True Colors

by Clare London

  “You sure they won’t be staking out this house as well? The press?” Zeke’s voice was only half-amused.

  “The security firm will keep a cordon around the grounds. No one can get nearer than the gate without my permission.” Miles reached out and touched Zeke’s cheek. “I said we’d be safe here. We’re hidden for a while.”

  “To take stock of things?” Zeke suggested.

  “Yes.” Miles flushed a little. “And so I have the chance to show you the one thing I do spend my money on: my art collection. I want to share it with you.”

  “Yeah, I remember. I’d said after the show. And I want to see it.” Zeke frowned. “What’s up? Worried how I’ll react to them? Professional jealousy or something?”

  “Of course not.”

  Zeke nuzzled against his hand, his eyes softening. “We’re so damned different in some ways, aren’t we? But the same in others. We both love the emotion of paintings; the drama of art. And this is important to you, isn’t it? It’s your personal collection.” Zeke twisted his head and kissed Miles’ palm. “It’s good. I’m honored.”

  Miles led them out of the dining room and down a corridor. They passed a lounge and several other small rooms. At the far end was a single door, unremarkable except for its heavy security bolts and alarmed entry pad.

  “Hey, Miles.” Zeke was smiling as Miles unlocked the door. “They’re not all going to be black and white, are they? You having your special disability, or whatever.” He yawned and lifted a hand to his mouth, trying to hide his tiredness. “No offense meant….”

  “None taken,” said Miles, softly. Then the paintings were there in front of the both of them—and Zeke was struck with temporary speechlessness.

  The door had opened into a long, rectangular room, with tastefully dimmed lighting that came on automatically as they entered. Miles knew it well, of course. He immediately felt at home. There were several padded leather couches running along the center of the room, where he’d often sat on his own for hours at a time. Against the walls were low cupboards with wide, shallow drawers like an artist’s bureau. The paintings he’d currently chosen as his favorites were hung in tasteful, expensive frames, and there were only twenty or so in total on display. But it was a magnificent collection. There were examples of several schools of painting, and they spanned several centuries. There was the passionate movement of a Reubens painting; the graphic boldness of a Lichtenstein; an early anatomical sketch of El Greco. Color was present everywhere, but of more importance was the emotion and sensual impact of the content, assailing the spectator from all sides. Miles let his eyes skim across them all, to reassure himself of his pleasure and satisfaction. Then he sighed and relaxed some more.

  Zeke walked slowly through the room, scouring each painting with what was obviously a critical eye. “Shit, this is great.” He sounded genuinely delighted. “You’re a dark horse, aren’t you? Keeping all these hidden away. Some of these are by my favorite artists. Dammit, a couple of them I thought had left the country. Some artists I’ve never seen work from before, but look at the fire in them. The skill… the detail….” He turned from side to side, his arms instinctively sketching out his impressions. “Miles, look, I want to spend some hours in here, you know? Is that going to be okay? With my pad, with some cool music. You have to let me. You’ve got great taste, man.” He turned to look back at Miles, and it was then that his eyes caught sight of the glossy papers pinned up on the wall by the entrance.

  Miles watched Zeke pale and heard his words dry up. He was suddenly very afraid of what he might have done; how he might have hurt the man he was beginning to find more important than anything else in his life.

  “Miles? Shit.”

  “Forgive me,” Miles rushed to say. “They’re prints. They’re only copies, just for my own interest….”

  “They’re Jacky’s sketches.” Zeke’s voice was chill.

  Miles nodded. How could he deny it? There were four pictures spread out on the white walls. They were, of course, only copies, but the quality was excellent, so that the impact of the original sketches could be appreciated. They were striking, even in amongst the other exalted inhabitants of the room. Miles watched Zeke walk toward them, a little unsteadily. How long had it been since he’d seen either the sketches themselves or copies of them?

