Chapter 8 #9
"But," he adds, softer now, brushing my hair back, "not yet. I don’t want to go too fast and scare you off. I don’t want to be something you regret."
"I won’t—"
"I know," he says. "But still. Let’s take our time. You deserve that." He leans in. Kisses me slow. Strokes my cheek.
We will wait, I won’t argue. Even though in my head, the decision’s already made.
…
We walk out of the bathroom together, and he follows me all the way to my suitcase while I go to grab my face cream.
I bend down to unzip it and he immediately swoops in and snatches my sketchbook.
"GIO—" I shoot up so fast I nearly hit his chin and go straight for it.
I can’t let him see. I have stuff in there I never planned on anyone seeing, especially not him. We wrestle in the middle of the hotel room while he runs around with my sketchbook held up.
"Gio, please, give it back, it’s not funny," I say, reaching for it.
"Then why are you laughing?" he throws back, yanking it further away and shoving me toward the bed with his shoulder.
I get up again immediately. "Because I’m fucking nervous, that’s why! Give it!" I grab his arm and yank him back toward me, using way more strength than I mean to.
Whoops.
He drops the sketchbook and falls right on top of me. "Who do you think you are?" he says, laughing against my chest.
"Why did you push me?"
"I’M SORRY—" I wheeze. "Get off."
"No."
"It was an accident! I panicked. I swear. Get off."
I start backing away as soon as he gets up. I’m out of breath.
He suddenly goes completely still.
I stop too. "What?" I ask.
"Did you hear something at the window?" I instantly whip my head around to look. The second I turn, he grabs me from behind and drags me back toward him and I let out this absolutely tragic scream, like I’m being murdered.
He tackles me onto the bed and before I can process anything, he’s on top of me again, pinning both of my wrists above my head with one hand. His other hand grabs my face.
"Gio," I shout, breathless and laughing. "You can’t hit me, I’m wearing glasses."
"Oh, shit…" he mutters. He reaches for them.
"No, no, NO, leave them—" I try to twist my head away from him but it’s useless, his hand follows. He slides the glasses off my face and then makes the one move I’m praying he won’t.
He tickles me.
I scream. Not a cute scream. I try to kick, to twist, to roll away, but he’s a bit stronger and has all the leverage.
"STOP, LET ME TALK—"
I throw everything I have into one last shove, manage to slip out from under him, and basically launch myself off the bed.
Now I’m sitting with my back against the wall, completely out of breath, my hair a mess, while he sits there on the bed laughing.
"Listen," I say between breaths, lifting a hand. "Okay. I’ll show you. I’ll show you what’s inside. Just… leave me alone." He grins and raises both hands in the air like he’s surrendering.
"Okay," he says. I walk toward him slowly, watching him the whole time, then I grab the sketchbook.
He laughs. "I’m not gonna mess with you, I swear. Come on. I wanna see. How bad can it be? I can’t draw shit." I laugh under my breath and sit next to him on the bed, carefully.
"If you touch me, I’m giving Allegra your number," I warn him.
"I won’t touch you!! Just show me."
I hand him the sketchbook, still hesitant. "Okay, listen," I start rambling immediately, "some of these are super rough, I did them at university, don’t start judging and—"
"Shut your mouth, Weston. Art is art."
"…Okay," I mumble.
He opens it. First page: a cat. He lets out this soft little laugh.
"She kinda looks like my cat."
"She does, actually. It’s a random cat outside campus."
"Very pretty," he says, looking straight at me when he says it. Then he turns the page. His eyes go huge.
Yeah. This is the part I didn’t want.
"You draw bikes???" he asks, shocked.
I laugh. "I just wanted something challenging. Bikes have a lot of detail, they’re not easy…"
He nods and studies it way too carefully.
My heart starts beating like crazy, because he actually knows about bikes. If anyone’s gonna see something wrong, it’s him.
"Wow. You really pay attention to every detail, you make it look easy," he says.
"I try," I mumble.
He flips to the next page and finds two faces. He looks at me, stunned. "What?" I ask, laughing.
"Holy shit. You can actually draw. Who are they?"
"A classmate of mine and her brother."
"They’ve seen these?" he asks, genuinely curious.
I nod. He keeps looking, turning more pages. I can feel my cheeks heating up, but he’s not mocking me.
He’s actually looking. Respectfully.
It’s embarrassing as hell, but also kind of… nice.
He touches one of the drawings with his fingertip, like he’s checking something.
"What are you doing?" I laugh.
"I wanna see if it rubs off. There’s no way you did these."
"Why ‘no way’?" I protest. "You think I’m useless or something? I like drawing."
He looks at me for a second. "Can you draw me?"
