True Colors

by Clare London

  He looked at some of the guests as well, carefully. There was shock there, and initial scorn. But there was interest too.

  “You’re wrong. I haven’t used all the pictures you offered,” came Zeke’s low voice beside him. “Just the most effective. Those that fit with the theme of the show. It’s called Revolution. Guess it’s as good a name as any; if you don’t think it’s a better description of me than the show.”

  Red was moving away from them now, looking from one to the other. His eyes narrowed, shrewdly. “Nice to meet you, artist boy. I see the likeness to your brother, of course….”

  Zeke grimaced.

  “And yet I don’t see it in this show, you know?” continued Red. “You’re no Jacky Roswell, sweetheart—and that, from me, is a compliment. Keep this up and you’re going to be a great success. And that’s whether or not I seduce that assistant editor, and have a hand in draftin’ the copy for next issue’s ‘Show of the Month’.” He shook Zeke’s unresisting hand as a knot of people started drifting toward them, catalogs waving. Then he turned to Miles and laughed. “Great tie, cute boy. Didn’t I say the purple was the way to go? Though alongside your artist’s outrageous orange, it’d keep even me awake. Anyway, got to go, friends….”

  AS Red wheeled away from Miles and Zeke, picking out his next prey in the crowd of press and publishers, he caught sight of another early visitor, but one who didn’t seem to be with any particular faction. He was a tall, slim, brown-haired man, who held his glass at his side like he barely noticed it, and whose eyes had been fixed to the back of the gallery where the three of them were talking. There was the flush of something on his cheekbones—very attractive cheekbones, Red noticed. The guy had a mature, confident style in his clothes, though they weren’t this season’s by any means. He was good-looking in a careless, understated way. He’s with Roswell. It was suddenly very clear to Red. He’s here for the bad boy’s opening.

  I wonder what their relationship is.

  IT was a late, tired, and exhilarated eleven-thirty p.m.

  The last few visitors were dawdling their way back out of the gallery to their transport; the post-show party would begin soon at a prestigious local club.

  Zeke turned and reached for a long-awaited glass of champagne, and from the other side of the table, so did Miles. The same glass. They snatched their respective hands back, and started to apologize at the same time.

  Then they laughed.

  Zeke watched Miles’ relaxed smile. His smart jacket had been discarded and the tie loosened. It exposed a further band of smooth, dark skin at his neck, just tantalizing enough to draw Zeke’s gaze. He wondered at the frisson of sensation in his fingers, just from the unexpected touch of Miles Winter’s hand.

  “So, Miles.” They’d barely exchanged a word all night, having been surrounded by their own particular fans and pursuers at all times. “This color-blind thing. What’s that all about?”

  Miles bit at his lip. Zeke grimaced, sure he’d blundered again as usual, but then Miles nodded. “There are various types, but it’s far more common than people think. About eight percent of all men are color-blind in some capacity, apparently. Mine is mild; I have the red/green variety, where I can’t distinguish all the shades between red and green. The shades all appear paler to me than to other people. They all tend toward the same color, and that’s green.”

  “Whoa.” Zeke was intrigued. “Kind of awkward with traffic lights, right?”

  Miles smiled. Zeke couldn’t help but like the way his expression softened when he did. “I often have a driver. And I’ve learned the position of the lights, rather than their colors. It’s more troublesome when I have to cook, for example, to tell if meat is done well enough….”

  “Mixing up the tomatoes and peppers?” Zeke nodded. “The ketchup and the mustard?”

  Miles smiled more widely, as if genuinely amused.

  “It’s happened, right?” Zeke grinned back. “And so… my shirt…? I guess the outrageous orange, as your friend called it, is wasted on you.”

  They both glanced down at Zeke’s chest. He’d long since thrown his jacket aside in the heat of the gallery. Miles flushed slightly, and Zeke wasn’t sure why, but the dark head nodded in agreement.

  “And so you were never going to get the theme of the show,” continued Zeke. How stupid had he been? “The feeling of seasons passing—the swing from the sharp spring green, to the late summer gold, to the burnt autumn ochre….”

