Theo
THEO
Grunting, rubbed his face in the pillow, appreciating the soft texture as he told himself it was time to wake up. Sunlight poured through the windows of his apartment, telling him it was well past time to get his ass out of bed. The pounding of his head that had driven him to take a nap was now just a dull ache. It felt like the half a gallon of water he’d downed before sprawling was finally in his system.
With a soft noise, he tried to roll onto his stomach. Gravity took hold, reminding him he’d chosen to sleep on the couch. With a yelp, he hit the hardwood floor, managing to curl his arms under him to save his face. The impact ricocheted up and down his arms, vibrating through his now-aching knees.
“Ow,” he managed, thumping his head against the floor.
Alright, not the best way to wake up from a nap, but at least he wouldn’t have to go zombie shuffling toward the kitchen for coffee. Muttering curses, he picked himself up from the floor to sit on the edge of the couch, and putting his face in his hands, he gave a low groan.
With another grunt, he slapped his hands on his knees and looked around the apartment. It was a disaster, and he pursed his lips at the thought of cleaning it. Clothes littered the space, left where he’d tossed them. Glasses and beer bottles cluttered the coffee table as well as the top of the entertainment system, windowsills, and floor. He didn’t relish the idea of sorting through the mess, including several overflowing ashtrays.
“Coffee,” he grunted, pushing himself up off the couch.
At least the kitchen was somewhat salvageable. After refilling the coffeemaker and setting it to brew, put himself to work. He collected the empty takeout containers to throw in the trash, tossed the glass bottles into the recycling bin, and did his best to rinse the dirty dishes. The dishes were just shoved into the dishwasher and left to sit until it was full enough to run. Never was he more glad that he’d been talked into buying the appliance than when he was forced to do housework.
The coffeemaker gurgled weakly as the last drips fell into the carafe. pulled it free, finding a reasonably clean mug and pouring himself a cup. With a tentative sip, he gave a soft sigh of pleasure as the bitterness hit his taste buds. There’d been just enough grounds left for him to make it extra strong, and the taste was enough to shake off the last dregs of sleep.
“Google, play me something,” he called into the echoing apartment.
There was a pause before the device spoke. “Okay. What would you like to hear?”
Now, there was a good question. still had a few hours before sunset when the night would beckon him from his apartment. He’d been so busy the past week he hadn’t found the time to go out and let loose. The stress left him feeling itchy, like his skin was ready to peel away. Maybe something to set the mood for what would eventually turn out to be a successful night.
“Google, play me something spicy.”
Another pause. “Got it, playing something spicy.”
He walked a few paces before the music blasted from the speakers around the apartment. His was the only inhabitable space in the entire building, so he wouldn’t have to worry about a complaint from testy neighbors. The original brick walls also went a long way toward blocking any noise from getting in and out, which is exactly how he preferred it.
He stopped at one of the many windows that formed two walls of his apartment. Sipping gently on his coffee, he looked down at the street below. A light feeling rose in his chest as he watched the men and a few women walk the cracked sidewalk. The industrial areas of Port Dale might not be everyone’s cup of tea, particularly some unnamed members of his family, but he loved it.
let the thump of the music thread through him as he watched the people in dirty work clothes make their way back home. Weeds poked through the concrete, trodden down by work boots, but still growing. Potholes littered the street, and the dividing line between lanes was faded. It was where people toiled their lives away, making ends meet and doing jobs that wore down their bodies but not always their spirits.
And he loved it.
Humming to himself absently, he turned from the window, crossing his living room space to the far side of the apartment. Both the front and the left walls of the studio apartment were made up of tall, multi-paned windows. The front space was the living room, dining room, and kitchen. His bathroom sat on the back right, behind the only door other than the entrance.
The back left, however, was his favorite spot. The floor was lined with a tarp. Some of it was tacked to the brick wall up to where the window started. A stack of unused canvasses sat against the wall, along with a cluttered cabinet, its knobs and doors smeared with color. At the center sat the easel, a worn, chipped thing he’d bought from a rundown secondhand shop. had used it for years, though he knew the time for him to retire it was coming.
Upon it stood his latest attempt. walked around the easel to stare at the canvas he’d left there the night before. His mind clear of everything save caffeine, he stared, tilting his head one way and then another.
