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Figure Model Page 10

by Parker Porter


  Other than cars belonging to supportive parents, interested faculty, the performers themselves, and whatever other audience managed to throw themselves together for a mid-semester college recital, the parking lot didn’t look like it would be a problem at all. Ryker and Peter found Ryan’s truck and Ben’s coupe easily enough, and swung in to park beside them, pulling through before Wyatt had the chance to take the spot in front of them.

  They regrouped in time to walk together, filtering into the lobby like any of them possibly knew how to act off the bat at a fancy piano recital. Well, maybe Wyatt did, but that was probably because the stick up his ass prevented him from moving around too much and causing a scene.

  Before Peter could wonder if mocking the guy in his own head was overdoing it, he caught sight of some GSA members setting up a tablecloths on two card tables, ineffectively masking their cruddy appearance.

  “Nice of you to show up,” one of them said when Peter jogged over, uncorking a bottle of basic-brand wine. Everything was free, they just had to be stationed there to check ID and sell tapes of the performances. And, of course, promote the club, if anyone was even interested.

  “Gimme a break,” Peter griped, setting himself up in front of the tape order forms, deciding he didn’t want to be anywhere near where cheese and red wine could splatter and stain. It didn’t take long for Ryker, Hayden, and Wyatt to find him again (not that he had necessarily been hiding), the manchild Loudmouth hurrying over from beyond the sparse crowd while the awkward lovebirds trailed after.

  “Babe, you left me third wheelin’! Not cool!”

  “Can you at least try to act like an adult?” Peter rolled his eyes, while Ryker looked at him with a dramatic, pinched expression, magnified behind his thick lenses. Beside him, Hayden glanced a little desperately at the wine.

  “Do you mind?” he asked Wyatt.

  “Not at all. I’d probably partake if I wasn’t driving.”

  Hayden presented his ID, offered a plastic cup a moment later that didn’t suit the beverage at all - but it was easy to hold and disposable, so whatever. Peter frowned, thinking about how partake was a dumb word and he wouldn’t have minded a cup of wine himself, when someone out of the trickling congregation came close enough to be recognized.

  “Ryan, you made it!”

  “How are we doing over here, guys?” Ryan offered quick, one-armed hugs all around, his smile bright as ever. Peter couldn’t remember the last time he had actually seen him in the apartment. Sometimes the occasional snapshot from his room denoted his presence, but with Ryker arguing for fooling around on the couch so often, he couldn’t blame the photographer for not coming out of his room every time.

  “Ryan, this is Wyatt,” Peter exclaimed, when no one made a move to introduce the blond, gesturing indicatively to the silent stick-in-the-mud at Hayden’s side. To Wyatt’s credit, he smiled politely, offering a hand to shake without missing a beat.

  “Nice to meet you, Wyatt.”

  “Pleasure.”

  None of the grilling Peter had dreamed about happened right at that moment - but that was okay. The night was still young, and they were all supposed to go to a fun, friendly dinner afterward. Searching Wyatt’s face for any sign of intimidation, Peter almost missed when Ryan whipped out a program, consisting of fancy script printed on mint green paper.

  “Veronica said she saved us seats off to the side,” he said, skimming down the list of budding pianists. “She’s sixth out of a lineup of eight.”

  “That’s not too bad,” Hayden intoned.

  “Not too bad?” Ryker repeated incredulously. “Not too bad? You think I give a fuck about classical music? I can’t pretend I know jack about Beat-the-oven and Most-art for eight whole con-chair-toes! I can barely pretend for one!”

  Everyone in the general vicinity (that being Ryan, Hayden, Wyatt, and Peter) shushed Ryker vehemently. Peter was almost surprised that Wyatt joined in too, caught somewhere between offended on behalf of his Loudmouth, and pleasantly bemused that the Jew had the gumption.

  “Pete, can I stay out here with you?” Ryker whined, even when Peter offered only deadpan in return. “Just until Veronica is on? I’ll help you with your little table, I’m a pretty good salesman.”

  “I’d rather you just be quiet,” Peter grumbled.

  “I mean I can try.”