  “Since I met you, Zeke—since I heard the story about your history—I’ve been seeking information about the sketches.” Miles was talking swiftly, though he had no idea if Zeke were listening. “Perhaps I just wanted to see them. But then, recently, I talked to Red about it all, and asked him to find details for me. I never realized he’d have the information at hand. He was checking up on Remy at the time. He had these copy prints because he’d been interested in bidding for the sketches himself, when they came up to auction. I asked to have the copies. To display them here.”

  “It’s like you’re stalking me.” Zeke was whispering. He was only a couple of feet away from the sketches when he stopped, his eyes never moving from them. “Thought I heard you say I’d be safe from that here.”

  Miles’ gut clenched. “That’s damned unfair, and you know it. You’re being deliberately provocative.”

  “That’s what being damned unfair is all about,” growled Zeke.

  Miles bit his lip, trying for restraint. He breathed deeply, holding himself back from approaching Zeke. “I found them so moving. I wanted to spend more time with them. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I know you better, now. I felt I was getting close to you, and I thought….” He paused. Hell, he hadn’t expected to have to apologize, but after the shock of Remy’s confessions, he realized that the sketches might be a lot more to Zeke than just a magnificent piece of art. He hadn’t thought it through, had he? But he had no personal experience of such a complex relationship as that of Zeke and his brother.

  “You thought….” Zeke echoed. His voice was still flat. “You thought you had the right to own my life as well as your own.”

  “No,” protested Miles. “Christ, haven’t we been here already? I want you to have your own life, Zeke. I don’t want to own you. Perhaps my thought was that these would be a further connection between us.” He sighed, his anger rising along with his frustration. Everything was so damned close to the surface with Zeke. Miles wasn’t prepared for it; he wasn’t sufficiently armored against this man’s moods. “Guess it’s too much to ask, to get a better understanding of

  you—”

  “Too fucking right it is,” snapped Zeke.

  “You’re pulling away from me again,” Miles growled. He wasn’t going to let this go. “You’re not giving me a chance to explain, what I wanted to know about you….”

  “There’s nothing to fucking know!” Zeke almost shouted. “I’m nothing, remember?”

  Miles’ mouth clamped shut. He didn’t have the words, and to be honest, after the trauma of the previous night and the heavy making out they’d done, he didn’t have the energy either.

  Zeke stopped talking too. He gazed at the pictures, one by one. He put out a hand and touched at the sleek paper. It was a gentle, hesitant touch. As if he were awed by them.

  Miles tried to empathize with him. After all, this was his history, wasn’t it? The four sketches followed a definite progression. They were a template for Zeke’s life. They weren’t specific drawings of him, but the implication was unmistakable in each. The first one showed the head of a young boy in his early teens, laughing, finding a joke from somewhere around him. The laughter was generous and the grin infectious.

  So like Zeke.

  The second showed two heads bent over a pad and pencils, their bodies sketched as far as their torsos, hair falling over each forehead, smiles mirroring each other. And yet they were very separate personalities. This was Jacky and Zeke, presumably, as growing young men.

  The third sketch was an outside study, of two young men running, playing some game, or maybe just messing around in the park. Their limbs were long and strong, an
d beautiful in the way of Greek statues. They were contemporary athletes; modern gods.

  The fourth sketch seemed further on in time, the illustrated figure appearing to be much the same age as both Miles and Zeke were today. It was a more contemplative theme. The featured man was curled in a deep, soft chair, settled comfortably enough but still looking alert, coiled like a spring. The tension was in his limbs, curled under him. The drawn lines were sharper in this sketch, even though there was a softer, deliberate smudging around the profile of his body.

  “Did that last one just after I bawled him out for upsetting Carter again,” murmured Zeke, a little breathlessly. And then he smiled, his face relaxing with his familiar, rapid change of mood. Miles wondered how long it’d take him to get used to that. “They were damned good, weren’t they?”

  Miles was unsure of his emotional ground. He stepped forward cautiously. “I… yes, they were. They still are. Zeke, are you upset? I never thought…. It’s too much, after last night….”

