even realized it. It just happened… you didn't plan it, you didn't even think about it… Doesn't that tell you something?"

Emma's drifted to her jean pockets, where she still kept the pictures from his graffiti, the ones she'd been constantly looking at for the past few days. Her fingers carefully caressed the lines on the paintings before she looked up at Mary Margaret's knowing smile.

"You'll know what to do." Her friend reassured her.

/-/

"This has got to stop," Tink said as she barged into his office the following week, a few days before the exhibition. He'd been looking at the model design of the rooms, running the order over and over in his mind.

He hadn't seen her. Not ever since she'd walked out of his apartment that morning. She'd sent her latest pieces with a courier, not even a note with them. And he had drowned himself in his job, as he always did; pushing himself to obsessive levels until each piece was carefully placed where it was meant to be, the silent strings of his thinking tying them together for the world to see.

"Killian… look at me," Tink pleaded and he lifted his eyes towards her. She smiled at him, "You have to pull yourself out of this…"

"I'm fine, Tink, I don't know what you are talking about." He deflected, his hand running through his hair as he went back to study the design. "I always get like this the days before an opening, you know that." He tilted his head, a charming smile in his features trying to deceit her on how he really felt. "Nothing to worry about, love."

She shook his head before she looked directly at him, "Speaking of the opening, I need an extra ticket." She said carelessly, as if it was something ordinary.

Killian's face fell, "An extra ticket?"

"I'm bringing a date." She beamed shyly at him and Killian's heart sank.

"Tink, you can't do this." He pleaded. "I know things are bad right now, but you can't give up on Liam, not after everything you've been through."

She tilted her head, her green eyes shining with mischief. "Are you telling me I cannot bring my fiancé to the opening?"

Killian smiled softly as the meaning of her words sank in and he gave her an accusatory glare. She grinned at him, "I love your idiot brother, regardless who he might be or where the wanker chooses to be."

Killian sighed, running his hand through his hair before his eyes flickered back to Emma's art. Tink noticed the way his hand fidgeted next to her prints.

"You should talk to her, Killian." She said softly.

He shook his head, "It was a mistake, Tink. I was nothing - it meant nothing." He said unconvincingly.

Tink pulled a folded paper from her pocket, unfolded it and put in on the desk, in front of his eyes. It was his drawing of Emma. The one he started that night and that he'd continued each wretched night afterwards, almost against his own will. He'd tried to leave it behind, to leave it unfinished; but each night he'd tossed and turned awake in his bed until he'd got off and continued drawing it.

He lifted his head, his eyes searching Tink's accusatorily as he arched an eyebrow at her. Tink didn't even flinch as she shrugged her shoulders, "Meddling goes both ways, Killian."

She circled the desk to stand beside him, her hand softly pointing the drawing. "Who was the last woman you drew in your bed?"

Killian's jaw clenched, his eyes closing as the memories flooded in his mind, the ghost pain in his left arm almost unbearable for a second. "You know who…" He whispered.

Tink nodded sadly, "She means something, Killian. You are just scared to admit it." Her hand reached for his face, forcing him to look at her, "You've fractured yourself so much, keeping the parts away from each other so you wouldn't have to deal with being whole again, with actually fully moving on from Milah. You've kept your grief for her in your graffiti, in the absence of even trying to be an artist again; and another part of you moved on as a curator with fleeting one night stands that never meant anything. And you never had to deal with it, because you never let those two worlds touch. Now your worlds are collapsing… and it's because of Emma."

Killian averted his gaze, his eyes focusing on his drawing, his hand reaching to massage his stump obsessively. Tink's hands reached for his, stopping his obsessive movement, and softly squeezing his hand and stump.

"She makes you want to draw again, doesn't she?"

"Draw, paint, etch, anything. Everything." He sighed defeated. "I can't even sleep anymore. I keep seeing it, all in my head, all these images and I just…" He looked at Tink, apprehension in his voice. "I don't know if I still have it in me." He confessed.

Tink's fingers traced the lines on his drawing. "Look at those lines. Killian, when was the last time you drew before this?" She asked.

"Ten years…" He admitted, his own fingers tracing the careful lines he'd spent hours working on.

"Bastard." Tink scoffed. "Ten years without lifting a pencil and your lines look like this? I hate you."

Killian chuckled at this. "I guess they are not so bad…" He admitted as he turned around and enveloped Tink in a brotherly hug. "Thank you." He whispered.

"Anytime." She replied.

/-/

It was the day before the opening and Killian was putting together the final touches of the exhibition, his hand travelling to adjust some of the pieces, his hair a disheveled mess, when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"How come there is no picture of the artist in the brochure of the exhibition? I wanted to see how she looked like."

Killian smiled to himself before turning around and facing Liam standing in the middle of the room, smiling mischievously at him.

"I'll guess I'd have to wait until the opening tomorrow night, then." Liam said as he walked the remaining distance and enveloped Killian in a tight hug.

"Welcome, brother." Killian said, his voice strained with emotion.

"Alright," Liam said as he pulled a flask from his satchel. "I was able to smuggle some rum in here… let's have a seat and you'll tell me all about it."

"Didn't Tink already fill you in?" Killian asked arching his eyebrow as he reached for the flask, removing the cork with his teeth and taking a deep gulp.

"I want to hear it from you…" Liam replied, taking a sip as well.

"Aye. But I have to do one final check on the rooms first. Want to join me?" Killian asked.

"Lead the way, little brother."

They sat side by side on one of the benches in the exhibition room, when Killian sighed, finally coming to the end of his tale.

"Even if I'd want to paint again," Killian said, his hand motioning to the walls in the room, "I still love this… this will still be who I am. Being an artist will be just something on the side… it would never be who I really am. Not anymore. Not after all these years curating."

Liam looked at him puzzled, "Why do you keep thinking you have to be one or the other? You were never just one, Killian."

Killian's stare must have mirrored his confusion, because Liam sighed, his tongue darting out of his mouth before he spoke again, "When mum took us to the National Gallery for the first time, you could not have been more than five years old. You were gone the moment we entered, your jaw was on the floor, you walked from one painting to the other, you asked me to read you all the tags, everything." Liam smiled at the memories, "And when you came home, you didn't just draw and paint with your pencils, Killian. You also spent entire afternoons putting your paintings in different order, playing at having a museum. A museum, little brother."

Killian smiled almost in disbelief, trying to recall those memories, "I did?"

"You were never an artist or a curator." Liam stated vehemently, "You were always both. You should be both." His hand pointed to the prints hanging on the walls, "And this should not be about whether painting again would get you the girl or not, this is about you being who you truly were meant to be, who you've always wanted to be."

Killian looked at his hand, his fingers slowly fidgeting as he contemplated his brother's words. "Both…" He sighed, almost to himself.

"Both." Liam said encouragingly.

/-/

Later, much later that night, Killian stood in that same room. The museum had been closed for hours, but no one had paid attention as he came in, as he usually did. He'd locked the door behind him and took a long walk around the exhibition, silently telling the story in his mind over and over. But those walls, those white walls against her prints, they were suffocating him. They had been suffocating him for weeks and he felt that itch, that irresistible itch. He put on his headphones, the music blasting from them taking him in, drowning him in a sea of images that were coming to his head and he slowly pull a spray can from the satchel he'd left on the floor, shaking it vehemently before he lifted his arm and started painting on one of the walls.