by Clare London
We’ve known each other for such a short time. After another of these nights, Miles let himself out of the gallery into the empty street. His mind was as dark as the night that enveloped him, and full of turmoil. It’s not like we have any routine. It’s not like we’re any kind of partnership—barely any kind of friendship.
He rationalized it in many ways, for many hours. The fact remained that the atmosphere in the studio was both a comfort and a treat to him. He felt as if another part of him were taken out at that time, examined and unveiled and caressed. He couldn’t explain what was happening to him. His only satisfaction was that for most of the time, Zeke seemed to feel the pleasure too.
It was a completely intangible feeling, though.
Zeke rarely touched him, even when they muddled around together within the small apartment. He occasionally brushed against him and sometimes put out a hand to emphasize something he disagreed with. Sometimes he pushed Miles’ hand away from a drawing.
But Zeke had never kissed him again.
Was this how limbo felt? Or hell itself?
IT was past ten o’clock when the knocking came. Zeke stretched himself, yawning, realizing he’d fallen asleep on the couch. There were no lights on and the candle had burned down to its last inch in the saucer, giving only a dim illumination around the room. But unless he was drawing, he preferred candlelight in the evenings to artificial light. He liked the glimmer and glare from the town to seep in through the window unhindered.
Early in the evening, the sketch pad had slipped from his lap onto the floor. The pages were blank; there’d been no inspiration tonight. In a sleepy bad temper, he kicked it aside. He cursed himself and his vanity. He didn’t know why the fuck he’d ever thought he might start creating again. What or who had ever possessed him? It just confused him, frustrated him….
He sighed heavily. His neck was stiff from his awkward position and his hair was tangled awkwardly against his neck. Then he heard the knock downstairs again, and realized what had woken him. He sat up and winced. “Come up; it’s open.” If it were a burglar, the guy’d soon realize his mistake; if it were Carter, he’d be welcome enough. If it were anyone else, he’d just take his chances.
He knew it was Miles even before the man appeared at the open doorway. He could sense him, maybe the firm footfall; maybe the waft of cologne. Maybe the increased beat of his own heart.…
“Dammit, man, what time is it?” He yawned to hide his disturbance. “Were we supposed to be meeting again tonight? Hell, I need my sleep, you know. The day’s been a bastard, Malia dragging me half across town to meet some agent, and then he wasn’t there, and the pictures he had were way too fucking gross for us….” He realized Miles wasn’t listening. The dark-haired man just stood there, looking a little bemused.
Zeke was sulkily angry with both Miles and himself. “Go home, Miles. I’m in a shitty mood, and I’m wiped. You look like you are too. Neither of us is good for shit tonight. Fuck off back to your cozy apartment and your cozier lady, and leave me to fester here. Okay?”
Miles totally ignored him. His voice was low when he spoke. “There’s been a fire at my house.”
Zeke was startled. “The apartment?”
“No, my house out of town. They think someone was after the collection, because they’d tried to break into the security door. Then there’d been a fire in the office. It was started deliberately, the firemen think.”
“You….” Zeke felt a tightening in his chest. “You’re okay?”
Miles stared at Zeke as if he saw him for the first time. “I’m fine. I wasn’t there; I rarely visit except on weekends. There’s a sophisticated alarm system that alerted the fire department, and luckily they moved fast enough to prevent any real damage to the house. I don’t have sprinklers in that room because of potential damage to the paintings. Dammit, Remy keeps calling about an offer I made weeks ago, to show her around the collection. It was supposed to be this week. Thank God we weren’t there tonight.” He moved toward the couch and then hesitated.
For God’s sake. Invite yourself in, why don’t you? But Zeke didn’t say anything, just pushed some crumpled paper out of the way and waved Miles over to sit beside him.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Miles was in casual clothes again; he only had a thin sweater on over his pants. Maybe he’d been relaxing for the evening when all this happened, and then he’d just left his apartment as he was. And came here. He looked damned confused.
And damned cute.