“Not bad,” he murmured to himself softly.
The lines were bold enough, a little too bold in places. The colors were good, but they didn’t jump when they should or bleed out where he’d like them to. What should have been a scrawny yet blooming flower emerging from the crack of a dirty, littered sidewalk only managed to look as diseased as the rest.
“A perfect portrait of the bleakness, struggle, and heartache of trying to thrive in a cold and unforgiving world,” he proclaimed, gesturing toward it with his coffee cup as if he had an audience. “Life grows, but it doesn’t flourish. Tainted by the world around it, this precious piece of life does what it does best and grows. But is it enough?”
In short, the entire piece was crap.
With an annoyed grunt, he pushed the canvas off the easel, and it clattered to the floor noisily. It was a perfectly good piece compared to the standards set by his previous work. It would have been what a potential buyer expected from him.
The piece was bleak and despairing, even as it feigned an offer of hope. Even the colors of the bloom, some mangy hybrid of several flowers he couldn’t recall the names of, were muted and washed out like the rest of the scene. Once, he might have found it a spectacular piece, fitting for one of his shows, ready to be put under a display light and hung on a pristine wall.
“It’s crap,” he muttered, setting his cup on the small table beside the easel.
Consistency was great when you were learning a new technique or medium, but it was a strangled cry when it came to creativity. didn’t want to master the style. He’d done that years before. In the world of creativity, consistency was stagnation, and the only thing that could follow stagnation was an agonizing descent into entropy.
“Absolute shit,” he amended, glowering at the piece.
Ringing cut through the music, pulling a sigh from him. Leaving his coffee behind, he stomped over to the couch to dig his phone from between the cushions. He hated the damn thing. It always rang at the worst possible moment. Most of the time, turned it off, but apparently, he’d turned it on at some point in the past twenty-four hours.
“Yeah?” he snapped.
A warm chuckle. “Well, good evening to you too.”
He grunted. “Blair.”
His cousin’s chuckle turned into a throaty laugh. “I can see someone’s having one of their moods.”
dug around the couch, knowing he still had to have cigarettes left. “I’m not in a mood.”
“Right,” she said wryly. “Because I haven’t known you your whole life or anything. Let me guess, your ‘amazing idea’ didn’t pan out like you thought.”
Pulling a cigarette from a mangled pack he’d found shoved between two cushions, he lit it. “I texted you last night, didn’t I?”
“I’m fairly sure you were trying to communicate with me, though I have to say, drunk is rather difficult to translate. I did manage to figure out you’d gained some sort of inspiration and were hellbent on trying it out and that it was ‘brilliant.’ You’ll have to look at the rest to tell me what it said, though.”
let out a cloud of smoke along with his sigh. The problem with drinking and creating was that it was a bit of a double-edged sword and fickle as hell. One night, it might give him a surge of inspiration that threw him at the canvas, as it had apparently done last night. On other nights, it could drain every trace of an idea or motivation from him, leaving him a drunken mess with nothing to do but wallow.
“Didn’t get much done, huh?” she guessed.
wrinkled his nose. “No, I did.”
“And?”
“It’s crap.”
“You always say that.”
“And I’m right.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m sure if I saw it, I’d tell you it’s wonderful. A little bleak, but wonderful.”
snorted, grinding the half-finished cigarette out in the nearest ashtray. “I don’t want wonderful . Everything I put out is wonderful, insightful, and thought-provoking. And whatever other adjectives you want to shove in there.”
“Oh, the horror, people appreciate your work,” she cooed.
“Ugh. I’m tired of the sameness. It’s always the same. I mean, sure, I’ll throw it up, and people can buy it. I won’t say no to the money. But it’s crap. It’s all the same.”
“I remember this complaint from a couple of weeks ago. I take it your attempts at portraits didn’t fix this little artist problem you’re having.”
He ignored the teasing tone of her voice. “No, it didn’t.”
Actually, it had been a complete disaster. Every portrait had come out too perfect, too neat. There was no soul in the paintings, nothing to show the personality or heart of the person. He’d grown so desperate he’d even attempted a self-portrait. One glance at the finished product had him wishing he knew how to remove an image from his mind permanently.
