There's really only a handful of moments in his life he can remember being truly, and utterly breathless, and each one of them he usually can remember in vivid detail. So much detail, in fact, that somewhere buried in his mountains of art, he's attempted to convey some of those euphoric moments through varying medias of artistry—sketches, acrylics. Abstracts and pop art. Welding.
Significant moments demand the significant graces art can give. All too quickly as Theo bids them good evening, Tom slips around his desk to escort the glorious piece of art that's graced his office out the door. Kicking it back lightly with the heel of his foot, he arcs his arm wide to allow her exit first, her smile nearly glinting at him as she sashays into the hallway in a breath of curl, skirt, and perfume.
Pulling the office door closed, Tom checks her approaching a piece hanging in the corridor from the corner of his eye. It's a small, seemingly insignificant canvas he'd happened upon via a trip to Sante Fe last summer—done by a senior at the local highschool.
She'd been selling her work to raise money for her grandmother's medical bills, and like the effort of every true artist, had painted a series intended to sell. Her grandmother had loved the series, and had explained that she'd pleaded with her granddaughter to keep them. Standing beneath the sun licking at the rocks of Sante Fe, he'd been moved. Grieved, really.
No one could be so moved by the girl's vision as her own grandmother, that was evident. She was obviously destined to have the series. They weren't expensive, but there was potential for them to be— Ice had not only paid well and beyond the price for the series, but he'd sent them home with the grandmother. Loaded them in his rental and bussed the pair of them home.
Spending the day having lunch and organizing the canvases about the grandmother's small home, Ice had been so impressed with the girl's demeanor and her artistic eye that he'd commissioned three smaller works from her, flown her to the studio, and put her—and her artwork—on display for all of San Diego.
His favorite of the three hung in his office, the other two, in this corridor.
As beautiful as the canvases are, he can't quite bring himself to admire them—instead, he's magnetized to her. The way her hair seems to flow and curl without really moving at all. How the graceful tilt of her head seems to consider the world, and not just a canvas hanging from a nail in the wall. She seems to glow, even in the dim lights of the studio, in ways not at all unlike a chiaroscuro of shadow and light—like memories spinning in and out of focus.
He'll never forget her eyes, even if he can't fully recall the features of her face, and the way they seemed to pierce his soul like the tip of a dagger. Her hand had fit perfectly into his, like it was created for him. He'd honed into her smile and he'd lost any and all sense of reason and time, like staring into the sun.
Tom didn't remember a time ever feeling quite so impacted by the opposite sex. Still, he could feel the freight train she'd hit him with still trying to break through his ribcage. Sure, women had come and gone throughout his life, his career. The uniform always won them over. The money, the power—he'd had his fair share of flings, of romantic endeavors. He was a lover more than he was a fighter in relationships, strange as the concept for an admiral would seem, and had loved and lost each and every one of them.
He hadn't really been inclined to love and lose again. Hadn't felt worthy. maybe it was subliminally fear of rejection, of incompatibility with the direction his life had chosen. Communication was the lifeblood of any relationship—how did a man whose primary mode of communication had been ripped from him navigate the highs and lows of human relationship? It was arduous enough without this cruel twist of reality.
And now, with this God-forsaken hole in his windpipe—how….is this even desirable? Is this something his confidence can overcome, others can see beyond? Everyone and anyone in his life after the surgery first saw the tube, and then the man. It dictated everything—how he slept, how he moved; what he ate, how he communicated—thus, it would follow him, and everyone else in his life, like a close shadow. A veil—a shroud.
How he would ever be seen first as Tom Kazansky again, not this damn trach, was one of those "God's ways are higher than ours" moments. Slowly–painfully slowly he'd started to come to terms with this. It wasn't easy. It ate away at everything like cancer (a thought that is hilarious) and was a thief–it robbed so much more than health. Strength. It robbed hope.
Once he'd been a bronze idol of power, sex, glory. A lifetime of honing his body for the female gaze, for perfection. He wasn't shy about it—he was full of himself. He knew he looked good and reveled in it, utilized it as a weapon.
Which, looking back over the grand game of life, with that always-coveted twenty-twenty vision,was wrong. Probably prompted this turn of events. Vain to a fault, certainly, but not for a lack of effort–he hadn't hated seeing his own appearance, and women hadn't either.
They'd flocked to him, and a small, shallow part of himself had always taken some pleasure in it. Once.
A poison of its own, really. Venom that seeps deep into the core and separates the blood of humility and character. The character of "Iceman" had become an idol of its own, in a sense—an idol that had lifted him from the dust of which he'd been formed, to put it biblically. After a stellar career, all the recognition a man could ever desire, women at his disposal—it had come crashing down. Oh so swiftly, with one simple word.