Zeke mentally scolded himself. So why the hell had Miles come around? He’d have assistants, he’d have contractors, he’d have friends, goddammit, to sort all this out. What was Miles expecting of him?
“It’s the fire, I think, that’s so surprising,” said Miles, suddenly. He sat rigidly on the edge of the couch, a stark contrast to Zeke who was folded up casually on the other cushion, barefoot as usual. “Why? If it were just a burglary, I could understand that. Hell, I’ve had three break-ins in the last year alone. But there’s no need to set fire to anything, no need to damage anything. That’s just malicious. Dangerous.”
Zeke felt the tremor through his body. It always happened, when the topic was mentioned. He thought he’d probably grow out of it. One day far, far in the future. “Fire… yeah. I know all about that.”
Miles lifted his eyes, and Zeke was surprised to see the stark distress there. “God. I’m sorry. I should have realized the subject might be upsetting to you.”
“It’s your house, your fire,” quipped Zeke, shrugging. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded cracked.
“Tell me about it, Zeke.”
“Why? You obviously know the stories. Don’t tell me your team didn’t fill you in on all the lurid background about your new employee.”
“I want to hear you tell me. If it’s not too distressing.”
I don’t do ‘distress’, Zeke wanted to shout out fiercely, but he didn’t. I did all that six months ago, and I’ve moved on, haven’t I? I’m leading my own life without him.
So why am I still in pain?
He shifted on the couch, tucking his legs deeper underneath his body. He was wearing a favorite T-shirt in vivid red, and thin jersey sweats. He wasn’t cold, but he found himself folding his arms around his chest as if to protect himself. “There was a fire. He died. Jacky, my brother… died. That’s the gist of it really. Maybe there’ll be a movie someday out of it.” He glared at Miles, but all he met were those deep, dark, still eyes that made him blurt truths out almost against his will. “He was all I had—just the two of us, since our parents died, since I was a young kid. He was a painter, and I wanted to be one.” Miles’silence was strangely encouraging, and he continued, slowly. “They said someone was with him the night he died. He’d been seen arriving back home with someone. He’d been at a party for the opening of a new gallery across town, where they were thinking of featuring the first four sketches that he’d just finished….”
“The ‘Family’ sketches,” said Miles, quietly.
“Yeah. Guess you know all about that too. He would’ve been celebrating, I expect. He liked to celebrate, Jacky did. Christ knows who he brought home, could’ve been any cute ass he met at the party.”
“He had a lover?”
“Sure, sure,” said Zeke. He tried to look bored with the whole story, but guessed both of them knew what an act that was. “But you know him, Miles. It was Carter Davison. Jacky had been seeing Carter for a long time, more on than off—but not so regular that he wanted him to move in with him. Not so caring that he wanted to acknowledge him in public. Fucked him around, of course, like he did everyone. Carter was there for home comforts, but then my bro looked for more public amusements elsewhere. We were all there to gravitate around the sun that was Jacky Roswell.”
Miles was nodding; maybe he hadn’t known the connection with Carter before. He looked down at Zeke’s hands. Zeke realized he’d curled both of them into fists.
“I knew he was
seeing someone else. Probably more than one. Though the minute they caused him any hassle, he’d dump them. That was always his strategy. Fun, fuck, ’n flee: that’s what I called it. Carter was the only one he ever really cared about.” Zeke let his mind settle on memories of his friend, feeling the comfort. “He’s my friend as well, you know.”
“I know.” Miles sounded sincere.
“Then somehow the fire started. Jacky had a lot of old painting stuff still there, though he’d moved on to sketching. They think some cleaner spilled, and then a spark from somewhere caught it, and it spread fucking quickly. The fire department didn’t get there in time, in Jacky’s case. Whole place burned to the ground. Him along with it. They think he may have been asleep and was overcome by the fumes. They never found any other body, so whoever was with him at the party had gone by then. They spent a lot of time reassuring me that he probably never felt a thing. The damned therapists liked to tell me the same thing, ad nauseam.”
“Did Jacky smoke?” asked Miles.
“Huh?”
Miles flushed. “Sorry. I wondered what had started the fire. You said a spark… or the flame from a lighter?”
