by Tom Collins
I’d never dreamed he was actually paying attention. Not just paying attention, but absorbing the information and filing it away. Lifting the palette, I found tubes of oil and acrylic paints lined up in neat rows in the order of the rainbow. There were a couple boxes of colored pencils, watercolor and standard. Leaning against the wall were a few canvases in various sizes, a sketchpad and a pad of watercolor paper. My brain was doing the math, and it totaled up to a tidy sum. That lamp alone had run a hundred bucks on sale; add the easel and stool and you were already looking at a couple hundred. That didn’t even include the supplies.
“You like?” he asked for a second time since my arrival moments ago. This time, however, he sounded smug.
I was speechless, my answer more a turkey’s gobble than anything else. He laughed, pleased with himself, to say the least. I gave up trying to find words and went over to hug him in thanks. He laid his head on my shoulder—a gestured he’d never made before—and sighed in what I hoped was contentment.
“I love it,” I finally said. “It’s all wonderful, especially the easel and lamp. They’re perfect. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Well, actually, I’ve a commission for you,” he said, leaning back to look at me.
“You want me to do a painting?”
“Yeah,” he said shyly. “For me.”
“Really? No shit?” That was three times in fifteen minutes he’d surprised me.
“No shit,” he confirmed, “I mean, I’ve got something in mind. I don’t know if you’ll like it or be inspired—”
“Are you kidding? If you want pictures of the Lone Ranger painted all over your ceiling, I’ll get a ladder and start on it right now.” With a flourishing swirl of my hand, I made a courtly bow to him. “Do but name the image, my liege, and I, your humble court painter, will see it done.” My tone may have been facetious, but my eyes were dead serious.
He flushed and looked away, discomfited. “I don’t deserve that sort of devotion.”
Brushing my knuckles over his cheekbone I replied, “Everyone deserves to have at least one person who worships the ground they walk on. I consider myself lucky beyond measure to be the one you’ve pick for that honor.”
“Why?”
It was almost a whine, but it came from a genuine and deep-seated confusion. I finally understood the extent of the damage his parents had done with their brutal indifference. If everyone deserved to be worshiped by at least one person, it followed that no one deserved to feel the way Oliver did. He had no genuine self-esteem; it was nothing but bluster he put on each morning like a hauberk to protect himself from what he saw as a spiny, hateful, hurtful world. I pulled him back against me, tucking his head under my chin so he wouldn’t see how close that one word question had come to bringing me to tears.
“That you can even ask that question…” I lost it for a second and had to concentrate to suck it up. I took a deep breath and began again. “Oliver, just because your parents,” he stiffened, but didn’t pull away, “were too egomaniacal and self-involved to see your value and love you doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be loved. The way they treated you reflects on them, not you. It was they who weren’t worthy of you.” He didn’t say anything, though I waited. “Some day I’ll convince you that you’re a magnificent person fully worthy of every ounce of love that I intend to give you over the next sixty years or so.”
I heard him gulp before clearing his throat to murmur, “Just sixty?”
He surprised a small laugh from me. “Alright, we’ll make it seventy then. Now, you wanted a picture?”
“Oh, yeah.” Pretending to scratch his nose, he surreptitiously wiped his eyes behind the mask. I pretended to not notice. “Masked Warrior,” he waved down at himself, “and…” he glanced aside and flagged a hand at me, “whatever you’d be.”
“You mean you want a picture of us? Together?” I grinned with delight.
“Yeah. Fighting off…well something, and winning.”
“Of course! How could we possibly lose if we’re fighting together?”
My shit-eating grin was back. He returned the smile. I really did love the way that mask accented the lower half of his face, making his grin even more sexy.
“One thing though,” he added, and his tone wasn’t hesitant at all this time, “It has to be you. I mean, if you need to use Bren as a model, to sketch the pose and all, that’s okay. But I…really do think I’ll know the difference if it isn’t you in the final picture.”
Strange to say, but I believed him. “I haven’t done any self-portraits since high school art, but okay. I’ll get out the mirror and go the extra mile for this painting.”