Tom, if he was able, could chuckle at the irony. A lifetime of building himself up for one moment to tear it to shreds. The Psalmist is right in his Proverbs recollection—beauty is fleeting. So much of his life had been wasted chasing beautiful, shallow, hollow things. None of it could save him, help him, or comfort him. Foolish, foolish—had he always been so stupid?
He chooses not to think about it.
Instead, he puts these things into more important aspects of his current state of affairs. There are more pertinent things, things that don't require so much flawed effort. Why think about things he already knows when there is so much left that he doesn't? The art universe and all its wonders has so much to offer, so many minds to shape.
So much hope. Art had saved him. Resurrected him and given him a second chance. Much like God Himself had destroyed the world in Genesis for a new slate to begin again with the righteous found in the universe, so had he been given new life. God had created again, and so must he.
"This is beautiful,"
Tom immediately ushered to the sound of her voice, his feet carrying him down the corridor to her nearly of their own mind. She gestures to the canvas with a finger, before she presses it over her lips in a look of contemplation, head still canted to the side as she studies. He smiles at her concentration, is mesmerized by the way her lashes fan the cream-like skin beneath her eyes every time she blinks.
Quickly he forgets the mechanics of his breathing and has to rally, glancing down at his feet. Boiling beneath the ascott, he gently takes a finger and pulls at the material of the scarf, but it does little good—it's not the temperature of the room that's searing him. It's heat from his core, from the very center of him, that responds to her. He could reach out and touch her, if he wanted—he's forgotten what her hand feels like and he can think of nothing, suddenly, that's more tragic than this fact.
He nods once, smiling softly as she looks back to him. "It isn't signed?" He shakes his head, no. It's not. Not visibly, anyway—it's signed in other ways. In his memories, his heart. Brow falling into a wrinkle, she angles back to view it again.
"Anyone I know?"
He shrugs again. Probably not. Realizing he's forgotten a pen, he lets the question hang there between them, his coy smile the only form of answer he's willing to give for a few heartbeats. However, she does look genuinely puzzled by the lack of information, so Ice reaches for the Sharpie behind his ear, uncaps it, and realizing he's forgotten paper, instead takes to the back of his hand. In thick, bold strokes, he recaps the marker, sticks it back behind his ear, and lits his hand into her line of sight.
Does it really matter?
She blinks, once. He watches her bristle—the question has surprised her. Using only her sparkling eyes, she looks from the question painted on his hand to his face. For a second, the blankness on her face worries him that she's missed the point of the question, the entire concept—but after a few heartbeats, a few pulses of blood that seem to sing in his ears, her lips slowly curl upward in a smile.
Sapphire eyes glinting jovially, her nose wrinkles and she bites her bottom lip, bobbing on her feet a second.
"Not really, huh?" Shaking her head a little, her curls move in a way that is nearly hypnotic and levels him, "I suppose that's kinda the point of the art, isn't it? Doesn't matter where it comes from, only that it exists and means something," turning from the canvas, she moves to step behind him, arms crossed over her chest as she studies the floor beneath them for a moment, "I've studied your work for a long time, Admiral, and—"
Triggered to a stop when he waves his hand in front of his throat in the no-go signal, her brow wrinkles in a puzzled way as she bats aside a few strands of curl, eyes tracking him for clarity. Taking the writing utensil from behind his ear again, he adds another note to match the first, in bolder, capitalized strokes. Her eyes track the letters, and she nods once, understanding.
"Tom. Okay," she smiles. "A good salt of the earth name you've got there, Tom." She makes a point to emphasize his first name, "But Kazansky—is that Russian?"
It shouldn't sound as lovely as it does from her, but, he's fairly certain nobody has managed to say his name so wonderfully. Putting a hand to her breast she introduces herself, and Tom can kinesthetically feel the vault of his memory capture the syllables and consonants, the phonetics of it in the back of his brain. He's pretty sure he'll never be able to let it go.
Without asking she falls into step beside him as they take the corridor in a few strides, and her arm casually loops through his as if she's known him longer than the five seconds he's known her name. He doesn't mind—actually, his entire frame lights up like a control panel, and for a second he redlines, feeling how astronomically perfect the weight of her arms feels in the crook of his. This isn't the first time he's walked like this with women, but it feels like it is.
Or maybe it's the only time he's ever done so that actually matters.