Zeke frowned. He didn’t want to dwell on this; didn’t Miles realize? “They never said. Wouldn’t have been Jacky, anyway—he didn’t smoke. Hated it. Hated the smell of tobacco, the way smoke stained. Ruined his pictures, he said. Wouldn’t even touch a little weed now and then.”
“And afterward? The sketches?”
Zeke let his head fall back against the soft cushions, and he closed his eyes briefly. “This guy came up after he died—someone from Hong Kong or somewhere. Said Jacky had promised the four to him. He had a paper or something to prove it. I wasn’t at my best, you know. All I knew, there were hardly any unsold pictures left and a fucking mammoth mess of debt.”
“So you accepted the sale.”
“Of course.” Zeke felt the anger and shame clench in his gut. “I needed money for the debts and the funeral and all. And for Carter, though he’s just that bit better with his money than I am, so he hadn’t needed the Great Artist to support him like I had.”
Miles sighed, softly. “You said Jacky was showing the first four sketches. But people say there were going to be six. You’re entitled to the others…. They’d be yours, surely?”
“If they existed,” said Zeke, sharply. “No sign of them. Probably a pile of ashes like Jacky himself. Don’t push me on that, Miles; it was bad enough at the time with all the press coverage, and the whining artists and critics, and that guy in Hong Kong accusing me of hiding them someplace, must have been up my ass.”
“Sorry.” Miles lifted his hands in apology. They were both silent for a moment. Zeke wondered if this was what was meant by catharsis. He felt a strange, calm void inside him, having told the story again after so long. Telling it to someone other than Carter; telling it to Miles Winter, and more or less the whole of it. Less fucking expensive than therapists.
“What did you do, Zeke? After he died? You had a career of your own….”
Zeke shrugged. “Not really.” No one had been interested in him, except as brother to the prodigious talent so tragically ended. Everyone forgot Jacky’s less attractive character traits, as soon as he died. Zeke’s own paintings had sold while they were good and fashionable—then his grief got in the way, he couldn’t turn out the goods, and fashion discarded him like soiled litter in the gutter. He wondered how he was going to phrase that for Miles’consumption.
“It was hardly fair to you, Zeke.”
“Fair? What’s fair in any of this?” he snarled back. “Fair that Jacky burned to death? Fair that some days I loved him, other days I hated his guts? He despised my work, Miles, you know? Okay, he praised me like a guy would pat the head of his pet; I was a novelty. But he laughed at the style, at the use of paint, at the colors. Said I was hiding from something—blazing my way out there with shock and splash, so’s I’d never have to stand back and let people really judge what talent I had.”
Miles frowned. “That’s harsh.”
“But I guess he was right. Take away my paints, and I’ve got nothing to show anymore. Made a fucking disaster of life, the pair of us. At least his was cut short. Some would say it was a relief, before he gambled and whored it all away.” He hoped to God the stinging in his eyes was something to do with his tiredness, and not the start of tears. That was another thing he’d left in the past.
“Why do you hate him like this?” asked Miles, as if from a long way away.
Zeke didn’t even bother to deny it. It was a relief to speak it, after all. “I don’t know. I’m afraid to remember him—but I’m afraid when I forget about him, even for a few hours. It’s a fucking mess, I told you.” He knew he sounded very pathetic. “There’s nothing left of him. I have nothing left except all this shit in my head.”
It was a sudden surprise when Miles stirred on the couch beside him. He’d leaned down and picked up Zeke’s fallen pad.
“Draw him, then. Make your own memorial. You draw with great perception and passion. I’m not sure why you chose paint as your medium at all, though your paintings are excellent too. You must keep this up….”
It shocked both of them when Zeke leaned over and slapped the pad from his hands.
“Fuck off with the pity, Miles Winter! I know what I am. I don’t need you and your amateur psychology to tell me.”
Miles’s anger flared in return. “You’re an arrogant idiot, Roswell! You have a gift. Christ, I wish I had something like that, something singular and precious like that. Look how you’ve just started this up again, and you can’t say you’re not excited by it.”
