Chapter 7 #2
I scowl before I can stop myself. “Waste of your time, clearly. You deserve better than some kid who allows you to jerk him off out of pity. Was he even as hot as me?”
Victor gives me a level glare, scanning me from feet to face. “Is anyone as hot as you?”
My lips quirk. “Good answer... See? You were lucky to end up in my home.” I pull at his hand, leading the way to our fragrant bath. “Are you two still in touch?” I’m not jealous. Not at all. I just need to make sure there’s no secret person to report Victor missing.
Victor shakes his head. “Oh no, he’s dead.”
I pause with my eyebrows raised. “Wow. I didn’t expect you to have that in you.”
“I didn’t kill him! He had an accident.” Victor sighs and I sneak a peek at his round, freckled ass when I help him into the water.
“What kind of accident? Did he slip on his own cum, or something?”
The way he frowns at me makes me hate that weirdo stepbrother of his even more. Is he offended in the dead guy’s name?
“No. He crushed his finger in a door, wouldn’t see a doctor, and then got sepsis.”
A death fitting a selfish bastard like him.
“Do you miss him?” I ask, stepping into the warm water.
I then slide behind Victor and press my cock to the small of his back so he knows it’s waiting for him.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders with a happy purr.
Fuck. I needed this. I had no idea how much, and it came to me as home delivery .
“No. He was an asshole. He… teased me. That he’d fuck me if I didn’t jerk him off fast and good. And it was really messed up, because it kind of turned me on, but also had me terrified, since he would have hurt me if he did, I knew it.”
I clear my throat and hug him a bit more tightly, because Victor’s right. That’s fucked-up behavior, especially coming from someone who’s meant to be family . I can see why he’d be anxious about sex, even if I’m surprised no one’s plucked such a pretty peach. I guess not everyone has taste.
“Good riddance then. Hope the devils never poke his ass in the fun way.”
“I’m guessing you have a lot of experience?”
I stop the water, then trail my fingers over the exposed skin of Victor’s arms. He’s exactly the piece of candy I’ve been missing from my life.
“Yes. I used to travel a lot, all over the world, so I had many intense affairs and hookups. I can assure you I know how not to hurt you.”
We’re so close, I sense his body relaxing under my touch. A good sign considering our situation is… unusual.
“But you didn’t bring anyone here? For years?”
“I didn’t think I’d be stuck here this long. And I also didn’t know anyone I could invite. And my mother didn’t know I was gay.” I add, somewhat melancholic when I think back to her presence here.
Everything was better when I wasn’t alone. I threw myself into work, and spent so much time perfecting the traps in the house to fill that void. Victor arrived at just the right time.
“Stuck? Is that about the… assassins?” he whispers the last word.
“You don’t have to worry about any of that,” I reassure him and move my hands to his chest. The colorful foam gathers around his pale flesh, caressing it as the tiny bubbles pop, making him even more sensitive and pliant. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I commit to memory the shade of blue that bounces off his skin so beautifully. He’s so very pale, yet also orange at the same time because of the fields of freckles.
“Because I’m useful?”
My chest deflates.
It really shouldn’t, not yet at least, yet here we are...
I grab his jaw and turn his face, so we can look at one another. “Do you want to be useful?”
“I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t.”
He’s like a kitten I saved from a storm when he arches against me to give me a kiss on the lips.
I bring him closer, and he spins between my legs, cock pressing to mine as we drift in the warm water, ever more entangled.
“Oh, we will have so much fun together, Victor... both in bed and in the studio. I can’t wait to resume painting you tomorrow...”
“I kind of hated you, but I admired your paintings anyway.” He scrambles a little, shifting again, this time to sit sideways.
He splashes some water out of the tub, but then puts his legs over the edge so he’s comfortably nestled between my thighs.
His ginger curls against the green tiles are yet another color palette I make note of in my mind.
Everything about him is so goddamn painterly.
Even that lazy eyelid, which gives him a note of melancholia.
“Yours are very different, so I clearly wasn’t an inspiration,” I start, dancing my fingers down his chest and across his stomach, gently nudging his prick with my knuckles. “Most of the completed ones show people sleeping. Why? ”
“Oh no, they’re dead,” he says matter-of-factly, and I must have made a face, because he goes on to explain.
“I work part-time at a funeral home, doing makeup on people who passed away. Wasn’t exactly my dream career, but some big shot artist stole my spot for an exhibition, so it is what it is.
I would have probably not been blacklisted if I didn’t throw coffee at the gallery owner, but what’s done is done. ”
Which is kind of hot, because that is what the old me would have done, the one who hasn’t yet killed a man and still needed to express his anger somehow .
Victor continues, “It’s peaceful work, even if I don’t get to socialize much.
And when I have downtime, I draw some of the dead.
They’re models who don’t move, so kind of win-win.
The first dead person I saw was Luke, the infamous stepbrother.
” Victor sighs deeply, staring at the tiles.
