Drawing Closer (20 page)

Charles slammed the phone back on its stand and turned away, his throat aching from the

pressure of everything he hadn't said.

A week. A whole bloody week since he'd seen Gray, held Gray, fucked Gray. A week of broken

dates, increasingly short conversations, and excuses. And in the days before that, he hadn't felt

that he'd had all of Gray's attention. Not since Drew's visit, in fact.

Charles knew that the painting was going well; Gray was being what Charles could only call

secretive about the project but he'd been practically bouncing off the walls, his emotions plain to

see. It'd been like sharing a bed with fucking Tigger. He was glad about that. Really. Drew had

called the night before and Charles had been able to reassure him sincerely that, yes, Gray was

going to have no trouble finishing in time.

Charles had also told Gray that he wanted to pay for the frame and the shipping costs and Gray

had been pleased, telling Charles that he had a place in town he always used and that they knew

him and would be happy to send Charles the bill.

It had all been going so well.

The fall semester had begun: the usual teething troubles with the students who were homesick

and the ones who were lonely -- and the ones who were ecstatic to be away from home and not at

all lonely -- the usual adjustment to a familiar routine. Charles had been pleased to discover some

evidence of original thought in a few of his students and resigned to the probable diminution of

that as the year went on and they got buried under work.

Drawing Closer - 128

It'd been like every other September with the single, shining exception that now he had Gray in

his life and it had colored every mundane task, enlivened every dull meeting, because whenever he

wanted to, he could conjure up a memory and feel his breath quicken and his body react.

Beat the hell out of coffee as a wake-up call.

And now, he was wondering if the doubts he'd had at the start of this weren't justified; Gray had

got what he wanted, as ever, from what Charles had picked up in the few conversations he'd had

with Carl, and curiosity satisfied, was moving on.

Well, of course he was. Stupid of Charles to expect anything else, really.

He gave the stack of essays to be read a glance of pure loathing and left the house.

The sidewalks were drifted over with leaves, some crisp and fresh, vibrant shades of flame, some

brown, wet from the rain earlier in the week, pulped by passing feet. Charles kicked them

moodily as he walked, the soft susurration accompanying each step doing nothing to lighten his

mood.

Autumn. He'd never got used to calling it 'fall', nor the emphasis on Halloween. He handed out

candy dutifully to the costumed children who knocked at his door, and for Rudegar's sake, if

nothing else, he was glad that there was no Bonfire Night to deal with on November the fifth,

with the incessant roar and bang of thousands of fireworks, bursting into fleeting splendor against

a smoke-hazed night sky.

Didn't mean he didn't miss the traditions of home, though.

He had a sudden longing to go back. Stupid, there was nothing waiting for him there, just

indifference at best from his parents, who'd never quite forgiven him and never would, and as for

friends… well, he had none. Not there. None that counted, none that had stood by him.

"Oh, for God's sake," he said aloud, coming to an abrupt halt and looking around him.

He'd reached the edge of the park which cut a swathe through the town, a river running through it;

a lake over to the west which froze hard enough to be skated on in winter, although Charles never

had. The sun was setting, lost behind a bank of clouds, faint gleams of light filtering through the

grey masses.

Gray's apartment was a twenty-minute walk if he turned left. He wasn't sure it was a good idea

to drop by when he was feeling this depressed and, if he was going to be honest about it, pitiful,

but he needed -- oh, God, just to see Gray. Just to see--

And if what he was looking for wasn't there, he'd walk away.

Drawing Closer - 129

The rising wind stirred a heap of leaves, sending the top layer scattering, caught up and cast high.

Charles reached up and snatched one from the air, a thin, glowing oval, crimson and supple still.

Perfect. He stroked a fingertip across it, breathing in the damp, earthy smell around him, fresh

and cool, and then let the wind take it from his fingers again, losing sight of it within moments.

He turned to his left, walking quickly now.