I freeze. Just… stare at him.
Me. Drawing Gio Fontana. He’s asking me to draw him. My throat goes dry and I swallow hard.
"Uh… now?"
"Now," he says. I stare at the pencils in my bag for a second. Then I look back at him. "You’ll have to sit still for a long time," I warn. "I’m not fast…"
"I don’t mind," He says immediately. "I’ve got as long as you need. All night."
"I don’t know if it’ll turn out good, though," I mumble. "I might make you ugly."
He snorts. "You’re not gonna make me ugly, I’m sure. From what I saw, you know exactly how to draw faces. You’re good. Please draw me."
That "please" hits way too hard. I laugh a little. "Okay," I say quietly. "I’ll try."
I get up and grab my pencil case from the suitcase.
Am I nervous? Absolutely. I’m terrified, actually. I don’t want to mess it up and have him laugh.
I’m going to use every single brain cell and neuron I have for this. I come back to the bed, clutching my stuff.
"Are we doing it here?" I ask, pointing at the mattress.
"You’re the artist," he says. "You decide."
I give him a tiny smile and look around the room. My eyes land on the small table with the two chairs. "There," I say, nodding toward it. "Come here." I sit in one chair and motion for him to sit in the other, directly across from me.
"You need to be close, so I can see the details."
He leans forward immediately, resting on his elbows, and just… looks at me. Straight into my soul.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
Yeah. If you want me dead. I swallow it down and just nod.
"Yeah. It’s good," I say. I open the sketchbook.
"Okay, what do I do now?" he asks.
"Just… stay like that," I say quietly. "Don’t move too much." My fingers are already tense around the pencil. I hate him a little bit for how calm he looks.
I sketch the outline of his head first. Easy stuff. If I pretend it’s some random model from Pinterest, my heart doesn’t beat this fast.
But then I look up, and it’s not Pinterest. It’s Gio. I’ve never done it on someone who’s looking straight back at me like that.
Every time I look up, he’s already looking at me. There’s no break. He doesn’t glance away, he doesn’t even pretend to be shy.
I don’t know how he does it. He’s just watching me watch him. "Stop staring," I mutter, focusing on the slope of his brow.
"I thought that was the point," he says.
"It’s the point that I stare at you, not the other way around," I say, trying to sound annoyed instead of flustered.
He grins. I sketch the eyebrows next. They’re darker, thicker toward the center.
I try to capture the way they dip when he’s concentrating. He’s concentrating now. On me. My pulse is so loud it’s actually embarrassing.
I move down to his nose, tracing the bridge with my eyes first. There’s a very tiny bump from when he broke it, when we’re younger.
Then my gaze drops to his mouth.
That’s where it gets complicated.
He opens it to say something.
"Don’t talk," I blurt out. "Excuse me?"
"I’m sorry, I’m just drawing your lips," I say, way too honestly. "If you talk, they move."
He goes quiet. He has a full bottom lip, a sharper edge on the top one. I sketch the curves lightly, trying to get the shape exactly right.
I take a deep breath, and I go over the part where the piercing sits. I look at the real thing again. That silver hoop on the side of his mouth. I draw it with a couple of simple strokes, a tiny highlight where the light hits.
It’s really such a small detail, but without it, it wouldn’t be him.
"Is that my piercing?" he asks quietly.
"Obviously," I say. "Kind of the main event."
He laughs softly and it ruins the angle, so I click my tongue. "Hold it like before. You moved."
"Yes, sir," he says. I move up to his eyes. I never noticed how long his lashes are. I draw the outline slowly, trying to get his gaze right.
There’s no point in drawing someone if you don’t get the way they look at you.
"Why are you frowning?" he asks softly.
"Because you’re annoying to draw," I say.
He smiles again. "Annoying how?"
"Your face has… a lot going on."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Take it however you want, Fontana," I mutter. He shifts again, this time just to lean even closer. "You’re really into this."
"No, I’m casually drawing your entire face from memory and live reference for fun," I say. "Of course I’m into this. Now stop talking. I need to get the shadows right."
He chuckles but obeys.
30 Minutes Later
My hand finally starts to relax. The drawing is starting to look like him, almost painfully like him.
I’m proud. Because the more it looks like him, the more it feels like proof.
That I saw him like this. That I studied every line. That I sat here and memorized him.
I take a step back in my mind and look at the page. His eyes. His brows. His stupid mouth with the ring. His jawline. Gio tilts his head a little.
"How’s it going, Picasso?"
"Don’t move," I say, but my voice comes out softer now.
I keep looking up and down. Gio. Paper. Gio. Paper.
I shade under his eyes, trying to copy the way the shadows fall. My hand is shaking.