She chatters on about everything and nothing with quick, staccato tones, and he isn't even trying to really discern or process anything she's saying—he just wants her to speak. To fill up the quiet, empty space with words and the way she giggles when she says something funny; how her tone fluctuates when she impersonates someone he isn't likely to ever know. Her voice is loud, clear, present—it rings in a way that, to the everyday world, would be perhaps crude. But to a man who can only ever hope to speak so pointedly again, it is magical.
As he listens to the flow, bend, and curve of every word, he's fairly sure she has no idea that he can't stop looking at her, and hasn't, as they make their way around the canvas of walls in his studio. Her profile is captivating, he seems to have emblazoned the shape of her nose and the swell of her orbital bone in the back of memory as she gestures and makes commentary.
By traditional standards, she isn't beautiful. Actually, by most standards of society she's well in the territory of "simply pretty" or even "cute," but neither term seems to encapsulate the soul pouring into the room before him at dizzying, mach speeds. Once, Iceman may never have even noticed her—she'd be another body, another female in the sea of faces that made up his former life. To his horror and shame, he may not have even given her a passing glance, or even a chance to exchange words, and what a travesty that would be.
Lighting up the room, shattering the lines of his small corner of the universe into oblivion, she is nearly glowing. She isn't from California—if he hadn't caught her sharing that, her accent and the way her forehead seems to perpetually glisten with the ocean humidity, even in this air conditioned space, is evidence enough. She's from the midwest, far inland, where "the only things considered art is the growing stalk of corn or maybe the dancing cut of wheat, should you get to see it" which means rural, wide-open country. Land that breathes and moves and churns with the slow art of growing life—where the pulse of the concrete is instead in the earth, where the endless sky meets the horizon.
He hasn't spent time in the grainbelts of this country, and by the short description she offers, he suddenly wishes he understood and knew everything she means. The desert, be it California, Nevada; Sante Fe or Arizona, is his home. Ocean has become a constant companion, from his youth on Honolulu or his career in the Pacific Fleet. He perhaps couldn't grow a weed if he'd been asked, but suddenly, the expanse of earth and the promise of a harvest is all too appealing.
A void which her life offers suddenly opens in him, and he isn't sure why.
"Tom?"
He's zoned out and realizes it, his gaze snapping up to her only when he registers his name and the light clap of her hand on his arm. Blinking, the corner of his mouth lifts a little and he dips his head to her, features slightly pulling into an apologetic wrinkle that says he's missed the question and is sorry for it.
Gesturing to her, he mouths Sorry, and rolls his eyes. Grinning at him a little, she nods her understanding, before gesturing to the art table in the center of the room, brow lifting a little as if she's seeking permission to approach it. Angling to glance at it over his shoulder, he nods—feels palpable grief when her arm slips from his as she approaches the space.
"About this art I'm looking for," she says a little stronger to fill the distance between them, and he's prompted to weave a slow, contemplative path toward her to the other side of the table. Picking up a stained, hard brush, she smooths her hand over it, and only her eyes lift to consider him gently taking to the stool behind him, "I was wondering if you'd be interested in taking it on for me."
Surprised, his brow pops. Oh?
She gets his meaning, her face suddenly flushing with a hue of pink that is nothing short of delightful. "Yes, actually. This space in Nashville is tragically blessed with the most beautiful walls, and they are in desperate need of art. Art that matters, that will be seen and speak to folks. I'm not looking to spend a lot, but I want pieces that have meaning, and that is something you specialize in––something I've been following since I first saw you online."
She's known who he is for awhile, then. Smile growing, he has felt no greater joy in spades than he does now at the idea of her following him around the internet. Tracing the front of his teeth with his tongue, a stab of pride hits him between the ribs.
"'m willing to pay a fair price," she adds, her gaze dropping back to the brush. Setting it down, her hands hit the table and she leans over it a little, brow raising in a matter adjacent to negotiation, "or maybe do some trading, if you're into that kind of thing."
What she has to trade interests him greatly, though in honesty, he does need currency. It isn't off the table. Tom is fairly certain that this short time in her glory, he'd given her blood if that was what was required of him. He can't say that, however—that's not appropriate, but it's how he feels. Filing it away for later, he nods his consent to understanding.
Reaching forward, he taps the table once with his finger, then turns his hand over to rest it palm-up on the cool steel. Waving his fingers in a gimme gesture, he winks at her, and relishes in the way her smile grows as his brows wag, telling.
Tell me more, he mouths, rapping his knuckles on the table.
He's pretty sure she could tell him anything and he'd still listen, a fact he isn't sure he should be as comfortable with as he is.
angstytalesrx, your love of this is beyond appreciated!