Zeke glared back. “Fucking right, I’m not. I’m worn out with the whole fucking game, the painting, and the artists, and the damned hypocrisy and the money, money, money—”
“It’s not all about money.”
Zeke felt his whole body shudder. He shook his head. “Yeah, right. Like they said they loved his work, and they loved him, and then they fell on his estate like carrion.”
“The creation, Zeke,” Miles persisted. “The conception. The satisfaction, surely… you do it for that, don’t you?”
Zeke paused, hearing something in Miles’ tone he’d never heard before. That passion, again… a hint of something worse, like desperation. “You know nothing about it.”
Miles’ raised voice startled him again. “Dammit, I watch you, Zeke! You’re absorbed into it, into the whole process. Your thoughts, your emotions. It’s where you want to be—making your art. Isn’t it?”
Zeke stared at him. “I don’t know.” It was true. “I just… draw. I just sort of sit here and… draw.”
“You never thought about it before? Why you are the way you are? Why you do what you do?”
“No. I never had an audience before, Miles. Never had anyone interested in knowing.” Zeke felt himself flushing, but from embarrassment now. “Certainly didn’t seek too closely myself.”
Miles was staring at him, shaking his head slowly. His eyes were bright, too bright, surely.
“Why did you come over tonight, Miles?” asked Zeke, softly. He couldn’t face that brightness any longer; he dropped his gaze to his lap. He stroked aimlessly at his thigh, plucking at the thin material of the sweats. “Why do you come around at all?”
Miles was silent for a moment. Zeke heard him take a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was steady and low. Zeke felt it thrill through his own body in an almost unwilling response.
“Why do you let me, Zeke?”
Zeke lifted his eyes again and met Miles’ gaze, sinking into the brilliant indigo of Miles’ dark irises. Zeke tried to identify as many shades as he could until his mind was no longer objective, and his judgment was no longer under his control. All he saw was the flicker of the dying candle flame in the two wide mirrors of Miles’ eyes. He remembered the shocking firmness of Miles’ mouth: the hot thickness of a strong, masculine tongue, probing into his own mouth, seeking out t
he corners and savoring the tastes. He felt again the tight grip of Miles’ hands on his waist. And he really didn’t want to, but he also remembered his hips rubbing up against another man’s groin, his sometime lover Marco, when all the time he could feel Miles Winter behind him, just watching—even as his hand slipped into Marco’s tight jeans, even as he fondled another man’s cock.
“Zeke.” Miles breathed the word, nothing more. His eyes were fixed on Zeke’s as if he were absorbing every single thought passing through Zeke’s mind. As if he were recalling exactly the same memories.
Zeke tried to swallow, to clear his painfully tight throat. “So… that brings us to a rather interesting place, doesn’t it, Miles Winter? But then I said before that we ought to clear the air.”
“Yes,” replied Miles. His voice was clipped, but his eyes were sparkling now. “You did. That works best for us, I think. I dislike deception.”
“And I dislike crap,” said Zeke, his voice much firmer now. He shifted on the couch, unfolding his long legs, straightening his back. He’d moved nearer to where Miles still sat on the edge of the cushion. “We may be an odd couple, Miles, but something works, doesn’t it? Something’s pushing all the right buttons, and I for one am not going to ignore it anymore. Never been known for my shy and retiring style, of course… and you’re so fucking hot, you know that?”
“Hot?” Miles looked stricken. Zeke could smell the other man’s warm scent; he could feel his breath on his arm, where the hairs rose in alarm. He could hear the two of them breathing; two individual rhythms, but both fast now, and rather shallow. This was madness! But all Zeke wanted to do was touch that mouth again—that firm, so often disapproving mouth—and plunder inside for a few more blissfully greedy moments. To see the pale red flesh of Miles’ lips blossom into a hard-kissed crimson; to feel the controlled body underneath him slide into a reluctant enjoyment; to watch the rosy flush spread over the smooth skin of his neck—and know that it had been because of him, Zeke Roswell.
