by Max Hudson
“Take my number first.” Tristan extended an egg-white business card with black, glossy letters outlining his information. Their fingers touched briefly, prompting Tristan to pause. “It'll help you out later when you need to get a hold of me.”
Mark looked like he was glimmering, or maybe that was just the morning light filtering through the front doors. Whatever it was, it seemed that he was more than happy to join Tristan later on. Tristan withdrew his hand and tucked it into his pocket, rubbing his fingers together where their skin had joined. As Mark looked over the card, he chuckled. Tristan looked confused.
“And here I half-expected you to have a street address for me to send a telegram,” Mark joked.
More snickering erupted from Tristan who flushed red and turned slightly to see if anybody in the room was listening to their conversation. Of course, everyone had their heads down in their laptops, or notebooks, or cell phones, working diligently—unlike Tristan.
“Not in this lifetime.”
“Surprising.”
“How so?”
Mark made eye contact. “You just seem to be the type to be into the ancient stuff.”
“Only on Wednesdays.”
“So, should I tell you how I like my coffee?”
Tristan paused while mulling over the curious question in his brain. As soon as he decided it was a good course of action, he gave Mark a sly grin. “How about we make another deal?”
“Sure, I'm always up for dancing with the devil.”
Tristan grinned. “If I can guess how you like your coffee, could I take you out?”
It was a bold move especially for Tristan who didn't often get the opportunity to ask out particularly handsome men. But seeing as he had just gotten back from a trip and he was feeling like having some company, he wanted to jump ahead. At least as long as Mark was interested in men.
And interested in Tristan.
“Bold of you to assume I'm gay,” Mark chimed. “However, I can't turn down a deal. It's just not in my nature.”
“Then, it's on.”
Without waiting for a response, Tristan turned and headed toward the kitchen. He felt the giddiness in his stomach rise up into his chest and cause his heart to skip a few beats. Although it could have killed him at any other time, he felt like the interaction with Mark had propelled him forward. Perhaps this sort of encounter would inspire some new work to arise. Whatever came of it, Tristan felt a peaceful happiness wash over him.
Maybe this would be the start of something beautiful.
Chapter Three
Mark sat stunned at his desk with little fortitude to return his felt pen to paper. It was like his hand was frozen in place, stricken by the gods to keep him from creating his next masterpiece. Something about that conversation had felt mildly intense and erotic.
And he couldn't shake it.
Mark scoffed. “As if I'm really a master of art or flirting.”
But despite his comedic relief, his eyes refused to focus on the paper. All he could do was stare outside the double doors into the familiar road beyond and all the shops that lined the street. The sun grew in intensity, shifting the shadows over his desk and causing him to squint against the light. It was the worst part about being up at the front. Although natural light was preferable for him to draw, it posed something of an annoyance at this time of day.
While caught in a trance, Mark felt his hand begin to move without any prior thought. He held his pen eloquently between his fingers, not bothering to glance at the page, not bothering to check, not even concerned with what would erupt—the only thing that mattered was the fact that he had been visited by someone of interest.
Just as he thought he might have been off the hook, a shadow intervened between his natural light and his page. He glanced up to find his boss.
He sighed. “Hello, Clive.”
“And hello to you, Mark. What have you got for me?”
Mark glanced at the page, blinking rapidly. There were lines and squiggles here and there, resembling something of a face. Was that a fin? The details were hardly discernible. He continued drawing regardless. “I'm not even sure yet.”
“You know we can't churn out incredible content unless we have creators who are willing to create that incredible content. Do you think you could do some of that today?”
“Yeah, I could.”
“The deadline is at the end of the week. We just want you on board with the rest of us.”
“I understand, Clive.”
“Well, what have you got so far? Is that the only thing you've drawn today?”
Mark glanced halfheartedly at the pile in the trash can. “You know drawing takes some time.”
“Everything takes time here, but we hired you because you are the best artist in the city. However, you're proving to not be the best about deadlines.”
“It's at least not due till the end of the week—like you said.”
“We just like having everything in order on Thursday morning so that if we need to change something there's not a rush.”
“I understand.”
“So...” Clive clapped his hands together. “Could you tell me what you've got so far?”
“I guess I was thinking this could be a shark cartoon. You know, something to appeal to—uh, to a wider range of people, you know? I remember you saying something about that.”
“That would be excellent. We would like to attract a wide range of people to read our stories, especially since we're posting online now.”
“You're going to be putting my cartoons online? That would really reduce the quality of my work.”
“I'm sure Tristan can take high-quality pictures of your work so that it won't be an issue.”
Mark perked up innocently. “Oh? Who's Tristan?”
“The guy you were just talking to earlier. He's been with us for a while. I'm surprised you haven't really talked to him before.”
“Well, I guess I just haven't noticed.”
“He goes out of town sometimes to gather some of the best stories that I've ever read. Honestly, I think he's one of our finest content creators. He really has an eye for capturing arresting current events that are appealing and important for everyone to see. And his photography is breathtaking.”
