I put my hand on his shoulder for a bit of touch. I miss the easy way in which he was all over me whenever hepleased, but with the state of his hands, I wouldn’t dare rush him into anything. I’m not sure he’s ready for kissing either, since his lips got badly burned. The last thing I want is to push him too far too soon when he’s even given up on his usual routine and insists we should wear clothes.
Overall, I think I did a good job treating him with the supplies available. The dark patches where the state of his skin was the worst have now paled, and the scabs that appeared where it broke are gone, but the flesh still appears swollen, and on the left side, where the burns were most aggressive, his skin is reminiscent of dough that’s been handled carelessly.
Uneven, somewhat twisted, it spoils the angelic features he used to have, but nothing could make him ugly. To me, he is still the man who can endlessly talk about art, who protected and fed me, the man who showed me what love means. I will wait for him for as long as it takes.
Is it delusional? Oh well, I didn’t arrive at his house because I’m sane.
A sharp huff leaves Seva’s lips as the brush in his hand trembles, spraying some of the paint around the spot where he likely wanted to put the color. “This is hopeless.”
I steady his hand and help him put down the brush on the table. “It’s not. It’s been barely over a month since the accident. You’re walking, speaking, healing well. Just two weeks ago, you weren’t able to hold the brush for more than a few minutes, so just look at the progress.” I kiss the top of his head, but I finally look at the underpainting, and I realize the figure has no face. I hope this is a call back to the work he did before his grand face reveal, not a comment on how he feels about himself.
“This might be the best I can ever do. I might never be able to go back to the kind of painting I used to do,” he says, frustrated, and as he faces me, the sun comingin through the huge window sinks the uneven spots on his burned face in shadow. It’s so tough to see him this despondent, in a studio that used to be full of important items and unfinished work. Now, even with the salvaged art brought back in, it seems as empty as Seva’s expression.
I pull a chair closer and sit next to him. “I think you’ll recover well, especially with how it’s been going so far, but in the meantime, let’s think out of the box. Seva, you aresotalented. If the issue is with the detailed work right now, how about you go bigger. I can prepare a larger canvas for you. Pete is happy to wait for your next painting, so why not experiment?”
He laughs, but nothing about the way he looks at me is humorous. Dark locks of hair fall into his eyes. Seva has been combing it that way since he realized the fire damaged the outer half of his brow and burned off a small patch of hair on the same side of his head. “Easy for you to say. I had plans. So many paintings I never managed to create outside my head.”
I stay silent for a while. “Nothing about this is easy. It’s torture to see you in so much pain and be able to help only so much. But if we can survive this, itwillget better, and youwillpaint anything you dream of. I believe in you.”
I know he’s suffering both inside and out. He has nightmares every night. He talks about the self-portraits he’s lost to the fire, sometimes he even talks about his face. About the threat of nothingness.
I soothe him through the nightmares the best I can and never mention it to him when he’s awake.
“If I can’t hold a brush, how can I protect us?” he mumbles, looking away.
I take my time to answer while I gently grab his hand. I’ve been mulling over this for a while now, but the timingnever felt right. I can only hope he doesn’t take offence at my proposition.
“I’m sure you can. You designed this house for this very reason, but I’ve been thinking… As terrible as it is what happened, could it possibly be an opportunity to leave? No one’s seen you. No one knows about the accident. You said it yourself that you don’t even know how many enemies you have. This threat will never end if we stay here. We could leave all of this behind now that they won’t be able to recognize you.”
I feel him stiffen before I can see the physical evidence of it, the deep-seated paranoia ringing in alarm while I offer a solution incompatible with the way he’s planned his life. But Seva doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t shout.
After a moment of uncertain stillness, his shoulders slump. “The house is safer.”
“A, it isn’t. B, is this really what you want to do? Do you not want to travel? See more of the world? Your style has already changed so much since I arrived. Even your paintings won’t be an obvious giveaway once you show them to the world.”
I know I’m pushing, but it’s been brewing in me for a while now and I must make him see reason. Otherwise, the topic will die for another few weeks, and who knows how much time we have until another attack.
Once again, that ugly laugh.
Seva hangs his head, turning away from me. He’s separating himself from me. Withdrawing. “Travel? With a face like this? Are you joking?”
I can’t let him do this. Not to me, and not to himself. I get up, and I can only hope it doesn’t hurt him when I put my fingers against his cheek. “Seva, please don’t. When we met, did you lie about liking my face? The weird eye, the freckles, how my nose isn’t really in the center of myface? You toldmethere’s beauty in the asymmetry. You’re just more unique now.”
He opens his mouth, sucking air as if he’s drowning. “It’s different! You were born that way. I—I lost my face, so stop pitying me!” When he pushes my hand away, I can’t help my eyes stinging.
“It’s not pity! You’re still stunning to me. Because of all you are and all you represent, because of who you are as a person. I… I don’t know how else to explain it. I’ll show you.”
I walk off in frustration to grab the sketchbook I’ve been self-conscious about showing him. Still, I gather the courage and push it into his hands, hoping he’ll understand when hesees.
Seva shakes his head but opens the sketchbook with care. Even now, he doesn’t disparage my work. I’m nervous about him seeing it, because I’ve been drawing his face throughout his recovery. The scars, the blisters filled with fluid, abstract textures based in the stages his skin has gone through are all there. But that’s not all I’ve poured onto the pages. As he flips through the book, face carved in stone, more of my inner world is revealed.
Sketches of Seva sitting leisurely on the balcony. Naked, and so powerful in his size and masculinity despite the bandage covering his head. Studies of his body that include the burns but reveal my desperate attraction, because yes, I drew his cock hard in some of them. In one of the sketches, I captured him playing with a large knife, and excitement squeezes the pit of my stomach when I look at it even now.
Yes, he is different now, but after struggling through a few terrible weeks, he’s emerging like a beautiful gargoyle carved out of indestructible stone and capable of eliminating anyone in his path with a deadly glare.
I want to never part from him, so I watch him turn the pages of my sketchbook. The silence is eerie, because those drawings tell everything there is to say about my feelings for him, but he isn’t belittling me for them either. He’s interested and even leans down to see some of the shading in more detail. He stops on a recent portrait I did of him while he slept. It’s just a quick study, the healthy side of his face squashed against the pillow, unruly hair spilling around him like a halo. I made sure to commit to paper how long his lashes are, but the detail I focused on most were the chapped lips.
I miss them.