  Miles was watching him as he spoke. Zeke realized he was accompanying his words with exaggerated hand movements, sketching the themes in the air. As soon as he caught the other man’s glance, he dropped his arms, self-conscious now.

  “You’re right,” said Miles, sounding thoughtful. “I would have to rely on the emotion displayed, instead. The feelings and the themes shown within the paintings, rather than their colors. But that’s of no interest to you—you must develop the exhibition as you see fit. That’s what I assumed you would do.”

  Zeke intended to make his next words sound casual, but they came out as a kind of strangled growl. “That blond guy. Your friend….”

  “Red De Vere?”

  Whatever. “Is he… you know. With you?”

  “With me?” said Miles, looking bemused.

  Can’t ask you outright if you’re fucking him, can I? Whether that’s the kind of thing you like. “Thought he was probably your lover or something. He seems kind of close with you.”

  Miles’ face grew a little tight. Maybe he blushed too. “No, he’s just my oldest friend. Did he offend you?”

  “Fuck, no. Didn’t mean to be rude, you know.” Zeke knew he was blustering, now. He sounded a complete moron. Like he should be used to apologies, the way he’d fucked up his life in the past few years. “I mean, obviously you can see whoever you like: girls, guys, supermodels….”

  “Thanks,” said Miles, dryly.

  “And he was great. Said all the right things, sent over that publisher guy to introduce himself to me, and then Malia says he’s set up the interview with the Journal….” Zeke’s words dried up. Yeah. Moron.

  But Miles replied calmly enough. “Red’s enjoying the controversy; he thrives on it. And he liked meeting you. It’s all been a great success.”

  They glanced at each other for a moment, then away. Zeke didn’t recognize the look in Miles’ eyes.

  “Zeke,” said Miles, slowly. “I’m sorry I doubted it at first. I’m sorry if I doubted you.”

  “So you fucking should be,” replied Zeke. Then he grinned, and the abrupt change obviously startled his companion. “Thanks, Miles Winter. Thanks for the job, and thanks for the freedom you gave me. Guess even I wasn’t sure at one point whether Revolution was going to work.”

  “It was good,” said Miles, firmly. “But….”

  Ain’t there always one of them? Zeke shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, and his head dropped down. So he struck a rather confrontational pose. So he couldn’t care less.

  “No, nothing bad,” murmured Miles. When Zeke looked back up, he was surprised to see the other man looking slightly uncomfortable. “It’s just… there were none of your paintings out there today. I offered the two I have in my collection, plus you must have some of your own left, or access to them at least. Red tells me that the color scheme of at least one of them would have complemented your theme.”

  The silence tightened around them like a fist. Zeke felt every muscle in his body clench. He stared at Miles’s mouth as the man spouted all that crap, willing himself not to yell, or strike out, or just….

  Fuck.

  He couldn’t take his eyes from Miles’ lips, though they’d stopped moving. He wondered what else Miles would say; whether he had any more complaints; what those lips would taste like, pressed against Zeke’s, hot and damp and hungry….

  What?

  He shook himself, disgusted with the unbidden images. He was tired, was all. He just had to hold it together for a little while longe
r. “This is your show, Miles. Yeah, it’s my job, but it’s your gallery. You don’t need my shit in your world. It doesn’t fit.” He turned away and picked up a discarded program, flicking aimlessly at the corners. It could have been in Chinese, the way the words swam blurrily in front of his eyes.

  “It never will.”

  MILES knew it had been a long day. He knew the tension had been incredible, and that had been followed by the euphoria of the show, and the exhaustion of talking to everyone he needed to—and plenty he didn’t. He knew that he hated parties, even when they were on behalf of his own celebration and success.

  But none of that explained the depression he felt.

