Adagio #2
I sat back, taking in his face while considering exactly what I wanted to create on my unconventional canvas. It wasn’t going to be anything Picasso would rise from the grave to applaud, but art was apparently subjective, and this was infinitely more appealing than smearing paint on paper.
Dipping the brush into the water, I mixed red, black, and yellow until the shade warmed into a soft brown. I leaned in, brush hovering over Bodhi’s cheek, then froze.
“You’re not allergic to face paint, are you?”
He shrugged, which was not at all reassuring. My brows knit together. “So . . . is that a yes or a no?”
“Dunno,” he said. “Never had it done before.”
“What?” I squawked, making him jolt. “You never had your face painted as a kid?”
Bodhi shook his head. “Nah. My mom was too busy with work, so we never went to carnivals or anything.”
My chest pinched at that, but I forced myself to stay focused. He’d agreed. He trusted me. Probably unwisely, but still.
“Okay,” I said softly, and finally brought the brush to his skin.
Then I began to paint.
For a while, we sat in silence. Something was definitely coming together on his skin. It wasn’t exactly what I’d pictured in my head, but I wasn’t displeased with it either.
“What does your mum do for work?” I asked, rinsing the brush until the water turned cloudy.
“She volunteers in a library,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere near my shoulder.
“That’s cool.” I switched to green, loading my brush. “What about your dad?”
“Don’t know him. He left when I was a baby.”
“That’s shit,” I said simply. “What an asshole.”
Bodhi shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “Never really bothered me. I was fine with just my mom.”
“Did you grow up in LA?” I asked as I dabbed green along the line of his jaw.
“Nah.” He fell quiet long enough that I assumed he wouldn’t elaborate, until he added, “I grew up in New York. Brooklyn.”
“I’ve only been to Manhattan,” I said, briefly remembering performing at the NYC Center with the Royal. “It was cool. Busy, but cool.”
“Brooklyn’s a, uh . . . different vibe from the island.”
“Must be expensive to live in the city,” I mused, dragging the brush carefully over his cheek. “London’s a ball ache unless you’ve got a roommate or a decent job.”
“That’s where you’re from?” he asked.
I glanced up, surprised by the question and the curiosity in his blue-eyed stare. Until now, our dynamic had basically been me chattering and him throwing out the occasional reluctant syllable. This was the first time he’d asked something about me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Born and raised.”
“Cool.” He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze again. “What about your parents?”
“What do you mean?” My fingers tightened around the brush before I could stop them.
“Are they, um . . . around?”
I mixed a few shades of pink, keeping my eyes on the palette. “They’re alive,” I said. “Wouldn’t really say they’re around, though.”
“You’re not close with your family?”
“My brother’s okay, but he’s busy becoming a doctor. My parents could do without me bothering them.” I shrugged, adding quietly, “The feeling’s mutual.”
Silence drifted back in. Not uncomfortable, exactly, just heavy. I focused on the strokes of colour, and Bodhi seemed to be processing what I’d said.
Eventually, I asked, “What do you do? For work?”
My back was beginning to ache from how close I was leaning, so I finally sat back and arched my spine until it cracked, sighing in relief. The new distance let me take in my progress, and a smile tugged at my lips. Not half bad, but not quite finished.
“Okay, everyone,” Darren called out. “Fifteen more minutes, then you can grab some lunch.”
I turned back to Bodhi just in time to catch him scrunching his nose like a disgruntled house cat. It took me a second to realise why. He had an itch. There was no paint anywhere near his nose, but he didn’t know that, and instead of risking smudging my work, he’d resorted to making faces.
For some reason, the sight made warmth unfurl in my chest.
“Got an itch?” I asked. He nodded, so I reached out, pressing a fingertip to the tip of his nose. “Here?”
“A little to the left.”
I followed his instructions until he hummed softly. Then I curled my finger and scratched lightly.
“That better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” The corner of his mouth lifted, just the smallest curl, and my breath caught.
Bodhi was smiling. Barely, but still. It was the first time I’d seen anything on his face that wasn’t indifference or mild annoyance. It softened him, making him look younger. Lighter, almost, like the sun had finally reached a part of him he usually kept tucked away.
And I’d put that look there. Me.
Right then, I decided I wanted to do it again. As often as I possibly could.