Ironically, he’d left the thing in full view on the cluttered and battered dining room table. He liked to think of it as a reminder of what he should avoid. Oh sure, he’d caught the perfect shade of pale blond hair, wild and unruly atop his head. had captured the high cheekbones and long face, even the small curve of his otherwise pointed chin. The three rings in his right brow caught the light on the canvas, and the small scar that cut through his left eyebrow was there too.
It was hyper-realistic, too realistic, no life or spirit. His hazel eyes were perfect in shape and color, but they held no glint, sparkle, or sign of being . Even the top of his shoulders, littered with tattoos that spread down both arms, looked lifeless and unchanging. Somehow, he had captured himself on canvas, but it was nothing like him at all.
“How does one kill themselves through a painting?” he grumbled.
“I’m pretty sure you left the rest of that thought in your head,” Blair told him.
“It was a disaster, okay? Hated it, despised it, never a-fucking-gain.”
“Well, maybe it’s time for you to stop obsessing and take a break.”
“I am not obsessing.”
“Right. So you’ve been keeping your apartment clean, doing the laundry, eating more than once a day, and have left the house in the past week.”
’s eyes scanned the disaster area that was his apartment. “Well, maybe I’ve been a little too focused.”
“Well, try focusing a little less. Clean your place and yourself, go out, get some air.”
grunted. “That won’t change anything.”
“Stop being stubborn. I expect to hear you did something with yourself the next time we talk.”
“Or what?” demanded.
“Or I drop a worried call to the Center.”
scowled. “That’s cheating.”
“That’s love.”
“Fine.”
“And on that note, I expect to see you at our usual place at the usual time.”
“What day?”
“Hmm, I think next Wednesday will work out marvelously.”
“Fine,” he repeated.
“And don’t forget to wash the paint off!”
The line beeped, ending the call. pulled the phone away from his ear, scowling at the device as if it were responsible for his mood. Looking around his apartment once more didn’t do his sour feelings any favors either. God, he hated when she was right.
He gave another grunt. “Fine,” Before tossing his phone on the couch and getting to work.
* * *
Why had he ever dared besmirch the good name that was alcohol?
Warm and feeling like he was practically floating, he hurried up the stairs to his apartment. The sound of his footfalls and those of his eager and somewhat clumsy companion echoed through the stairwell. It reminded a little of a drumbeat, albeit one that was offbeat and staccato, but hey, he’d take it.
Ooh, maybe something music-themed for his next work.
A laugh escaped as he felt himself grabbed from behind and pushed against the metal door leading to his apartment. His companion, whose name he couldn’t remember, pressed his mouth against ’s hungrily, opening his lips. Eh, sure, the guy wasn’t the greatest kisser in the world. It kind of felt like he was trying to devour , but he could get on board with the enthusiasm.
“C’mon,” chuckled, cupping the guy’s groin before freeing his keys from his too-tight jeans.
He should have known they wouldn’t make it very far once he yanked open the door and closed it behind them. His latest companion had picked up and pressed against one of the nearest walls. Chuckling, ran his tongue along the man’s bottom lip, letting the barbell of his tongue piercing add a little extra tease.
“Your mouth, my cock,” the man hissed, nibbling on ’s neck.
“Bossy,” observed.
Not that he would argue. He appreciated any man or woman who knew exactly what they wanted and went for it. happily thrust his hand between them, opening the man’s pants and shoving his underwear out of the way. Taking the man in hand, gave a few firm, lazy strokes.
“You’re gonna have to put me down,” told him.
’s fingers brushed over the head of the man’s cock as he was released, and a wicked grin settled across ’s features. This would be the first dick he’d had inside him that had a piercing, a rather thick band of metal through the head. Maybe not his first choice for a piercing on a guy, but hey, he was up for experimenting.
Taking the man in hand, eagerly placed his lips around the head. The moan was as enticing to hear as the feel of the ring against his tongue. had promised the man a good time but hadn’t promised how quickly he’d get there. He took his time, licking and sucking gently, feeling the strong thighs he gripped onto shiver.
pulled back, eager to hear the man pant and beg him to continue. His tongue jerked, holding in place. Above him, the man gave a faint moan of pleasure, eyes closed tight as ’s widened. He gave another yank, but his tongue didn’t move. Worse yet, he could hear the faint clink of metal against metal every time he tried to pull away.
“Oh thit,” he lisped.