by J. Emery
Noah flushed with momentary pleasure despite himself. God, he was so easy. One tug on the family heartstrings and he was going sappy again. "Aw that's so sweet, but please stop. You'll ruin my image." Noah grinned and held up a finger to the girl behind the counter as he stepped up to order. No one was behind him so it was only a mildly dick move. She was new and rolled her eyes at his apologetic gesture. He deserved that. "I'll text the date to you later. I gotta go now though. I'm in an important meeting."
They rushed through their goodbyes and he stowed the phone in his pocket. Then he almost botched the coffee order. It had been months since he'd ordered for anyone besides himself, but it was still so easy to fall back into the routine. Mocha for him, caramel latte for Becca. Four months they'd been broken up and it was still at the tip of his tongue like a poisoned kiss.
Two drinks awaiting him on the counter filled him with a weird and queasy mix of nostalgia and longing. Two drinks for two drinkers. He had gotten used to being alone again. The bed was all his. The coffee was all his. And he went wherever he wanted whenever he wanted without needing to check in. It was comfortable. Mostly.
But here he was with two cups again.
"Don't overthink it, you ass," he muttered as he snatched the travel cups up. He pressed his mouth over the steaming opening on his cup to keep it from sloshing out as he walked and got a second degree burn on his tongue for the trouble. Shit, that was hot.
The coffee had barely had the chance to cool before the door to Noah's studio creaked open in that distinctly self-conscious way that signaled it was West. For someone that fine, he seemed to have no understanding of what his looks could do for him. He usually walked around like a puppy waiting to be scolded but there was a particular air he got when he was especially heated, a confidence he didn't have at any other time. Noah could imagine getting railed by West while he wore that look. That look had teeth. Beautiful, dirty, vicious teeth. He doubted he was the first to notice it.
Noah held up the second cup of coffee in one hand without turning from his work. "A peace offering."
The cup was lifted from his grasp. One loafered toe appeared in his peripheral vision. "What are you doing?" The tone was one of suspicion masked as mild curiosity. Noah knew it well. His internal monologue sounded like that every day of his life.
"I am"—he paused to finish wrapping the picture hanging wire and snip the loose end—"finishing up some framing on this set." The repetitive process of wiring frames for hanging had always had a certain meditative quality for him. Screwing eyelets into wood and running wire between them, wrapping the ends tight. It took so little thought. Only steady hands and wire cutters. He lifted the square frame and dusted off the smattering of dust it had accumulated from sitting in his lap. He picked up the next. "Drink your coffee. We'll start in a bit. I wanted to discuss some things first."
West's feet shuffled around the room as he searched for somewhere to sit. The stool was the only reliable perch. He settled on it. Noah knew without looking up that West's free hand would be white knuckled on the edge. There was enough tension in that boy's body to power a small city.
One of Noah's studio mates had left a mess and it had taken an hour of spot cleaning and intense scrutiny to be sure there were no paint blobs lurking anywhere that someone might sit on them. That was the problem with sharing a space with an abstract painter. Paint everywhere. Water everywhere. Unidentifiable bits that Noah never wanted to look too deeply into everywhere. All of Tyler's shit was stowed to one side of the room, a line of medium sized canvases facing the wall like naughty students pulled out of class. Noah had turned a few around to see what was up. They had been more of the circus of the damned kick Tyler was on. All reds and blacks and slashes of vibrant transparent color. Poor guy had just found out his partner was cheating on him and he wasn't taking it well.
Pot, meet kettle, said a tiny voice in Noah's head. It sounded annoyingly like one of his friends. He ignored it.
The stool creaked as West shifted and hooked a foot around a rung. It was a pose that attempted to look carefree and failed miserably since he clutched his cup in a death grip that threatened to collapse the sides.
"Relax. I'm not dumping you. I thought I told you. You're my life raft. Without you I'm completely fucking done for." He smiled up at West who had just lifted the cup to his lips to take a first tentative sip when their eyes met. It was the kind of thing that usually got a blush. West choked instead, coughing a fine mist of coffee into the air. Noah dove to shield the frames around him with his body. So much for having a moment.
Once West had gotten control of his bodily functions again and it was safe, Noah sat up. He used the corner of his t-shirt to buff away the fingerprints and any stray droplets that had reached the frames. They looked okay. Never hurt to be extra careful.
West sucked on his coffee like it could save his life. "Funny you say that. I had a few things I wanted to talk about too. You first though. What did you want to talk about?" he asked once the cup was empty.