“And you know what? He looked quite beautiful in his death. Fucked-up thing to say, I know, but I find corpses fascinating. Not in that blood and gore kind of way, but they’re…
people, but kind of, not anymore? Bodies with no soul.
So maybe you’re wrong saying you’ve not been inspiration, because your self-portraits also have that otherworldly quality.
Absolutely stunning, but there’s an emptiness to them. ”
I can’t believe what he just said. A choking sensation starts at the base of my throat and dives deep into the chest, squashing everything inside it.
“What are you saying? That my art is lifeless?” It comes out sharp as a razorblade, and it cuts into the serene expression on Victor’s face, peeling it off near-instantly.
He flinches, and I hate that he’s not saying anything. Instead of honesty, I’ll be getting platitudes from someone trying to appease me. “No, no! More like… serene. Tranquil.”
Dead .
My mind’s racing, because the truth is that I don’t know much about the reception of my work beyond the fact that it sells. “Is that your take, or a prevalent opinion? Is that how people see my paintings?”
“No, I… I’d say most people just think they’re beautiful. That you’re mysterious and sexy.”
So why does that sound so unsatisfying? I don’t toil in my studio so a random person reposts my art with the caption ‘sexy’.
“That’s it? They’re just... beautiful?” I ask, sagging in the water, and right now I’m thankful Victor’s in my lap, because I would have bolted otherwise.
My paintings are my life.
Have I really grown so uninspired in my solitude? Have I not noticed when my soul left my body? Or have I hidden my identity so deep personality no longer shows in my work?
Victor licks his lips, but then scoots even closer and puts his arms over my neck to hug me. Is he comforting me ? “I’m sorry. But they appeal to me,” he tries, and I couldn’t be more torn.
On one hand, I feel seen. As a fellow artist, he seems to understand why just ‘beautiful’ is so crushing. On the other hand, Victor likes them, but he finds paintings of dead people appealing.
When I brought him into the bath, I expected a blowjob, not an existential crisis, but this is what I need to deal with.
”I’m not angry,” I reassure him before taking a deep breath and burying my face in his freckled neck. “I’m just disappointed. With myself. Because deep down I knew my art became stagnant, and I did nothing to confront it. Fuck...”
Even getting this hug from Victor, sensing his heartbeat where his wrists touch my neck, makes me feel more alive than I have been in months.
I thought I was fine while slipping into numbness.
My art’s been proficient, sure, but I’ve not evolved.
The closest I’ve come to innovation was that I considered incorporating Ratimir into my work.
Painting Victor today has already been more exhilarating than any of my latest self-portraits.
The magic was sparked by our interactions.
Not by me looking further inward but exploring another person, with all his quirks and his relationship to me.
Whether it be fear, attraction, anger, or the intoxicating mix of all three.
“I didn’t mean to upset you either way.” He gently kisses the side of my head.
My boring, beautiful head I’ve painted so many times I now want to vomit at the mere idea of peeking into a mirror when just yesterday I glanced into it so fondly.
“I’m sure you’ll revive your style one way or another if you want to. ”
“It’s already happening,” I mutter. Air is trapped deep in my throat as I cradle beautiful Victor against me, one arm around his back, the other sliding up his neck and feeling for his quickened pulse.
Right now, the green and blue water is the dangerous ocean of boredom, and his body—all the beautifully pale parts of him that emerge into the light, dotted by patterns I don’t yet know by heart—offers new lands to explore.
My very own treasure island.
“When I painted you earlier, it was like a frenzy. I feel drunk, but even if I wake up hungover, I want to have more,” I tell him, nose pressed to his.
I thought I caught myself a sexual outlet, one who deserved to be trapped for the transgression of invading my home.
Instead, I’m finding he’s already given me so much more.
He’s feeding the artist in me with his insight and curiosity.
He’s presented me with a whole new challenge by pointing out a blind spot.
In my mind, I frantically compare my latest paintings where I look so handsome and arrogant, gold leaf in my hair, with the crude reference photos I took of him, face streaked with tears, mouth full of my cum…
He might not have said it that way, but he’s right. Victor is alive, and I’m dead.
I will not be staying dead.
“Are you okay? Your heart is beating so fast,” he whispers and gives me a little kiss on the mouth.
“I... I think I will be. Thank you.”
I want him at my side. All the time. I want him to challenge me, so I never slip like this again. He will color the gray walls of my home and be the reason I pick up my brush.
“Turn around,” I say as I gently guide him. “Let’s get your hair pampered.”
When he pulls his arms up, I’m reminded of the zip-ties.
While he doesn’t complain or ask from them to be taken off, they’re a reminder of the entanglement we’re still in, and I rather keep it that way for a while.
He told me many things I’m sure are true, but I wasn’t born yesterday, and I haven’t survived thirty-five years in my line of work by trusting men I’ve just met.
He still needs to convince me that he won’t slit my throat while I sleep.