I certainly did feel inspired. My dream model was dressed up perfect and willing to pose for me, and his idea for a painting was pretty exciting. I wanted to get started right away, and Oliver didn’t object as I pulled him near the window and tried out different positions. I was having trouble getting him right and finally decided the problem was in the prop sword. It was just too small for him. Taking it from him, I tossed it onto the couch and went to the kitchen.
“This is not a broom,” I said upon returning.
“Funny, looks an awful lot like one,” he cracked wise.
“Doesn’t it though? But it’s not.”
“What is it then?” He sounded more curious than facetious.
“It’s a halberd.”
“Um…Okay.”
I grabbed a sketchpad and pencil to show him. “See, it’s basically a combination of a spear and a battle axe. This side, with the concave crescent, is designed for armor piercing—”
“Isn’t that what the spear part on the top is for?” he interrupted.
“No, that’s for stabbing between the chinks and seams of the armor as well as for slashing like a sword. The fine points of the crescent, when used right, will cut through most mail—including plate mail—like a can opener, where as the other side with the convex crescent is for chopping off bits and staving in helmeted heads.”
He shuddered. “Lovely.”
“You’re cute when you’re grossed out,” I laughed and kissed him.
While I was posing him so that the majority of his weight would be on his good leg, he said, “That’s a nice shirt, by the way.”
“Gee, thanks. I painted it myself,” I admitted.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he asked rhetorically, making me laugh.
I gave him the image of having a pig-like Orc skewered on the end of his pike while I changed into my cutoff scrubs—Brendan would kill me if I ruined our clothes—and got behind the canvas to get busy. I’d already hooked the MP3 player in my phone up to his boombox and set a long list of random music. As Bowie’s Prisoner of Love came on, I got to painting.
*Oliver*
Bowie was singing about being a prisoner of love and it seemed apt. I was feeling weird and a little trapped, wearing a silly outfit and mask, broom raised as if it were an…axe-thingy, and not allowed to move from my pose.
I certainly was a prisoner of love as there’s no way I’d be doing any of this if not for this overwhelming desire to please Liam. I’d never felt this way about any guy, certainly not demanding Marcos or selfish Tim. It was whacked, but it was also strangely—wonderful. Like when I’d gone to Michael’s after leaving him. I’d been saving up a tidy little bank account from my EMT work. Not a lot, but I’d hardly spent anything on myself. The elation I felt buying Liam the easel and light he’d admired made me so happy. I’d had to take a cab to get it all home. Setting everything up in its own special corner, I’d felt deliriously happy. Floaty, as when I’d been on painkillers at the hospital.
I wanted to prove to Liam that I’d meant what I said. I wanted my home to be his. The costume I got from a place just around the corner, dimly lit and playing Metallica, and crowded to the rafters with dark clothing, bondage accoutrements and some very strange blow-up dolls hanging from the ceiling.
I won’t say that it was eye-ope
ning as I’d explored such places during my first curious years out of the closet, but it was odd to actually be buying something. I had to wade through a variety of chaps before finding the kilt, and I’d tossed aside several scary, full-face masks before discovering the one I wanted: a Zorro-esque strip about the eyes.
The young fellow who’d come forward to wait on me and kept calling me, “Sir!” had to be convinced that no, I did not want a whip to go with the ensemble, and yes, I did want the silly toy sword and shield. I was just grateful that I already had a good pair of boots and didn’t need to buy new ones. The young man looked like he was hoping for a chance to get down on his knees and worship my feet.
Back at home, after putting it all on and making the decision to do without the knee brace or underwear, I’d taken a good look at myself in the mirror—and nearly chickened out. Making up dinner had helped to calm me, but I’d come close to changing clothes several times, and when I’d heard Liam’s key in the lock, I’d gotten so nervous, so sure he was going to break out laughing that I’d nearly thrown up.
It’d all gone better than I’d hoped. Only now I was caught on my own hook, stuck posing for this hare-brained painting and feeling very naked in this damn skirt.
“So,” I said, trying to get past the discomfort. “What’s with Erin, anyway?”