  Zeke turned toward him and reached out, touching his fingers to Miles’ lips, sealing the apologetic words in. “Hush. It’s fine. Guess I’m a little more strung out this morning than I thought I’d be. But that’s no excuse to treat you like that.” He grimaced. “I’m a shit.”

  “If that’s an apology…,” Miles said, cautiously. His heart was beating too fast and his lips ghosted for more of the touch of Zeke’s fingertips.

  “It is,” admitted Zeke. “Not something I’ve had much practice with.”

  “I want you to trust me, Zeke,” said Miles, softly. “Like I trusted you with the gallery. I want to make things good for you.”

  Zeke sighed. “I know. It’s just… some things you can’t control. The feelings these guys brought out in me… it’s a shock, Miles.”

  He moved again, even closer to the wall, and he pressed his hand flat on the last picture. “They’re me, aren’t they? Not just me as a theme, but my life in pictures. Like people kept telling me at the time, until I was fucking sick of hearing it anymore. I was glad they were sold, you know?”

  Miles was startled. “What?”

  Zeke gave a short, sharp laugh. “I was glad my life would be back in my hands, rather than just on scraps of canvas and in strokes of a pencil. Of Jacky’s pencil. I felt I was only seen as part of Jacky himself. I was only ever in his shadow.” Miles saw Zeke’s shoulders sag. His voice was low but defiant. “And then I was my own person, because he was gone. And the sketches were gone as well.”

  “But…?” Miles prompted, gently. He moved to stand behind his lover, as Zeke stared at the evidence of his brother’s legacy.

  Zeke’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “But I missed ’em. I loved them, y’see. Carter said it best: this is the best work Jacky ever did. Carter said he saw Jacky in them; the vibrancy, the depth of his feeling.” Zeke’s shoulders were shaking slightly. “Miss him too, I guess.”

  Miles couldn’t let that pass. His heart ached for Zeke as if the bereavement had been his own. He reached out, took hold of Zeke’s shoulders and drew him in close. Zeke’s body tensed for a second, and then it relaxed into the embrace. His arm snaked around Miles’ waist and he buried his head in Miles’ shoulder, his face pressed against the silk fabric of his shirt.

  “You’ll get them back,” said Miles, as firmly as he could around the lump in his throat. “When they find the original sale was fraudulent, they’ll be taken back from her, from Remy. They’ll be returned to you.” He gazed at the pictures himself. “That’s why I’m drawn to them myself, I think, because they’re part of your life. I want to offer you something, Zeke. I want to help you get them back, because they’re yours. They should be with you.”

  Zeke gave a snort. He ran his hand over his eyes, though he still kept his head tucked away from Miles’ direct sight. “You’re a damned fool, Miles Winter, you know? It’s not your problem. You’ve already given me enough.”

  Miles sighed. “I was afraid I took from you.”

  “No,” snapped Zeke. He lifted his head to stare fiercely at Miles. “You didn’t take anything from me, Miles, you hear? Well, actually, you did—but that was misery, and inertia, and self-pity. Guess I can live without them.”

  “Hey, I just—”

  “Shut up,” interrupted Zeke. His voice was harsh, but his eyes sparkled. “Look what you’ve done for me already. Given me interest in life again; personal success and satisfaction, all the stuff I thought I’d lost. Christ, what more can I ask?” He grasped at Miles’ shoulders. “It was me who wanted to give—because I’ve been taking from you all this time.”

  “You gave me your drawing. That was more than I ever expected.” Miles shook his head, not knowing whether to frown or laugh. He wasn’t sure if they were arguing anymore; in fact, he wasn’t entirely sure what this was all about. He also wasn’t sure what Zeke would say if he leaned forward now and kissed that damp, talkative mouth into temporary silence. “I’m damned confused here, Roswell. There appears to be an embarrassment of gifts between us, doesn’t there?”

  Zeke laughed awkwardly. He was gazing at Miles’ mouth, as if he knew what the other man was thinking. “I’m not sure if that makes us even, Miles. I’m not sure about anything at all.”

  Miles was sure of one thing right now: he was going to kiss Zeke quiet. “That’s good enough for me at the moment,” he said, firmly. “So kiss me.”

