thirty
“You see the world and want to paint it. I see the world, and I want to destroy it.”- Leo
“Take off your clothes and lay down.” Callisto's voice is deep and syrupy smooth, coating me in a mixture of sweet and sultry.
I lick my lips, wanting to taste the words.
He closes the distance between our mouths, kissing me slowly, his tongue licking the seam of my mouth.
I briefly wonder if he can taste his words on my lips.
After a short amount of time, far too short in my opinion, Callisto pulls back, looking over at the bed as if to say, ‘what are you waiting for’.
I do as Callisto suggests, stripping down to my underwear then laying on the bed.
The air is cold against my skin, and I shiver, anticipation making the chill-bumps worse.
I spent the last hour in his lap with his dick pressed against my crack the entire time.
I may have wiggled more than necessary to feel it harden beneath me.
“This paint is water soluble, but it may stain your skin. Is that okay?”
Callisto asks, walking slowly toward me with a palette in his hand.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.
I don’t know exactly why I’m so nervous.
It could be the way his voice sounds slow and silky smooth, with an underlying promise.
It could be what the near future holds for me.
“That’s fine. It may not matter in a few hours anyways.” I meant it as a joke, something to lighten the mood, but it came out stilted and sad, my voice cracking. I close my eyes for a moment, not wanting to see his face.
He asked me this morning not to pretend everything was okay, and I had been trying to honor that. I’ve been ignoring things, but I haven't exactly been pretending. This is the first time I’ve said anything about the impending events since this morning.
Callisto is so quiet, I am forced to open my eyes to see if he’s even still in the room. He is. He’s standing beside the bed looking at me with an unreadable expression.
He looks like he wants to say something but doesn't know what to say. He can’t argue with me. We both know it. We both have to come to terms with the fact that in the best case scenario, we will be separated, and in the worst, we will die together.
The sunlight is pouring through the window behind Callisto, giving him an otherworldly glow, his curls looking more like a halo.
I haven't considered heaven since I was a young boy, going to church with my mom and dad.
I had always pictured golden roads and beautiful angels with long blond hair and blue eyes. I was wrong, though.
Heaven is this room, hours before my demise.
Angels have dark hair and green eyes. Perhaps I have already died and have done something right in my deceitful life to deserve this.
Or maybe hell is this being taken from me.
Maybe hell does exist after all, and I will be met with it in a few short hours when this all goes away.
“When did you start collecting your art?” Callisto asks, and I am confused by the question. He looks at my arms, the tattoos scattered there, and I understand.
“Umm… I got my first one when I was sixteen, and just kind of never stopped. I thought they were a good way to mark various milestones in my life. I figured if I didn’t have a physical home, I could always take what was important with me wherever I went. Even though I could lose everything else,
I could never lose my tattoos,” I explain, the words coming out quick.
He smiles at the story, moving to the bed beside me.
“That’s beautiful, Leone,” Callisto responds, squeezing some paint onto the palette.
I wait patiently as he completes the task.
Well, as patiently as I can. I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin at any moment, the anticipation of what's to come making my world feel unsteady.
“That’s kind of the reason I got my ‘Brazil’ tattoo. Maybe I will get more if we survive this.”
“You would look pretty with tattoos. You’re pretty anyway, don’t get me wrong. You love art so much, so I don’t see why you wouldn’t get it tattooed. There are some really amazing tattoo artists out there,” I say, for lack of something better to say.
So much is being left unspoken, but neither of us are willing to broach the subject.
Instead, we dance around it like flames in the night.
“Maybe you can take me to your favorite artist after all of this is over.” His smile is sad, as if he knows it’s a lie.
A stabbing sensation hits me directly in the heart because I want to take him to get a tattoo. I want to do all of this with him, but none of it will happen. I almost call bullshit on his lie, but I don't. I let the fantasy play out because that is so much easier than facing the truth.
“Oh, I know just the place. He’s a great artist. The guy that did this bird.” I point to my arm. He takes a brush, dipping it into some green paint. He stares at the bird for a few moments, apparently deciding this is the first tattoo he wants to paint.
