Elizabeth and Frandrew: SCENES

by Tessaray


STUDIO, Part 2

The man who stole Franco's body finally pulls his hands free of Elizabeth's grasp.

She's begun trembling, her heart soaring... because even if he had somehow learned about this studio, there's no way he could have known where Franco kept the key… yet there it is, lying on the counter like validation.

Like proof of life.

The man who calls himself Drew stands with his back to her now, hands fisted, breathing harsh with sounds of struggle…

"Franco," she calls, willing her husband to break through, to come back to her…

But her heart twists and falls into her gut when he wheels on her.

"No! NOT Franco!" he shouts, dark emotions raging over his face... but he stiffens, quickly masters himself and looks directly into her eyes for a long moment.

"Not Franco," he repeats. "But…," he trails off then, eyes dropping away.

"But?" she prompts, shaken, yet hoping his words will reveal another glimpse, another clue...

"But…," he says, swallowing hard. "He had things I… envy."

She stares at him, confused, then follows his gaze to the spiral-bound sketchbook on the counter. She recalls him clutching it before, but his presence here had so unnerved her that she hadn't had a chance to absorb the significance of it…

"Oh, my God," she gasps, suddenly lightheaded. "You looked through this."

His inhales, jaw working, before he jerks a nod.

"All of it?" she demands, laying a protective hand on the cover.

"Yes."

She knows which one this is. Franco has other books for ideas, quick sketches, for planning his paintings… but this book is special to him. To both of them. It's the one he reaches for when he's feeling things he can't express in words…

"This is personal," she says, breathless, fighting both nausea and embarrassment.

"Yes. I'm sorry, ma'am."

"What gave you the right to look at it?"

He gestures lamely toward the chair, head hanging like a guilty dog. "I was sitting… it was under the cushion, so…," he stammers, halts.

She eyes him with disgust, turns her back and opens the book. She flips through the pages, wave after wave of memory crashing over her. Here are Franco's emotional renderings of Betsy, of Heather, of Jim Harvey, of other people from his past he'd only begun telling her about… and then she reaches the series of nudes. She sees her own body in languid repose, breasts and hips so vivid they seem to rise from the pages. The expression on her face is intimate, adoring… meant only for the eyes of her lover. She remembers the day Franco made these, the way he'd swept her into his arms and laid her down on the makeshift bed, the wild hunger and passion as they devoured each other, bodies and souls merging, fusing until nothing else existed in the world…

And this man had the gall to paw through these images, to see her the way Franco had seen her…

"You said Franco has things you envy," she says, bitterly. "I take it you're referring to his talent?"

He's been hanging back, head bowed, though she's felt his eyes boring into her. Now he seems emboldened by her question.

"May I?" He reaches toward the book with huge hands, hands she knows so well but now finds repulsive, hands whose intentions she can't trust…

She snatches her own hand back to avoid his touch as he tugs at the corner of a piece of paper sandwiched at an odd angle between the others. He slides it out, lays it on top of the sketchbook and steps away as though presenting it to her for inspection.

She looks down, finds that she's staring at her own face, at a portrait Franco drew of her early on, when things were still so new between them. She'd been so self-conscious then, not entirely sure of him. But each line he'd made, each bit of shading on this page exudes love; it rises, surrounds her so tenderly she can feel Franco's strong embrace, his warm breath against her cheek... a love that may be gone forever. A wail surges in her chest… but she forces it down. She will not break in front of this stranger.

"What was it about him? What did you see in him?" the stranger says, voice so soft that, if she didn't know better, she'd say sounded wistful.

But the audacity of the question fills her with rage. She turns and slowly looks him up and down with open contempt, struck again by the utter absence of Franco in the way he holds himself. Whereas Franco is loose, quick, comfortable in his skin, this man is stiff, inhibited, devoid of energy. She almost laughs at the contrast — how is it possible to make such poor use of such an amazing body? Because he's an invader, a parasite, that's how, and his very existence is an abomination. She narrows her eyes, wants to eviscerate him with her hatred, wants him to collapse in shame and slink away from this sacred place.

But he stands his ground, as cold and soulless as a statue.

"Do you draw?" she spits like an accusation, sure that he wouldn't know a creative impulse if it kicked him in the crotch.

He blinks, swallows at the non-sequitur. "No."

"Ever try?"

He hesitates, eyes her as he rubs the back of his neck. "Well… actually... at the orphanage, this lady came once a week. Arts and crafts stuff… popsicle sticks, crayons… like that. I tried, but I was never any good. Mrs… oh, her name began with a B...," he squints, gazes off into the middle distance, like anyone trying to recall a long-forgotten snippet of their life. And Elizabeth finds that she's watching his face, her rage waning as she wonders just what it is he's seeing in there, what those implanted memories of his look like… are they in any way similar to her naturally-acquired ones…? And just where the hell is Franco in that mess?

"Mrs. Benjamin. That's it!" he says, and flashes a bright, uncharacteristic smile as though thoroughly pleased with himself. But when he looks at her, the smile vanishes. Back to stoic. Back to blank.