“Oh, he’s just jealous,” Liam said. He’d shaved off the beard, which made me only a little sorry, and his face looked thinner and paler than ever. His green eyes had that serious focus. They glanced from me to the canvas he was sketching on. His hand moved quick and sure. I was always astonished by how easily and confidently he drew, as if he were tracing. “There’s a party in his pants and no one’s been invited for six mon—”
“No,” I interrupted, “I meant, what’s with the weird way he talks?”
“Sorry? I’m not following you.” Liam had his tongue adorably between his lips, head tilted as if to see me from another angle.
“Well, that was a load of Yiddish he was throwing around, wasn’t it? I mean, I know that some of it was. Some might’ve been Gaelic, I suppose.”
“Oh!” he grinned. “No, you nailed it. That was Yiddish all right. He’s not an O’Shaughnessy.”
I nearly lowered my deadly broom from its “killing” blow. “Wha? I thought you were cousins.”
“We are, through his mother, my Aunt Rose. He’s a Fierstein on his father’s side.”
“Really? Huh! That explains the curls, which no one else seems to have.”
“Yup. He’s also the only one in the family who’s been snipped. Grandfather Fierstein arranged the bris and brought in a moyl he approved of personally. That’s how he got his nickname, in fact. He also went to Hebrew school to prepare him for his bar mitzvah. It was pretty cool, actually. He’d teach us what he learned and the three of us went around wearing yarmulkes for a few months.”
Oh, for a picture! “I bet you were cute as hell.”
“Granny Fierstein thought so. It was such a cool party, and the gifts he got…wow! Afterwards, Bren and I asked our parents if we could be bar mitzvahed, but they nixed it.”
That had me laughing. “You mentioned his nickname…?”
“Yeah, Loblolly.”
“I’d wondered about that.”
“Well, we tell most people it’s because he’s taller than us, as in loblolly pines, but it’s really ‘cause he’s been lobbed off.”
We both laughed and Liam, shaking his head, had to come over and reposition me. “Try to pretend the broom head there is a sharp blade that weighs a lot. Can you flex your muscles a bit?”
I did my best and it must have been good enough as Liam’s eyes glowed and he sighed wistfully before shaking himself and returning to the easel.
“What about Brendan’s nickname?” I asked. My body was aching from keeping still, but I was enjoying the conversation too much to want to stop. “Erin called him Nutbush?”
“Yeah. His comes from his favorite musical artist, like mine does.”
I raised a brow. I understood the Bowie reference that had led to Liam’s nickname, but was drawing a blank on Nutbush.
“Tina Turner; hence the name of their band, Private Dancer.” Liam was back to furiously sketching. “She’s from Nutbush, Tennessee and one of her more popular songs is Nutbush City Limits. Of course, it also references his dingbat tendencies the way Space Oddity does for me.”
Whoa. Well. All right. Who knew there was such a deep history in those wacky nicknames?
“Does this mean I’m stuck with Ollie-Ollie-Oxidant-Free?” I had to ask.
“Too long. Don’t worry. We’ll come up with something shorter.”
“I can’t wait,” I drolled. “You know, I’ve listened to my fellow EMTs talk all about their families, and I’ve gotta say, yours is unique.” I paused, reflecting. “Gabe doesn’t talk much about your clan at all. Why is that?”
“What? At work?” Liam grinned. “He wouldn’t want his superiors to find out he’s related to a family of lunatics, but don’t worry, very soon you’ll have a place among us and you can talk about us for him.”
That made me blush and fall quiet. I flashed back on Liam jokingly bowing to me, acting like my servant. It had all been in fun, but I had felt really weird about it. Like it was all wrong. He’d said I deserved his love and devotion, which had made me all teary eyed, even though that, too, sounded wrong.
Now he talked about me becoming a part of his family, and it still seemed wrong because I wasn’t meant for such things. Liam didn’t seem to understand that. I’d barely avoided growing up on the streets and until a month ago, I’d been conducting myself like a common hustler. It didn’t seem…proper for me to try and fit myself into his family.