A pink tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he slowly lowers the brush down to my skin. The paint is cold, and I barely resist the urge to pull away from the unfamiliar sensation. It also tickles, a chuckle escaping me a moment later.
“Maybe after, we could go to a gallery. I could explain to you why I like certain paintings. Show you my favorite pieces,” Callisto continues as he paints more colors onto my skin, making the bird come to life.
All of my tattoos are in black and white, and perhaps this is the reason. Only Callisto could add color to them.
“I’d like that. We could go get coffee or something, maybe go shopping. You could buy some ridiculously expensive clothes, and I could watch you model them for me,” I add. Images of a giddy Callisto twirling in a frilly shirt for me flash before my eyes.
I don't like to fantasize over things I will never have, preferring to live in the moment. I’ve spent far too many nights envisioning my old home, being wrapped up in my mom’s arms again, only to wake up on a cold street with an empty stomach. Fantasies are false hope.
“Then we could come back here and invite your friends over for more greasy food and video games,” Callisto muses, starting to fill in the small teddy bear with purple paint, making quick work of it.
“Did you have fun last night?” I ask because I can’t help myself. My friends can be a bit too much, especially with all of the harmless jabs and playful name calling.
“Yeah. I had a lot of fun actually. It…”
Callisto’s sentence trails off, his brush pausing on my skin.
I look at him, waiting patiently for him to finish his thought.
He gets off the bed, and I think I may have done something to upset him.
I open my mouth to ask, when he moves, straddling my hips.
I suppress a groan at the feeling of his weight on top of my body once more.
Callisto gently takes my necklace, moving it to the side. Then he dips his brush into some more paint, lowering it onto my chest while he continues speaking, “It’s just that… like… it felt like I had friends. I know that’s stupid because they’re your friends…”
“It’s not stupid. They aren’t just my friends. Nico was there, and he’s your friend. I also think you and Evan could be good friends. He’s really smart, like you. You two have a similar sense of humor. There is a reason why you and Nico fit in so seamlessly last night,” I point out,
trying to make Callisto understand that he is capable of having friends.
That people can like him, and he doesn’t have to be alone all the time.
He smiles sadly down at me, as if he doesn't believe me, and I wish I had more time to make him understand.
“You’re all really smart, but Evan’s a genius, right? Why isn’t he in college or something?”
Callisto asks, gliding the paint brush over my chest.
I have gotten used to the sensation now.
I have no idea what he’s painting, but it is relaxing, almost lulling me to sleep.
My body feels drunk on the sensation, my eyes as heavy as the air around us.
“Yeah, he is. I’m not sure. Like I said, we don’t really talk to each other about our past. I know he went to college once, but he dropped out. College isn’t for everyone, though.”
I shrug my shoulders subtly, so I don't mess up whatever he’s creating.
The brush grazes over my nipple, sending shivers down my spine, my cock twitching.
I hope he didn’t feel it. If he did, he’s not letting it show in the long, even strokes of his paint brush.
“Education is important,” Callisto responds, his tongue poking out again as he adds some sort of detail to whatever he’s painting on my collarbones. I am dying to know what it is, but I don't even try to look. Just watch him as he works, and it’s breathtaking.
“I agree. Education is important, but the educational system in America is so fucked up,” I say, the argument coming easy to me.
“How so?” He asks, and it’s a genuine question. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that he has been living under a rock in a lot of ways. He said himself that he turns off the news because it makes him uncomfortable. He has no clue about the real problems that Americans face.
“People who go to college and aren’t wealthy, start their lives off with thousands of dollars in debt, and they will probably never get out from under it because of interest and fees,” I say.
“But they know that going in. They know when they take out loans they will have to pay them back. They go to college to get good jobs in order to make paying them back easier,” Callisto responds, eyes on whatever he is painting on my chest.
