8. Lemon
EIGHT
LEMON
My chest tightens a little as Atticus follows Tori out of the main warehouse door, leaving Felix and me alone in the huge space he’s made into a studio that feels like he’s been using it for months, not days.
“Come and look,” he urges, sidestepping over to the five easels he has set up in a curve across the back of the room. On the floor below the easels are dozens of discarded papers, some with simple lines on them, others with the start of shapes.
As my eyes scan the floor, I watch as his random sketches start to evolve into more, and as my gaze moves to the drawings on the easel, I gasp. The first sketch is of an angel, the wings spread wide, the details of the feathers stunning, even with the thick charcoal he’s used to draw it.
The next sketch is more wings, only this time they’re ragged and broken, feathers snapped, burned, and falling off. The next is even darker, the wings nothing but bone and torn skin with a single feather hanging by a thread on sinew.
I brace myself for the next picture, but instead of it being sad, the broken wings have started to sprout leaves, tiny shoots emerging from the wreckage of muscle and bone.
The fifth easel is the cowered angel starting to stand again, the tiny shoots twining around longer vines that have twisted around the bone, covering the damage and making the wings something new and almost beautiful.
A single, solitary flower is half open at the very tip of one of the wings, like it’s straining for a shard of sunlight.
Individually, the sketches are both beautiful and heartbreaking, but together they tell a story that makes my thoughts race and tears prickle at the backs of my eyes.
“Then this is the final piece,” Felix says, speaking for the first time since I was dragged into his pictures.
Turning toward his voice, I blink as I notice a patchwork of images taped to the brick on the external wall.
Unlike the smaller sketches, this is a huge six-foot image of an angel, its wings a riot of blooming flowers and butterflies.
Even though the image is drawn in black charcoal, it’s so realistic I feel like I can smell the floral scent and the mossy forest dew.
It’s ethereal, and my heart actually stutters in my chest as I take in every inch of the picture.
In the other sketches, I hadn’t noticed that the angel was female, but this picture is a beautiful, curvy woman with breasts and nipples and a vagina.
It’s evocative but somehow not lewd. It feels like an ode to womanhood, not an attempt to provoke.
“It’s…” I try to find the words. “Oh gosh, Felix, they’re spectacular.”
“Imagine it in white marble,” he says wistfully, staring not at the pictures but at the shards of moonlight pouring in through the massive windows that I hadn’t noticed before.
“How big would they be?” I question, wondering how he could get all the details he’s drawn in the pictures into a sculpture that would fit on a table.
“The same size as this one,” he says, pointing to the wall.
“Wait, that’s nearly as tall as you,” I say stupidly.
“I’m going to have to import some bigger blocks of marble. The ones I have won’t be big enough,” he says absentmindedly, like he’s talking more to himself than to me.
“You can make a block of stone look like your sketches?” I ask.
Without turning to look at me, he nods.
“That’s…that’s incredible.”
“The light here is so beautiful. I didn’t expect it to be so good.
Normally it takes me weeks to plan a new series, but we’ve only been here for two days, and I already have my angels and another two series planned out in my head.
I can see them already, a choir of angels,” he says softly, reverently.
“They’re going to be beautiful, Felix.”
Like my voice reminded him that I’m here, he turns to face me. “Do you love my brother?” he asks boldly.
“I only met him today,” I say, shrugging awkwardly.
“He loves you.”
“No…you can’t fall in love that quickly. We barely know each other.”
“You should move in with us,” Felix says, clearly disregarding my words.
“What? No, that’s crazy.”
“Why is it crazy? Att loves you. You love him. I think you should move in. I’ll ask Marcus to help you.”
“No. No…no,” I stutter.
“Are you worried that I saw you naked?” Felix asks, his expression openly curious, not suggestive.
“I—” I start, but he keeps talking.
“Because it doesn’t matter. I don’t particularly enjoy wearing clothes either.
Att has shared women with me in the past, but you’re his.
We won’t share you. You’re my sister now.
That’d be creepy. But I promise I won’t look the next time you’re naked.
I didn’t look this time, but I don’t want you to worry about it the next time. ”
“I…”
“My mind is quiet. I don’t know if it’s you that’s making it feel quiet, or if it’s her,” he says, pointing to the angel on the wall. “Let’s go upstairs. I think I can sleep now.”
