Elizabeth and Frandrew: SCENES
by Tessaray
#2 Dreams
Elizabeth's shoulders are chilly. Franco always keeps the studio too cold… but he gets hot when he works, feverish with inspiration and effort. Even from this side of the easel, she can see his skin glistening with perspiration, can easily recall the taste of salt, the tang of his aftershave…
She licks her lips to prolong the sense memory, pulls the thin fabric tighter around her body, careful to hold the pose he set for her. He wanted a bit more cleavage than she's comfortable with — even after all this time, after countless hours of lovemaking, of lying naked and breathless in each other's arms, she's still shy with him in this setting — but he's the artist and she's his model... his muse. And he's hers — he challenges her, reminds her that she's bold and fierce, afraid of nothing, during those increasingly rare moments when she forgets. But above all, it's erotic, posing for him, it's their special time together... so of course, she does as he asks…
His eyes on her are hot, intense and probing, his body loose but vibrating with kinetic energy. A nearby light is trained on her, and she's warmer now, hears his brush slapping and scratching over the canvas, the juicy squish of paint. He barely looks at his work, barely looks at his palette as he mixes his colors. He watches only her, fixing her to this time and place as though she might vanish. And she watches him just as avidly, heart full, loving him utterly as he creates, as he sinks away inside himself… sinks far away…
She flinches as sounds appear in the distance; not in the hallway outside the studio, but floating high above. Female voices, inaudible at first, then clarifying, twining around each other like creeping vines:
Hold on to this one…
You need to keep a firm grip on the one you love, no matter what…
And another voice, so soft, so low she has to listen to the spaces and silences between the others to hear it…
Franco's voice. He's no longer painting… he's with her in their bed now, his body moving slowly, sensuously with hers.
Hold me, he's whispering in the gathering darkness, Hold me, Elizabeth…
But the words are tinged with anguish… and they rise to a sudden desperate pitch:
Hold onto me, Elizabeth, no matter what. Hold on, please… don't let me go…
#
Elizabeth jerks awake, gasping for air, a sob caught high in her chest. She forces herself to be still, to listen to his cry echoing in her mind, doesn't dare speak his name for fear of breaking this tendril, this gossamer thread of connection. She feels him with her, always does when she has these dreams… he's close, reaching out for her in the only way he can.
"I won't," she whispers, clutching his pillow tight in her arms until his scent surrounds her, until she can feel the warmth of his body. "I promise I'll never let you go. No matter what."
##
In the Metro Court Hotel, Drew sits bolt upright in bed, blinking and swallowing down the cry that has gathered in his throat. The ghost of a dream is vanishing even as he reaches for it — it's about that nurse again, Franco's wife. He can still feel the heat of her skin on his… and curves, softness… urgency. He shakes his head to clear it, to banish arousal, starts to shove his hand into his hair… and only then does he feel the pain. He looks down to see that the fingers of his right hand are cramped as though gripping an invisible tool — a screwdriver, maybe…
No.
A fucking paintbrush.
He growls, rolls from the bed and heads to the bathroom for a cold shower.
This shit has got to stop…
#
