“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, butsomebig 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 angersomehow.
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 comfortingme? “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, buthefinds 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 morealive 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, Ifrantically 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.”