I wet the paintbrush again and added a touch of white to the tip. “Tell me,” I pressed. “What do you do for work?”
“I’m a musician,” he said.
I couldn’t help the smile that pulled at my lips. “So I was right about you being a tortured artist.”
His own smile grew. It was small, fleeting, but big enough that I had to bite down on a squeal. I didn’t draw attention to it, though. I didn’t want to scare it away.
“Something like that,” Bodhi murmured. “I’m in a band.”
“That’s cool. What do you play?”
“The piano,” he answered, glancing down at his hands, clasped in his lap. “But I’m the lead singer.”
I chuckled. “So instead of a notebook full of poetry, yours is full of lyrics.”
“Fuck off,” Bodhi huffed, and nudged his knee into mine. The contact sent a spark straight through me, buzzing under my skin like a live wire.
“Will you play for me sometime?” I asked, dipping back into the white paint. “There’s a piano in the lounge on the first floor.”
His blue eyes flicked up to mine. “Maybe.”
I nodded, because I knew “maybe” from him was better than outright refusal.
“What about you?” he asked as I dabbed a soft highlight above his brow. “What do you do?”
I paused, resting the end of the brush against my bottom lip. I wasn’t sure how much to share. But we were in rehab, where honesty seemed to be extremely important, and I wanted Bodhi to let me in. Which meant it was only fair I cracked myself open a little too.
“I was a ballet dancer,” I said quietly, brushing white along his cheekbone.
“Was?” His tone was gentle, but the real question hung in the air between us.
What happened?
I lifted my free hand and touched my fingertips to his jaw, coaxing his head to the right. Goosebumps rose beneath my touch, racing down his neck and vanishing under his T-shirt.
“I couldn’t do it anymore,” I said softly. “I—”
“Two minutes, everyone,” Darren called. “Iggy, remember to take a photo. You can use my phone, and I’ll print it for you in the office.”
I added one last speck of white, then lowered the brush into my lap, leaning back. “That’s a story for another day,” I said, smiling even though it didn’t quite reach my eyes.
Darren approached and handed me his phone before circling Bodhi like an art critic. I chewed my lip, waiting for the inevitable—for him to announce that it was crap and that I’d be condemned to a canvas next time.
“It looks great, Iggy.”
My head snapped towards him. Darren was smiling. Like, actually smiling.
“Really?”
He nodded. “I guess you’ve found your new medium.” Then he wandered away, muttering something about coming back for his phone.
I turned to Bodhi. He was watching me with . . . warmth. Soft, tender warmth. A kind I wasn’t used to. Usually, I was tolerated at best—too loud, too dramatic, too much. But there was none of that in his eyes.
Just . . . fondness.
It unravelled something in me.
“Ready to pose?” I asked, waving the phone at him.
Bodhi nodded. I opened the camera and angled him until the light hit just right.
After taking a few photos, I showed him the screen.
While he swiped through, I let myself admire what I’d painted: a branch filled with light pink and white cherry blossoms curling along his jawline and across his forehead, green leaves nestled between the petals.
A symbol of hope and new beginnings.
It had turned out better than I’d expected, and I’d even learned a little more about the man behind all the walls.
“What do you think?” I asked.
He looked up, eyes meeting mine. “You did good.”
The praise hit me like fireworks, bright, loud, and impossible to hide from. My cheeks heated instantly. Unsure what to say, and unwilling to blurt out a bashful thank you, I stood and dropped the paintbrush into the water cup before grabbing the palette.
“I’ll grab a towel or something so you can wipe your face.”
I started to retreat, but his fingers closed softly around my wrist. I froze. I didn’t want to turn around. His compliment had felt like he’d sliced me open, and after seeing his drawing of me earlier, so scarily accurate in its portrayal, I wasn’t sure I wanted him peering any deeper.
“Iggy,” he murmured.
His voice was low and warm, humming through the centre of my chest like gentle static, calming in a way I didn’t understand.
I turned back. “Yeah?” My voice came out raspier than I intended.
“Did you perform?” he asked. “When you did ballet.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I um . . . I loved it.”
“Why?”
I drew a slow breath.
“Because I finally felt seen.”
A shadow passed over his face. He smiled again, but it was weighted, tinged with something sad. Something he didn’t say out loud.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Same.”