  And for once in his life, Zeke did what he was told.

  Miles relaxed into Zeke’s arms, relishing the delicious shivers running through his body. This was enough. All they did was kiss. He tasted Zeke, and savored him, and sucked lightly on his tongue. He felt the muscles of Zeke’s arms under his hands, the soft, jersey fabric of his shirt bunched up in his palm. He also felt the sensual response throughout the other man’s limbs, as they slowly began to relax. Zeke moaned, a deep, soft sound. Miles knew similar sounds were coming from his own throat. But he didn’t need anything more; no more talk, not just yet. Miles kissed his lover into silence, which was exactly what he’d planned to do. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been called arrogant and manipulative, and with a much less delicious motivation.

  When Zeke broke away finally, slowly, Miles watched him lick up the thin trail of saliva that still bound their mouths. He took a deep, slow breath. “Zeke, there’s more.”

  “Huh?” Zeke was confused. “You’re some kind of insatiable, Miles.”

  “No.” Miles shook his head. He tried to smile with a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt. “Not that; not just now. I meant there’s another reason I wanted you to see my collection. Not just because these are some of the few things I really care for, the few things that are close to me, and that I never show to others.”

  “Except me,” murmured Zeke.

  “Yes,” agreed Miles. “Let me explain, please?”

  Zeke nodded. “The sooner I listen, the sooner we can get back to the kissing, right?”

  Miles bit his lip.

  “Sorry,” said Zeke. He frowned as if he weren’t sure what he was apologizing for, but he obviously picked up on something in Miles’ tone.

  “When you started sketching again, that first time I saw your work… it woke something in me. Some recognition.”

  “Of what?”

  Miles ignored him. Let me say it in my own time. “I’d never seen the sketches then, you know? But when these prints arrived, and I had a chance to study them, I was even more sure of that feeling.”

  “Stop with the mysteries,” Zeke groaned.

  “Hush,” warned Miles. He felt very flushed now. He stepped away from Zeke and went over to one of the low cupboards. “Obviously every artist has their own style. There’s a signature that’s unique. But you admitted yourself, that your work was sometimes reminiscent of your brother’s style. And so I was reminded of a work I already owned, that I bought a couple of years ago.”

  “What are you telling me?” Zeke’s voice was suddenly very cold.

  “This myster
y about Jacky’s missing sketches—the other two. I think that everyone thought to look for the last two, assuming that either he stopped the series or that the final two were lost somewhere. But I suspect that it was the first ones that were missing—two at the beginning of the series.”

  Zeke stared at him, his expression strangely blank. “It’s generally assumed that he never finished the series.”

  Miles ignored him again, and pointed to the prints on the wall in front of them. “You can see the pattern of these four, can’t you? The path toward maturity. This final one shows you almost as you are today—adult. The last in the series. Don’t you see it, Zeke?”

  Zeke pursed his lips, mulishly. “Don’t see where you’re going with this.”

  Miles wasn’t sure, but it looked as if Zeke were starting to shiver. “I’ve got one of the earlier sketches, Zeke.”

  Zeke’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and astonished. “You what?”

  “Remy was right, in a way, though it was pure coincidence. There was another sketch to be found, and maybe she would have found it, if her break-in had been successful. I just didn’t realize I had it until recently.” Miles’ breath sounded very ragged, even to his own ears. “Until I knew you.” He opened one of the drawers of the cupboard, his hands shaking with excitement. “My agent got it, I never knew where from, and I admit I just stored it away for a while. I didn’t take as much interest as I should have done when I first started collecting. Of course, I always liked and appreciated what I had—like your paintings. I mean, I was fascinated by them. They’re some of my favorites. But you were right in what you said to me once: I never really understood what was involved in art.” He turned back to Zeke, eyes shining. “And then, when I saw you drawing, it was fascinating. I admired you so much; I learned so much. I felt damned inadequate, to tell you the truth. What good was I, just collecting, when you could create?”