  He was in the restroom, freshening up at the end of the post-show party. It had been held at a local club, the surroundings elegant and comfortable. They’d restricted the number of press allowed in, but Miles had still been surrounded by reviewers and photographers as soon as he arrived. It meant something when he found himself hiding in the restroom, just for a moment’s peace. And it hadn’t just been the press attention to contend with tonight.

  There’d been an unpleasant scene, quite early on, when Red and Remy got into some kind of fight. There’d been shouting, and actually some physical violence—or rather Remy had tried to slap Red, and he’d caught her arm with a grip better suited for a grown man, twisting her wrist painfully. Neither of them would tell Miles what they’d been arguing about, and Miles had asked Red to go home. He was more weary than angry with them both. He knew that his friend despised the girl and the shallow world she represented. But Remy was a product of her upbringing; nothing more than a victim of her incredibly gorgeous looks. Red should know about both of those, to some extent. And she was harmless enough; just wanted to be with Miles.

  That hadn’t been the end of it, though. Afterward, Remy went on and on about the altercation, and what a beast De Vere was, and how he was so fond of his pretty boys that he obviously hated women, and how she was disappointed that Miles’ pictures weren’t all on display at the gallery, had that Zeke Roswell guy held some back for a reason, didn’t he understand how important Miles Winter actually was…?

  It went on and on until Miles realized he could no longer listen to it. In the end, he asked Remy to go home too. He wasn’t going to be in any hurry to call her tomorrow, either.

  He looked up into the mirror over the restroom sink and sighed. He looked tired, he could see that. Tired, and confused. Of course, if he were really honest with himself, he’d know why he felt depressed.

  Zeke Roswell hadn’t bothered to follow him to the party. They’d parted at the gallery, with Zeke refusing the offer of a lift in Miles’ limo, and saying he needed to clear up a couple of things first. Then he never showed up. Miles was annoyed, because he’d invited a couple of media promoters from other organizations who wanted to talk plans for future events at the gallery. He’d wanted them to meet Zeke, and to discuss it with him.

  Miles was personally disappointed, as well. He’d thought he might find a different side to Zeke in a more social setting. He’d been looking forward to sitting with Zeke, talking to him, being beside him…. Miles remembered the way that Zeke moved his supple hands, sketching out his thoughts; the way he tugged at that shirt, showing every line of his ribs and the sharp, rounded buttons of his nipples. The way he moved, and demanded, and argued….

  Stupid. That’s what I am. I’m in danger of making a fool of myself over Zeke Roswell.

  Miles Winter stared at himself in the mirror, accepting that fact, but not entirely sure what to do about it.

  THE week after the show had begun quietly and rather anti-climactically.

  But Zeke was pleased about that. He was back to calmer, solitary days—a routine of leisurely breakfast at the café down the block, some gallery work such as a quick re-measure of the walls and clearing away the remnants of the show displays, then jobs around the apartment, cleaning, sorting through storage. And at the end of the day he could sit in the studio, curled on a deep, soft-cushioned couch, facing the wide window and admiring the view of the encroaching evening. The couch was a new present from Carter—second-hand, but good quality, and deliciously comfortable.

  Tonight was such a night. He was in loose sweat shorts and his habitual tight-fitting T-shirt, and he was barefoot. The couch was warm and molded promisingly to the shape of his body. He didn’t need a TV or music; he liked the silence. Instead, he had a bottle of beer at his feet, an open sketch pad on his lap and a soft pencil behind his ear. He sighed, settling back into lassitude.

  But he was aware of his visitor, even before the man announced himself. Zeke felt the breath of air as the door behind him swung farther open. He heard it knock against the pile of canvases stacked against the wall. He wished he’d bothered to use the lock on the door to the apartment; it would have given him time to hide the sketch pad.

  But why the fuck should he? This was his home. However, he said none of that aloud.

  “Zeke? I’m sorry just to come up. I didn’t mean to intrude. I needed to see you, but I couldn’t get a reply on your cell.”

  Zeke hadn’t seen his cell phone for months. He suspected he’d sold it to someone, during one of his binges. When he needed to call someone, like Carter, he just went out to a booth. And if he needed to talk to Miles—or Miles to him—well, the guy just came over and let himself in, didn’t he?