  “We should head inside,” Ryan said, hand lifting toward the double doors leading to the music hall. “It’s going to start soon, we shouldn’t make a commotion.”

  “Are you staying out here?” Wyatt asked Ryker, receiving an exuberant nod in reply. “Then I think we’ll be perfectly fine. Let’s go.”

  The three of them headed in with little ceremony, leaving Peter alone with Ryker. Blinking in the aftermath of Wyatt’s snappy remarks, Peter stared up at his boyfriend, motioning in the general direction of their friends.

  “See? Ryan doesn’t have a problem third wheeling.”

  “As if I’m capable of the same effortless perfection as Ryan Williams.”

  Peter conceded to that, attention drawn away as a straggling recital-goer wandered up reading over the tape forms. A few more filtered out between performances, piano music tumbling into the lobby consistently. For the most part Peter sat there bored, GSA buddies on one side and Ryker on the other, ambling around trying to entertain himself.

  “Gay Straight Alliance, huh?” An older fellow asked, moving over with his little wine cup to nod at the sign taped up over Peter’s shoulder.

  “Mhm,” Peter hummed, nudging the stack of forms forward invitingly. “Half the proceeds for the recordings of the recital go toward new music equipment, and the other toward college Pride this April.” All two dollars they’ll probably get, he thought, resisting an eye roll.

  “Which end do you fall on, sweets? You got somewhere to be tonight?”

  Disbelief lanced through Peter fast enough to give him whiplash, and it was all he could do not to black out with rage and wake up covered in this guy’s blood. “That’s okay, I’m with someone,” he said, trying to maintain politeness as he gingerly pulled the forms back.

  “Oh come on, don’t be like that.”

  “No really, I have a boyfriend.” Jabbing a finger at Ryker, standing there in dumb awe, was enough to have the guy backing off, strolling back to the hall as applause drifted out toward them. Shuddering was all Peter could do to shake the creepy-crawly sensation that had accosted him, lucky that the weirdo called it quits when he did.

  All of a sudden, Ryker tackled him, nearly knocking Peter out of the chair as long arms came around him and wet lips smacked obnoxious kisses all over his face. It was all Peter could do to bat him away, glad that only the other two GSA members had seen. No amount of pride proceeds, or Wyatt-related discomfort in the world was going to make up for the aggravation he endured that night.

  Chapter 12

  After a car ride plagued by comments about the weather, apologies for Peter’s behavior, and everything in between, Hayden wasn’t convinced just yet that this night was going anywhere particularly special. At least in the next couple hours, where he would have to endure an agonizing recital consisting of one worthwhile pianist - who also happened to be his ex, as Peter kept saying like it was a cherry bomb he could throw at Wyatt when he wasn’t looking. Veronica, Hayden thought deliberately, because she had a name and she was his friend beyond the scope of sexual encounters and broken relationships.

  If Wyatt was nervous, he sure couldn’t tell. The dirty blond had done an impeccable job of hiding his concerns before, and now seemed no different as they shuffled in to find their seats, Ryan in the lead. The music hall (a fancy word for auditorium, Hayden thought dryly) was all strips of tan mahogany, with boards and divets in the walls that the artist could only figure were to carry sound from the wide stage in the front. Given that this was a listening performance, and not so much a seeing performance, he was perfectly happy to slip into a row on the far left side, only vaguely aware that the person Ry
an came in next to was Ben Oliver, and that he probably didn’t have to say hello until the recital was over and the lights went up again.

  Hayden acted as a barrier between Wyatt and his friends, though luckily these were much tamer than the two selling forms and doling out wine in the lobby. In profile, Wyatt looked perfectly calm, but Hayden wondered if his pulse was on the same hammering level as his own.

  If he meant to say anything, reassuring or otherwise, the artist clammed up instead, as the lights dimmed further and an older woman in black, the professor no doubt, walked on stage to introduce the recital. Scattered applause followed her on her way out and a student no older than Hayden came out to occupy the sleek grand piano, glossy and ebony. He sat, and after a moment, a melody came tumbling out of the keys, silencing any undue noise in the audience.