This has been one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had in my life, but when Felix reaches for my hand, I let him take it. Unlike his twin, Felix doesn’t make me feel anything except comfort and a strange sense of home that I haven’t felt since before my mom died.
After he leads me back up the stairs and into the living room, he takes me to Atticus’s bedroom, opening the door and urging me into the room before he follows me inside. “Go and change into your pajamas. Att’s room is very loud, but I’ll sit with you until he gets back.”
It’s definitely odd that the twin of the man I met and had sex with today is ordering me to get ready for bed while we wait for his brother to get back. But his offer just seems genuine and sweet.
“Maybe I should just wait in the living room,” I suggest.
“I’m confident that Att would rather you be naked in his bed when he gets home, but I’m guessing you’d be more comfortable in pajamas. He can undress you later,” Felix says. “I’ll wait outside until you’re in bed.”
Once he’s stepped out of the room, I stare at the closed door and wonder what to do.
Should I just stay here until Atticus gets back, or should I get ready for bed like Felix suggested?
In the end, my feet make the choice, turning me in the direction of the closet.
It takes me a moment to find my things, but once I’m buttoned into my silk pajamas, I’m grateful that I didn’t pick any of my nightdresses and that I won’t have to face Felix wearing something indecent.
Stepping out of the closet, I startle when I find Felix sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me. “Oh,” I gasp.
Turning to face me, Felix smiles, then pulls back the comforter. “Climb in,” he says, gesturing toward the bed.
Unsure what else to do, I climb into the bed. What I’m not expecting is for Felix to tuck me in, pulling the comforter over me and smoothing it before he circles to the empty side and climbs onto the bed on top of the covers.
Instead of speaking, he yawns loudly, then he sighs, a weary sound that has me yawning in agreement. “I’m tired,” he says softly, leaning down to rest his head against my shoulder. “This is soft,” he whispers, pinching the fabric on the sleeve of my PJs between his finger and thumb and rubbing.
“They’re silk.”
“I don’t usually like the way things feel, but this is nice. I wonder if they do sheets that feel like this. Att hates my usual sheets.”
“They do make silk sheets,” I tell him.
“Maybe I’ll ask Marcus to get me some, and I can try them. That would make Att happy. He says my room makes him sad,” he says on another yawn.
“Does it make you sad?”
“No,” he says. “It makes me feel nothing. It makes it quiet. Usually, things are too loud. This room is loud. But it’s quieter when you’re in it. I wonder why that is?” he muses, softly rubbing the silk between his fingers as the silence that’s somehow quiet and easy surrounds us.
My eyes are just starting to close when the bedroom door opens, and Atticus steps inside. Freezing, I wonder if he’ll be mad that his brother is in here with me. Atticus warned me that they were close, but does that closeness extend to Felix sitting in bed with me?
“Hey,” he says softly, eyeing first me, then his brother, before he starts to strip out of his clothes like this is a completely normal situation. With his shirt in his hands, he steps into the closet, emerging a moment later, completely naked, his dick half hard and swinging as he walks.
Ignoring his brother’s presence, Atticus lifts the comforter that’s covering me and starts to climb over me and into the bed.
“Night, Att. Night, Lemon,” Felix says, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead before he leans over and does the same to Atticus, who mirrors the action, pressing his lips to his brother’s forehead like he’s done it a million times before.
“Night, bro. Try to get some sleep,” Atticus says.
“I think I’ll sleep tonight. But tomorrow I’m going to ask Marcus if he can find sheets that feel like Lemon’s pajamas.”
“You are?” Atticus says, the surprise in his voice evident.
“It feels nice. I don’t know if I’ll like to sleep on it, but it feels nice. Love you.”
“Love you too, bro,” Atticus says, watching as Felix slips from beside me and leaves, pulling the door closed behind him.
“Are you mad?” I whisper, regretting the question the moment it’s out.
“About what?”
“That I was sitting in bed with your brother when you weren’t here?” I say so quietly I can barely hear the words.
“No, I’m not mad. Why would I be?”
“Because…” I start, then trail off, because if it’s not obvious why he’s mad, then I’m not sure I want to give him examples.
“I am mad that you have this many clothes on, but I know you don’t feel comfortable being naked around Felix. Now that he’s gone, these pajamas need to go too.”