“Just because they go to college doesn’t mean they get a good job. Most people can’t find a good job when they graduate because they don’t have any experience. Not even entry-level because they want experience, and most internships are unpaid.”
My skin heats up at this particular topic.
It makes me so angry how rich people pretend that poor people get the same advantages as them. They don’t.
“What? Really? Like I said, my parents paid for my schooling. I have no idea how much they paid. I never saw the checks that they sent in. I know I’m pretty ignorant on this subject, so I’m not trying to argue. I’m trying to learn,” Callisto clarifies, his eyes honest.
It soothes me and makes me realize how far we’ve come in a short week.
At the beginning of the week, this would have been a real argument with screaming. Now, it feels more like a discussion.
“Well, say you went to a school in the US, it would be at least 40 thousand dollars. Let's just say you went to a state school like most people. Your degree is in art history, right?”
“Yeah.” Callisto nods.
“Now imagine they didn’t pay for your schooling, and you graduated with this degree in art history, and now you have 40k in student loan debt. What kind of job can you get with that degree? Would you get it right away? How much would your salary be?
Would it be enough to pay off your debt in ten years?”
I ask the questions in quick succession, wanting to show Callisto what would be going through the average student’s mind.
“I- I don’t think it would. The degree I earned doesn't have good job placement and is known to not pay well in the jobs you can get. I chose it because I love art, though, not for a career.” Callisto shrugs his shoulders.
At some point during the course of our discussion, he has stopped painting.
He’s looking down at me, his messy hair falling down around his face.
The paint dries on my skin, and I resist the urge to scratch at it.
Instead, my hands find his thighs, squeezing them to let him know that I’m not trying to argue either.
“That kind of debt affects most people for the rest of their lives. They can’t get a car loan or a mortgage, which makes them hesitant to start a family. They’re told to go to college to get an education and better their lives, but they still end up living paycheck to paycheck,
being slowly crushed by debt.” I run my finger up and down his thighs.
“You’re really smart, you know? You’re just proof that people don’t need an education to be intelligent. I know plenty of rich kids with a 100 grand education that couldn’t argue a point half as well as you. Every single day, I become more amazed by you. How your mind works. How you see the world.”
Callisto’s eyes are wide and honest as he looks down.
He sits the paint down, pushing it over to the side, forgetting about it.
I don’t know if he’s finished with whatever he was creating, and I’m not sure I care because Callisto looks so fucking beautiful in the low light of the room, the sun setting as we speak.
I reach up, tracing a path from his hair down his jaw before I cup it in my palm.
He closes his eyes briefly, nuzzling into my touch.
“Sometimes I wish I could see the world like you, though. You see something so innocent and beautiful. You see the world and want to paint it. I see the world, and I want to destroy it,” I whisper.
“I’ve learned that sometimes there’s beauty in destruction.”
Callisto’s eyes are shining in the low light, searching mine.
I’m not sure what he's trying to find, but I open myself up to it.
To him. The way he’s gazing at me feels raw, as if he’s stripping me of my skin, taking my tattoos with it.
Taking the stories and memories they hold and examining them until he can read me like a book. Like reading my obituary before I die.
I close my eyes when he leans down, our lips meeting a few moments later. The kiss is soft and tender, as if the fragile moment would break if he kissed me any harder. It’s perfect, but he is perfect in a lot of ways. That’s probably why he annoyed me so much at first.
He seemed so perfect, something that I have never been. I have also seen Callisto when he wasn’t at his best, but I suppose that is what was so wonderful about this week. We skipped the awkward fake bullshit and went straight to the rawness of life.
You don’t get to know people that way, though. You don’t get to know them with small talk and personality assessments. No. You get to know them by spreading them open. You find what hurts them. You find what makes them smile. You poke those parts of them until you're both screaming then kissing…
Until you can’t see them for anything other than what they are, a human with flaws. Knowing someone isn’t a question, it’s watching their actions in high stress situations. It’s finding their patterns so you can circumvent their spiraling.
“Fuck me,” I say, breaking the kiss.