  That is, until Hayden realized how boring this might have been for someone like Wyatt, who could have just as easily listened to the same stuff on a cassette tape.

  "I'm sorry," he admitted all of a sudden, leaning to whisper softly - wondering how long he'd been holding that one in. The student finished his piece, and applause danced around them. "You can leave, if you want. I can ride back with M-Ryan, it’ll be fine."

  "I know," Wyatt answered, brown eyes flicking over. His brow twitched, and for the life of him Hayden couldn’t tell if he was annoyed by the constant apologies, or trying his own hand at reassuring. Sliding his elbow off the arm rest between them, he still couldn’t tell when Wyatt shifted himself closer, tall enough to lean in quite a bit as he tipped his chin to the side.

  "Are you trying to get rid of me?" he teased quietly, in the same moment that piano music started up again. It almost prevented Hayden from hearing him. But he did, even if comprehension meant his embarrassed flush came a couple seconds late. If the remark was meant meant to be playful, he missed it under the overwhelming urge to deny Wyatt such a claim.

  "No, not at all," Hayden insisted unevenly, still whispering, head shaking as he edged closer still to the blond. "I just- well, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable." But perhaps if Wyatt truly didn't want to be here to every extent, he wouldn't have agreed. He had avoided much more for much less anyway.

  Maybe they should just get over the goddamn stifling atmosphere of hushed tones and classical music, and do what they had come to accomplish - what exactly had that been, again?

  "I don't know anything about you," Hayden confessed, ultimately. ‘Jewish finance student who liked to pose nude’ was an alright start, but what made that any different from what acquaintances might know about each other? If they were both aiming to be more than that. "And, you don't know anything about me."

  The song was still going strong, when Wyatt offered Hayden the comfort (or discomfort) of his full expression, turning away from the stage completely. Reality seemed to warp in that moment, as Wyatt shifted just a little closer to bring his mouth alongside Hayden's ear, like they weren’t in a spacious auditorium, surrounded by people.

  "What would you like me to know?"

  A thrill tingled all the way up Hayden's spine to back of his neck, and he had to wonder if Wyatt was doing that part on purpose. It was a pretty gutsy claim to make, but still.

  The artist had to wrack his brain for things about himself that might actually be of interest. All he could think about were habits and hobbies - the artistic ones, and those Wyatt already knew about. He didn’t dare delve into accounts of his past. What a downer that would be.

  "I’m a Capricorn," he answered, maintaining proximity, almost joking even as he fiddled with his right arm rest nervously. The lighting made Wyatt's eyes look almost black, stage lights casting oblongs of white in his irises.

  This was hard. Maybe Wyatt really did know everything about Hayden.

  "Sometimes I smoke," the artist tried, wondering briefly about self-sabotage, "and I've never dated a stranger, before."

  Was this even dating though? He supposed if anything it revealed that part of the reason for his discomfort was how alien it all was to him. Different from sucking off or getting sucked off by friends, sometimes blossoming into something more, sometimes not. Familiarity was a powerful thing. Just like unfamiliarity.

  "Me neither," Wyatt answered initially. Which was enough to relieve Hayden of that particular facet of his doubt, as the second performer finished his piece. At least Wyatt was in a similar boat of inexperience, however different it might be in other ways. It was enough for Hayden to breathe easier though, thinking if nothing else, they were there for a mutual attraction that hadn't gone out even during the worst of it. That had to mean something.

  The applause died, and the third budding pianist took her place at the bench.

  "I'm- a dragon?" the blond continued, brow pinching as if trying to remember. Hayden tried not to smile too much when his own half-serious zodiac sign was met with not only a completely different astrological plane, but no explanation all together.

  Tipping his body ever so slightly to the side, he took the chance to survey Wyatt while it was allowed, even in the dark. Outside the realm of the classroom, Hayden could stare when he had to listen, act responsive, but other than that, it was hard to bring himself to do anything else that might be considered creepy.

  "What do you smoke?" Wyatt asked in conclusion to the succession of information he had been presented with.