Liam came around the easel and I realized that my arms had sagged again. As he touched me to bring them up I trembled. It’d been a long day and I’d asked a lot more of my poor knee than I should have. It felt hot and swollen and it hurt something fierce. My back and arm muscles were also sore.
“Fuck a duck!” Liam was checking his watch. “I’ve had you like that for over an hour! I’m sorry, Oliver. I got caught up.”
“That’s okay. I can keep going,” I lied.
“No, you can’t. You’re trembling with fatigue and I don’t want you straining yourself while you’re still recovering.”
“Too late for that,” I murmured.
That made him blush, which charmed the heck out of me.
“Yeah, well, be that as it may, I’m about to starve to death.” Right on cue, his stomach rumbled. “See?”
I set aside my broom and limped toward the kitchen, which made Liam eye me guiltily and insist that I sit down and let him serve. I took the opportunity to remove the mask. We were both hungry and chowed down in silence, finishing off all the rice and the four cans of tuna I’d made up. Liam went so far as to lick his plate, then rested back with a look of bliss on his handsome face before letting go with a window-rattling belch.
“Such a gentleman,” I remarked with a smirk and a sip at my cranberry-grape juice.
“I’ve been craving that all week,” he rhapsodized, which was wonderfully flattering.
We moved to the couch and Liam helped me remove my boots before bringing over bowls of frozen dessert. For fat-free, sugar-free yogurt, it wasn’t bad. He fed me bites, and I fed him bites. Then his eyes got that look, the one that fixated on me in that way. The look didn’t have the carnality I always saw in other men’s gazes, but rather a kind of dreamy, artistic adoration that left me bewildered.
Next thing I knew, he’d set the near empty bowls aside, and was pushing up my kilt. I actually gulped, my breath going short, my heart speeding up. It was the weirdest sensation, as I not only felt the heat rising up my thighs and my cock thickening to attention, but I also had this bizarrely modest urge to push the skirt back down. Whacked. I’d gone commando uncountable times in jeans and I usually loved it when a man, lust in his eyes, exposed me. The kilt, however, made me
feel strangely vulnerable.
Maybe it was because I felt like I’d stepped into Liam’s fantasy world—or maybe just Gaelic world. Either way, he understood the rules, the magic, and I didn’t.
Or maybe I was just aware that I’d abused my knee to the point where I had to keep it elevated up on the couch, and that, like it or not, I was very much in Liam’s hands tonight. I’d only be able to reciprocate if he let me. I shivered, feeling sensitive enough to cry. I don’t know why I suddenly felt like he was going to toy with me or be cruel.
I guess I’d come to the end of this roller coaster ride where I’d handed Liam all I could of myself, emotionally and physically, and all that remained was that feeling of being a prisoner to love.
*Liam*
I half lay on Oliver while we ate our fro-yo, enjoying the simple pleasure of physical contact with him. I’d missed him so much this last week and had been so afraid I would never again have the right to touch him that I couldn’t help myself. I hoped I wasn’t smothering him, though he didn’t seem to mind.
Bren’s right, I thought, he is a very pretty man…not like a girl though. No, he’s definitely a Matthew McConaughey, not a Johnny Depp. Somehow, he manages to be pretty and rugged at the same time. Amazing.
While feeding him a sloppy spoonful of our desert, I got a glob on his bottom lip. His tongue snaked out to collect it; reminding me of his earlier gesture upon seeing the erection he’d given me, which, in turn, triggered my oral fixation. I no longer wanted the cold chocolate and caramel in our bowls. I wanted his salty heat in my mouth, in my throat.
Taking his bowl, I set it on the coffee table with mine and reached for him. I grazed my slightly chilled hands up the outsides of his thighs, pushing his kilt up in the process. I saw the internal combustion reflected in his eyes when it happened, but I also saw something else there. It was something that dampened his usual reaction to my touch, something like fear. Whatever it was, it wakened a need to protect him—even from myself. I didn’t understand what was wrong, but I got a glimmer of how to deal with it when his legs twitched as if to close and his hands moved as if to push the kilt back down.