When he got to Gray's apartment, there was no answer when he knocked at the door, and no light

shining under it. Frowning, he fumbled in his pocket for the key Gray had given him. Had Gray

changed his mind? Gone over to see Charles and found a similarly empty house waiting for him?

He opened the door and went inside, flicking on a light. He could tell the place was empty; even

when he'd walked in and Gray had been sleeping, he'd always been able to tell Gray was there. It

was verging on the fanciful, but he sometimes felt that Gray was like a flung stone; he left

ripples. Put him in a room and he became the focus of it, drawing attention. Charles didn't envy

Gray that; he'd learned to value the ability to fade into the background, un-remarked, unobserved.

Safe.

So: not here. A spark of anger flared. Gray had been so definite that he had to carry on painting,

even though it really was dark now. Or didn't that matter? Was natural light only an issue if you

were painting from a subject? Thinking about it, it couldn't have been that sunny for

Michelangelo with his nose up against the roof of the Sistine Chapel…

Drew was right, Charles really did need to do some studying; painting was too important a part

of Gray's life for him to continue in ignorance.

Of course, if they were about to break up, it wouldn't really be an issue.

Charles stood, irresolute, wondering whether to make himself a drink and wait, or call Gray, or--

The easel caught his eye and he took one step toward it, then another, before pausing. Gray

didn't want him to see it, which Charles could understand, if he related it to his own field; he

wouldn't have wanted Gray to read a draft version of one of his books, incomplete, littered with

typos to be dealt with later, but if Gray didn't
know
that Charles had looked, well…

From where he stood, he couldn't see the painting; the easel was placed so that the light from the

studio window would pour onto it. He walked over to it, past it, and turned.

His gaze traveled over the canvas, sweeping it top to bottom, side to side, harsh, shallow breaths

loud in his ears. He was shaking, heart pounding in a too-fast beat, sweat prickling his hands and

the back of his neck and he was going to throw up if he didn't--

He sank into the nearest chair, head in his hands, trying to get his physical reaction to what he'd

seen under control.

Drawing Closer - 130

No. Not possible. Gray couldn't--

"Oh, man, is he going to be pissed you've seen that."

Charles jerked up his head, blinking at the figure in the doorway.

Carl. The last person -- well, almost -- that he wanted to see.

"I'm sure he is." Amazing how dry and calm his voice was. He thought about standing, but he

wasn't sure if he could carry that off. "I wasn't planning on telling him."

"So, where is he?" Carl went on, pushing the door to and coming into the room.

"I don't know," Charles said wearily. "He said he was busy when I spoke to him earlier, but I--"

"Got tired of waiting for him to stop sniffing the turps, huh?"

Carl sounded vaguely sympathetic; he had to know what Gray was like when he was painting,

Charles supposed. He couldn't imagine that Carl dealt with Gray's withdrawal any better than he

himself had. It felt like rejection, although he was sure Gray never meant it as such.

Or maybe it was just that even someone as oblivious as Carl could see the desolation on Charles'

face.

"I thought I'd see if he was--"

"What do you think of it?" Carl interrupted, jerking his head at the painting. He wandered over to it, passing by Charles close enough that Charles wrinkled his nose, less in distaste than an

attempt to separate out the smells clinging to Carl's clothing. Beer… cigarettes…the sweet, rich,

instantly familiar scent of cannabis… It was like taking a sniff at his past.

"I haven't seen it in a couple of days," he went on, staring at it with a critical eye. "Yeah… he filled in that corner…"

"Don't."

Charles regretted the sharp, involuntary command as soon as he'd voiced it. Carl spun around, his

face questioning. "Huh? What's your problem?"

"I don't -- God, Carl! What do you
think
my problem is?"

He found himself on his feet, glaring into Carl's puzzled face.

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"I don't know, man," Carl said, choosing his words as if he thought Charles was having trouble comprehending English. "That's why I asked. You don't like it? Or you don't like me looking at it,

since it's kind of freaky what with you being butt-naked in it?"