“Breathtaking?”
“You know what I mean, Mark. Just get your cartoon done by Thursday morning and everything will be fine.”
“Thank you for being merciful.”
Clive looked like he was about to be angry but his expression rapidly turned sympathetic. “Mark, please don't make me put you on leave again.”
“Of course not, Clive. I'll be on my best behavior here.”
“Thank you, Mark. Also, if you wouldn't mind, we'd love to have a Valentine's Day themed cartoon for next week. Our readers love that holiday.”
“Right—the chocolate corporation loves having free marketing.”
Clive didn't respond and eyed Mark warily before walking off toward the direction of the reporters in the back of the expansive room. The sunlight resumed its usual path on Mark's page and illuminated the outline of two tiger sharks in cartoon form.
“Well, that's a laugh.”
As he went back to hunching over his page, a foam cup appeared at the corner of his desk with wisps of steam rising from its contents. The smell of coffee met his nostrils and his stomach growled immediately. He took it without looking up and slurped down a few sips before returning it back to its original position.
He sighed contentedly. “Why, thank you for that, Tristan.”
“Of course, I owed you one.”
“You really saved the day with that one.”
“Oh yeah? Did Clive have something to say to you that wasn't exactly savory?”
“Well, considering you're his poster child, I guess you have nothing to really worry about, if you're asking something like that.”
Tristan shrugged. “I'm just curious. I know he can be a bit of a hard-ass with other people. I'm just ki
nd of a type-A personality and I take everything way too seriously, so naturally I just put my all into everything that I do.”
“Oh, so you're a perfectionist?”
“I can tell you all about it when I take you out to eat.”
“What are you talking about?”
Tristan give him a knowing glance. A few seconds went by before Mark perked up again. “Right...the coffee.”
“Did I get it right?”
“I'm afraid you did. However, it's not as strong as I usually like it. But I'm sure you did not have control over making the coffee this morning.”
Tristan chuckled. “Well, next time I'll make sure to consult whoever makes the coffee so that it's done correctly with the approval of the great Mark-toonist.”
“You're too sweet. Where should we go for dinner?”
“Somewhere new. I'm up for an adventure.”
Mark grinned the happiest smile he had in a long time and said, “You got it.”
“Well, I should be getting to work. I've got places to go and people to see. Give me a call later, okay?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Telegram. See you later.”
As Tristan took his leave, Mark stared after him with a dreamy look. Tristan was absolutely magnetic, a cosmic interference that brought Mark a transmission in order to do his work today. He glanced at the page again and found his cartoon had reached completion with a punchline above the sharks that read in dark, bold letters, “I don't speak Finnish.”
He rolled his eyes as he chuckled.
“It'll do for now.”
The sun peeked one more time over the page, nearly washing out the black lines outlining the cartoon sharks. Mark marveled at this strange, momentary occurrence, completely absorbed by it. When the light retreated, the feeling he had felt—that overwhelming sense of sublime joy—had gone with it.
Or had Tristan taken that?
Chapter Four
A camera sat on a tripod in the center of a room in front of a teal backdrop while a wooden stool sat between the two. All around the room were collections of just about everything—paintings, backdrops, rolls of film, piles of folders, binders full of papers, papers on top of papers, and more cameras than a pawn shop. Although everything was everywhere all at once, each collection of items was neatly stacked in their proper places without even so much a page out of place.
Tristan stood between the camera and the stool, holding his thumb up and squeezing one eye closed. He crossed the room calmly, adjusted his subject on the chair—a red-faced Mark—and then resumed his position behind the camera. As he peered around the camera to compare lighting, Mark shifted.
Tristan pulled back. “Are you nervous?”
“No.”
Tristan eyed him suspiciously. “You sure?”
“Of course.”
“I see you've done this before.”
“Was that a jab?”
“I promise it was playful.”
“Oh, of course. I believe you.”
“I'm sure you do.” Tristan bit his lower lip. “Hold your chin up a little higher—right there—and give me a nice, big grin.”
As Tristan peered through the viewfinder, he watched Mark attempt something of a smile. The gesture caught him off guard and he reeled back, chuckling uncontrollably. He covered his mouth and tried to keep his giggles under the radar while Mark shifted again on the stool.
“Glad you're enjoying this,” Mark commented as he gestured to the camera. “Come on—let me keep my dark demeanor. It really adds to my look.”
“Do you talk to all the guys like this?”
“I mean, I try.”
“You're doing a great job. Just give me a small smile. It doesn't have to be like you won the lottery. Think contentment.”
Mark's eyes glossed over for a second. As he seemed to focus on something in the distance, the corners of his lips tugged up and a gentle, comforting grin appeared. Just before it was over, Tristan snapped a picture and peered out from behind the camera. “Perfect.”
“Can I see it?”
“Of course!”
Mark hopped up from the stool and crossed the room, drawing in snugly against Tristan to see the pictures popping up on the miniature screen. It was then that Tristan realized how much he was panting. Nothing about this ordeal had been taxing physically—he was used to doing this much jumping around and adjusting—yet he felt like he had just run a marathon.