Elizabeth gapes at him, stunned by the outpouring of words, by the humanity, and finds herself awash in conflict. It's possible she caught a glimpse of an actual person just now, someone utterly convinced of his individuality and right to exist. Not the enemy, not an abomination. A victim of horrible circumstance, like all of them. Maybe someone who, in another life, she might have been willing to get to know...

He stiffens, eyes widening as she reaches out and takes his wrist. "Come on," she says, pulling him across the room. And it's been so long since she's touched Franco, felt the heat and strength of his body, that even as her plan takes shape in her mind, she allows her hands to drift up his arms to his shoulders, linger there as she turns him to face the easel...

"I don't know how…," he's saying.

Stung by guilt, she drops her hands, goes to the stack of sketchpads on Franco's shelf and yanks one free. She comes back, opens the pad to a fresh page and sets it on the easel.

"Try," she says, lifting a sharpened pencil from the easel's tray and pointing it at him like a weapon.

He looks from her to the pencil and back again. As he vehemently shakes his head, a few strands free themselves from the gelled mass of his hair and tumble over his brow. She hisses at the powerful, painful urge to smooth them back, as she has countless times before.

"Take it," she orders.

He obeys, reaches… and they both watch his hand accept the pencil eagerly, gratefully, like a thirsty man accepting the offer of water, the fingers turning it, grasping it sideways between thumb and forefinger in that awkward way that only Franco does...

"Muscle memory," Drew spits. "Doesn't mean a thing."

She almost feels sorry for him.

"I'll pose for you," she says, breathless with hope. But as she crosses to the yellow spray-painted chair, a familiar screech behind her makes hope explode into full-on joy, because that sound is Franco, dragging the heavy easel to his favorite spot on the concrete floor.

She spins to face him, heart in her throat. His skin is flushed, mouth a hard, tight line, beloved hazel eyes glaring at the easel like an enemy who's nearly bested him.

"I can't do this, ma'am," he snarls.

Not Franco. Not yet.

"So don't. No one is forcing you," she says, nonchalance masking her bitter disappointment. She smooths her hair, settles back into the overstuffed cushions and adds, pointedly, "Or are they?"

His sigh is loud and sharp.

"Franco is gone. You have to accept that. You're only torturing yourself."

She doesn't reply, simply turns her head, finds her usual spot on the wall — a bit of graffiti where hard black and white edges meet and merge into gray — fixes her gaze on it, and waits. At first, she hears nothing from behind the easel but angry grumbles and frustrated sighs, the clack of the pencil being thrown into the tray, then the scrabble and curse as it's picked up again. Finally, a few tentative scratches across the paper, followed by a few more…

"I don't even know what the hell I'm doing," he mutters. But the sounds of drawing continue, and gradually, as the minutes pass, they grow more confident, more fluid…

And though Elizabeth is the picture of detached boredom — staring blankly, stifling yawns — the truth is she's laser-focused on the man behind the easel, noticing every subtle shift in his energy, each movement or unconscious gesture that hints at Franco's presence.

"Hmmm, it's interesting. Drew is the past tense of draw," she says at last, baiting him partly out of lingering spite, partly to see who's really got control of that pencil. "Franco loves to play with language. He'll have fun with all this when he gets back... when he's the present tense and you're the past tense, so to speak. No offense, by the way."

The sounds of drawing pause.

"None taken… ma'am."

Then they resume and intensify, so aggressively she fears for the paper. It's disappointing that Drew is still in control, of course, but the fact that he's staying, or being made to stay in spite of himself, is a good sign.

Because Franco is here. She knows it, feels it in her soul. She lets herself indulge, her heart swelling as she imagines the man himself standing behind that easel, observing her in that erotic way of his, his gaze like whispered caresses on her skin. And under that gaze, she sighs and begins to relax, her strained nerves and tendons gradually untwisting, melting, releasing months of anxiety and grief, her bones realigning until she's able to recognize herself again… and everything seems right in the world. She drifts then, losing herself in Franco's loving embrace…

Until she realizes that the sounds of drawing have stopped again. She looks up at the man behind the easel; his eyes are hooded and so intense her skin prickles.

"Take off your jacket," he demands.

The tone jerks her back to reality and she stiffens. That is certainly not Franco — Franco would say please, his voice would be soft, coaxing — but it's not not Franco, either.

She hesitates… then finds herself leaning forward and working her arms out of the black suit jacket. She folds and lays it on the floor at her feet, feels his eyes on her as she settles back and resumes her pose. She's self-conscious, has trouble finding her usual spot on the wall, feels her nipples hardening beneath her thin black camisole in the cool air of the room...

And suddenly she remembers that this man is a parasite. This man pawed through Franco's private sketchbook, saw those incredibly intimate images of her, naked, open...

He said he envies Franco.

She abruptly hunches her shoulders and protectively crosses her arms over herself. He's not Franco. For all she knows, he's just scribbling nonsense behind that easel, stalling for time… and God knows what he's thinking, what he wants…

But he's not not Franco.

And that's the only reason she lifts her chin, lowers her arms, and stays.

To be continued in STUDIO, Part 3...