  “The door was open,” said Miles, defensively, as if he’d read Zeke’s mind.

  “Sure,” replied Zeke, with a sigh. “I’ve got nothing to hide from my landlord, have I?”

  “You never came to the party after the opening.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Zeke, bluntly. Let the guy work for conversation, if it mattered so much to him. He thought he heard Miles sigh. He hadn’t even turned around on the couch to face him.

  “Zeke, it’s just part of the job, you know. There were people there who wanted to talk about future shows; artists who wanted to show at the gallery; some agents who wanted to know if you were painting again.”

  “So what?” Zeke wished his growl didn’t sound so churlish, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, was there? “I’m sorry, okay? I guess I’m not used to this job business. I’ll make sure I’m—available—for all these guys next time you want me to see them. But I told you: I’m not painting again.”

  “So what are these?” asked Miles. His foot had caught on one of the canvases behind the door.

  Zeke gave an exaggerated sigh and rose from his couch. The sight of Miles gave him pause for a moment. His landlord and boss was dressed more casually than he’d ever seen him, still in smart pants, but with a tailored linen shirt hanging down from straight shoulders, interestingly tight across his abdomen, hinting at the well-honed muscles that must be under there. A thin silver band around his neck; hair a little less controlled than at work. Still the dark, multi-hued eyes; still the promise of power in every movement of his strong body.

  Zeke swallowed hard, not sure what was causing his heart to beat so very fiercely. “You want to see them, Miles? The crap I painted after… well, the last stuff I did? I keep them to remind me what I’ve lost, how I’ve fucked up everything. Look behind that door, if you like. Hope you can keep your supper down.”

  “Zeke….”

  Zeke pursed his lips and shook his head. With one last glance at him, Miles crouched down and pulled out the three canvases there, spreading them against the wall. He was silent for a while.

  Zeke felt light-headed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at them himself, and now he tried to see them through Miles’ eyes. They were, indeed, shocking. Perhaps more so to someone who would have appreciated the total bleeding of color from them, someone who would have seen the vivid contrast between the bleak, sharp grays and blacks, slashed across the background like angry blows, and Zeke Roswell’s fiercely colorful paintings of earlier, happier days. Miles wouldn’t see the loss of color, but maybe he’d see the gain of misery and fury
and confusion; recognize the emergence of pain. Carter had told Zeke they were powerful paintings—but desperately uncomfortable to face.

  Carter, as was so often the case, was damned right.

  Miles drew a deep breath before he rose to his feet again, before he turned to face Zeke. Zeke stared back at him, his chest rising and falling rather quickly, apparently beyond his control because he was trying damned hard to be unmoved. Miles looked very pale.

  There you are, then.

  Then Miles’ eyes glanced down to the pad that Zeke gripped in his hand, and his eyes widened. “But you are drawing. I mean… sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Zeke peered at him. He suddenly wanted to laugh. Had he expected Miles to throw up on the spot, to run screaming from the room, just from looking on the disaster that was Zeke Roswell’s life? Was that his arrogance, thinking that everyone was interested in his art? That his life was on that canvas, only to be ignored?

  Or was that his delusion? His gut twisted painfully, as if forcing him to pay attention to something new and—possibly—fearful.

  “Zeke?”

  He glanced at Miles’ puzzled face and then down at his sketch pad. “Sorry. Yeah. Looks like you’re right. An expensive education sure taught you a thing or two, Miles Winter.”

  Miles ignored the rude sarcasm, as Zeke knew he’d done plenty of times before. “Why? I mean, what’s inspired you to start again?”

  Zeke wondered why the hell Miles wouldn’t go away and leave him alone to wallow. Wondered why his face was burning with some kind of embarrassment. Wondered why he felt the need to answer his unexpected visitor—and with honesty. “I don’t know. Just picked up the pencil, and… drew. Only started a day or so ago. Just felt that I needed to; that I wanted to.”