“So, how long have you had this studio?” Mark asked.
“A few years. I'm always back and forth between here and my apartment. I think I sleep here more than my actual home, to be honest.”
“Why's that?”
“I'm always working on something.”
Mark glanced around. “So, it's like your office?”
“Something like that.”
“I dig it. So, why didn't you use the film camera?”
Tristan paused. “What do you mean?”
“You said you prefer that ancient film box to these digital ones. Why didn't you use the film camera?”
“This is just faster.”
“Fair enough.”
Tristan smiled as he fumbled with the buttons of his digital camera. Where had all these buttons come from? It was like he was discovering his own equipment for the first time all over again. When he located the file with recent pictures, he opened it. “All right—here's a few I took.”
“Is my face supposed to be yellow?” Mark inquired while pointing at the screen. “Or am I just a lizard person?”
Tristan frowned while looking closer at the screen. “Shit, I didn't fix the white balance. Let me do that really quick.”
“Back to my position?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mark wiggled his eyebrows and sauntered over to the chair, posing next to it with his hand on his hip. “How's this?”
“Too stiff. Try to relax.”
When Mark found a new position, an uncontrollable chuckle rolled from his lips, a chortle that seemed to be on repeat until it abruptly ended. Tristan found this laughter infectious. He could hardly focus on the screen while Mark sprang from one position to another, dramatically sticking out his bottom while trying to arch his back.
“Welp, I'm out of shape,” Mark joked as he held his lower back. “Better get back to basics, eh?”
“I don't get it.” Tristan adjusted the white balance on the camera and hopped in place, motioning for Mark to get into position. “You're such a dark person, yet you have a heart of comedy.” Click.
“I don't think anybody gets it.”
Tristan hit the shutter and pulled away to check the screen. It was better, but it wasn't perfect. He pressed his eye to the viewfinder and adjusted the focus. “I mean, you just seemed like a demon when I saw you today.”
“A demon?”
Click. “Sure—your eyes are dark and you have that look. You could have been a child of Lucifer for all I knew.” Click. “But I mean, I have been wrong before.”
Mark glanced menacingly at the camera. “How did you know my secret?”
A pang of excitement rippled through Tristan's gut as he withdrew from the viewfinder to check and see that his reality had been the same as what he saw. Mark sat stiffly on the stool with his hands on his hips, chin held high and eyes covered with dark shadows from the lighting above.
Tristan gasped dramatically, playing along. “Oh, no! A crossroads demon! I swear I have no soul to sell!”
Mark glimmered with pride and lowered his voice a few octaves, booming, “I bet you have something I would want.”
“Only on Wednesdays.”
“And is it Wednesday?”
“Unfortunately, it's Monday.”
Mark's shoulders sank, his voice returning to his normal tone. “Well, I guess I have some explaining to do to my father.”
Tristan broke into a giggle fit, bending forward while clutching his stomach. “This is...beginning...to hurt!”
It was difficult to speak with such a
joyous interaction. Everything about it was electrifying—the lights, the soft indie music playing over the wireless speakers, the backdrops, and the jokes—and it felt like a miniature string of a bond was forming. But there was something else; something deeper. Though the giggles had subsided, another sensation remained, an arousal that felt almost innate and pure.
Tristan's desire sprang forward whenever Mark shifted again, allowing the white, filtered light to fill his features. Sure, he had been a menacing-looking demonic entity before, but now he looked angelic. He looked intense in the wash of light falling over his face and he seemed to be absorbing as many details of Tristan as Tristan was doing of Mark at the same time.
It was like he was sizing Tristan up. That flush of a look—that admirable way that he regarded Tristan—was a desirous one. Tristan licked his lips while hiding behind the camera. He tucked himself low behind the viewfinder while attempting to accommodate for that look of desire, trying to figure this adorable cartoonist out before the two of them started getting physical.
Tristan tugged at the collar of his shirt. God, it's hot in here.
Maybe Mark was a demon. Maybe he was an incubus waiting to pounce on top of Tristan. Could he could feel the energy beaming from across the room? Could he tell that Tristan was sweating bullets because of the intense sexual energy and not because of the strong bulbs nearby?
Tristan could only hope.
“Are you nervous?” Mark prodded.
“Oh, me?” Tristan forced a laugh. “Never.”
“Your energy shifted.”
“So, you are a demon.”
“Who says you have to be a demon to pick up on energy?”
“I didn't mean to assume.”
“You know what they say about assuming.”
Tristan peeked over the top of the camera. “It makes an ass out of 'u' and me?”
Mark pointed, agreeing. When Tristan retreated behind his camera again, Mark repeated his question. “So, are you?”
“Mildly.”
“Oh, so now it's mild. What else can I do to amplify the heat?”
“Now, you're just being bold.”
“I'm a demon—it's in my nature.”
Tristan chuckled. “Do you want to see the new ones I've snapped?”