"Shut up." Charles felt his jaw tighten with the effort needed to keep himself from raising his voice.

Carl nodded and proved that he wasn't entirely an idiot by remarking, "Both. I get it." He reached out and gave Charles' arm a clumsy pat. "Hey, it's okay. And maybe it's just as well you took a

sneak peek at it and got it over with before he shows it to you. Because, this, you freaking? This

would kind of hurt his feelings."

"God forbid Gray's sensibilities are bruised." It was supposed to be lightly sarcastic but it came out sounding bitter, even to Charles' ears.

"You don't like it?" Carl pursed his lips, considering it. "Sure, it lacks women, but it's still kind of hot."

Charles forced himself to look at the painting again, striving for some sort of objectivity. Hot?

Well, yes, it was. Two men on a bed, naked, involved, absorbed in what they were doing to each

other -- or what they had done.

They weren't touching, he noted absently, and it didn't matter. They were connected in a way

that was unmistakable.

He swallowed, trying to see past the blur of shock and anger. Gray, face-down on a bed, his head

turned so that his profile was a clear, sharp question mark, his gaze fixed on Charles, sitting

beside him.

Who was looking, not at Gray, but at his hand, studying it with a slight frown. And in the

shadowed black, grey, white of the scene, their bodies pale in the diffused, indistinct light, one

splash of color: the wash of red across Gray's skin where that hand had come to rest again and

again.

There was a sense of expectation in the picture, as though this was an interlude, not an ending, as

if there was something unresolved.

It was a painting Charles would have loved to look at under different circumstances.

Say, for instance, when he wasn't one of the subjects. When it didn't depict a very private

moment -- one which had, to the best of his knowledge, never occurred, not precisely like that,

but which was close enough to the truth to be painful to see.

When it wasn't going to be held up, auctioned off -- what the
fuck
was Gray thinking to paint

Drawing Closer - 132

this?

"I don't like it and that's putting it mildly."

"Huh."

"You can't be surprised."

Carl shrugged. "Yeah? Well, I am. Deal."

"It's me," Charles hissed. "Exposed, and no, don't even pretend to think I just mean the obvious; you're brighter than that."

There was comprehension on Carl's face, mixed with uncertainty. "I can see that, but--"

"And it won't end with the auction. It'll get bought, stuck up on a wall -- stared at. I don't--"

"What?"

Charles stared at the table beside the easel. Tubes of paint, folded and dented with the press of

Gray's fingers, squeezed and molded by the strength in those fingers. A rag, paint-stained and

reeking of turpentine …and a plate, scattered with crumbs, a knife laid across it.

Gray's lunch. Charles pictured him eating it, stabbing the precut pieces of food -- cheese, bread,

maybe an apple -- with the knife to avoid getting paint over them from his fingers, chewing

slowly as he stared at the painting, brush in hand. The knife was small and fairly sharp…

"No!"

Charles cried out as Carl's hand wrapped around his wrist, his grip painfully tight.

"Can't let you do that, Charles," Carl whispered in his ear, not unkindly. "Doesn't belong to you.

Not yet."

"It never will, you fool," Charles whispered back. "How the hell could I afford it? Don't you know what it'll go for?"

They must have looked like lovers from a distance, locked together, their breath mingling, but

there was nothing even close to intimacy involved. Charles fought Carl's strength out of sheer

frustration for a few seconds longer, but when it felt as if his wrist was about to snap, he

surrendered and the knife he'd snatched up clattered to the floor.

"Fuck." Charles cradled his wrist to his chest, feeling sick from the combination of anger and pain. It wasn't a good cocktail of emotions.

Drawing Closer - 133

"Sorry." It didn't sound sincere. Carl stepped back -- prudent, but unnecessary; Charles wasn't stupid enough to punch him, and now that the destructive impulse had ebbed a little, he was even

grateful that Carl had stopped him. "How much?"