  "Whatever Ryker brings home and wants to share," Hayden replied easily - wondering if the question in the first place meant Wyatt was well-seasoned, or didn't touch the stuff. He'd hate for a habit he didn't even have to ruin his chances.

  "It makes me less anxious," he explained, a little quieter as the sensitive stuff started to seep out of the woodwork. Should they have been paying more attention to the performances? It felt like a bubble formed around them and the rest of the audience.

  "I've never tried," Wyatt mentioned idly.

  "It's not for everyone," Hayden said, suddenly afraid of coming off as some kind of pothead when that the reality was he probably didn't even smoke enough to warrant saying he did in conversation. D.A.R.E . had done its best to make them all feel like trained soldiers in the war on drugs, after all. Besides, all it took was a look at how Wyatt dressed to know they led very different personal lives.

  "I had an unusual experience with antihistamines, once," Wyatt murmured, instead of anything particularly terrible - leaving Hayden stifling smiles all over again. "After a run in with some poison ivy."

  The fourth took the stage a moment later.

  "Are you from around here?" Wyatt asked, after a break to clap, like they were supposed to be doing all along.

  "I'm from two hours northeast of here," Hayden offered, wondering if Wyatt had even heard of the bumfuck town he was from, and deciding not to bother with a name because of it. "Near B-buh-Bangor. I moved here for ss-school."

  “Oh, my parents live in that direction.” Neither of them elaborated very much on details that might concern their hometowns, leaving Hayden to wonder if they were in a similar boat experience-wise. Unwilling to let it end there, though (even though they were probably being all kinds of rude), he wracked his brain for something more to say.

  "My favorite color is red," Hayden offered a second later, a poor follow up to an even worse start. It was almost too innocent a question, as if they were in grade school. Wyatt at least gave him the benefit of looking thoughtful, though.

  "I like green." He almost sounded coy, leaving Hayden piqued to curiosity by the playful look in brown eyes. Motivation enough, to keep asking questions, and offer answers of his own.

  Soon enough they were all but ignoring the performances completely as one pianist came after another after another, swapping fun facts as if it were college orientation. This wasn't nearly as excruciating, though, and Hayden was even pleased to get the faintest smiles out of the calm blond. As if they were picking up where they left off, before Wyatt asked him to close a door so many Tuesdays ago.

  Only a gangly body hurrying down the
left aisle could draw Hayden’s attention away, realizing it was Ryker, stumbling into the row beside Wyatt. “Did I miss it?” he whisper-shouted.

  “What?” Hayden asked dumbly - only to turn toward the stage, and find Veronica walking out from one curtain as the last performer exited from the other side. Wearing a green dress Hayden hadn’t seen before, her long titian hair looked even brighter under the stage lights. As if there was not an entire audience of people watching her (however few seats they filled up), she sat at the piano like she had not a care in the world.

  Whispers filtered around the five of them until Ben hushed them once and for all. Veronica placed her slender, freckled hands across the ivory keys. Hayden wondered if anyone else but them noticed her shoulders rise and fall minutely, evidence of a cleansing breath.

  Without anymore pomp and circumstance, she dove in, hammering out the opening chords of a melody vaguely familiar to Hayden, though he did not know the name. The simple opening quickly devolved into quick fluttering clusters of notes around the keyboard that only the most skilled player could have handled. Veronica’s fingers barely looked like they were touching keys at all as she flew around the piano.

  “What’s this song called?” Ryker whispered, leaning across Wyatt and Hayden as Ryan offered up the program. “Hungarian Rhapsody Number Two? What happened to the first one?”

  “It’s probably just a separate piece. The title doesn’t mean anything,” Wyatt murmured in reply.

  “How do you say Galileo! Galileo! in Hungarian?”

  “Sh!”

  Hayden wasn’t sure how much time passed, but the song only seemed to pick up by the end of it, quickening until Veronica’s elbows were jumping with the speed of each cadence. How did she even have enough fingers to make all that noise?

  The piece ended with a raucous flourish, and polite applause broke out once again - all but in the group in the left aisle of seats, who whooped and clapped their hands together like they had just witnessed Beethoven himself - or whomever it was that actually composed this piece.

 

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