Noah took the cup and pitched it at the garbage can in the corner. He'd gotten really good at throwing it just right so the last few drops inside didn't spill. "You."
Looking up at him from the floor made West seem even larger than life. A monument to practical pants and that little disdainful curl of his lip that was equal parts rude and delicious. Every time Noah saw it he wanted to crawl across the floor to him and bite that lip. Tug until West groaned. Dig his hands into West's hair and kiss him until they forgot that they'd ever been at odds. West's hair was pulled back again but the wind had tugged a few strands free, the same wind that had left a pink stain on his cheeks.
"Me?" West folded his arms over his chest defensively and leaned back on the stool.
"Yeah, you. We haven't really talked about what we're doing here. You come in and you sit and that's fine but I'd like to know who I'm working with."
"I don't know what difference it makes."
"Plenty." Noah hopped up to set the framed photos against the wall, backs out to protect the glass from potential damage. Later he would load them into his car. There was a box and newspaper in the back seat awaiting them like a cozy nest.
Now that Noah was on his feet, West looked smaller again. More manageable. Noah moved to lift his chin, pausing to await permission just before they touched. West nodded and licked his lips. Those beautiful cruel lips. Lips that could crush hearts as easily as ripe red berries. He ached to swipe a thumb over them. Noah tilted West's head up with a light touch instead and then let his hand drop. "I already know my style, but I don't know yours. If we're gonna keep working together I should know what you want, what you like." He stepped back. "So tell me. Who am I looking at right now?"
THERE WAS ALWAYS THAT moment in nature documentaries when the narrating voice grew hushed and you knew it was only a matter of time before the predator pounced from wherever they had hidden. West felt like that right now.
"I don't know where to start."
He wasn't a nature documentary and he didn't have a script. Was he supposed to start at the beginning—I was born, I grew up—or was he supposed to pick out some kind of highlight reel? West had never liked talking about himself. Whenever he'd tried in the past it had come back around to haunt him later. Secrets were only good for growing gossip.
His hunt for an answer left him staring in the general direction of Noah's Adam's apple as he swallowed.
Despite the cold outside, Noah had dressed in a sleeveless white tee that was smudged with what looked like black paint and was thin enough that West could just spot the faint outline of his nipples through the fabric. West had expected him to have tattoos, but he wasn't prepared for the questions they raised. Inked words ran down one bicep. A surprisingly cute sun rested on the inside of his left wrist. Where had he gotten them and when? Why that sun and that half faded spiderweb on his elbow? West's fingers itched to trace them. To seek out the others that probably hid under the threadbare shirt.
&nb
sp; "I already know you have a sister. Start there," Noah suggested. "Tell me about your family."
West attempted to hold in his grimace, but judging by Noah's bark of laughter he was unsuccessful.
"That good, huh? Your sister seemed nice at least. How's she doing with her art class?"
West shrugged. "Fine as far as I know. Good. She doesn't really talk to me about school." He didn't know what to do with his hands so he folded them together so they could take care of each other. All his limbs felt too long and wrong. He slid off the stool and paced over to the window.
He didn't want to talk about his family. He didn't want to think about Reese lurking like a poltergeist around the house. He'd spent his last visit with Charlotte and his mother on high alert, waiting for sounds of Reese's presence that never came. He'd been out somewhere, with friends again probably. Visiting. But he didn't need to be in the room to cast a pall over it. West had a countdown to the day Reese would leave again and he could stop expecting him around every corner. When he was gone, his mother would stop asking West to swing by and the questions about what he was doing and where and with whom would evaporate again. It was better when they didn't go beyond small talk. He didn't have to share himself anymore then. He could just be the unknowable outline that they projected their expectations onto. Just like always.
But here in this room, in the studio with Noah, none of that mattered. No more decades of emotional baggage. No family. No expectations at all. Here he was just himself.
West turned from the window. He hadn't seen anything of the view. Noah's eyes followed him as he moved away again.
The studio was a bigger space than West had imagined, blazing with light from the windows and filled with all kinds of odd shapes draped with what looked like old bed sheets. He lifted a blue and yellow floral flat sheet to reveal the folded easel beneath. He glanced at Noah. "Yours?"
"Studio mate. Those are all his." Noah pointed towards the canvases lined up along a wall. "I'm a shitty painter."
"How do you know?"
Noah's grin was electric, all teeth and amusement. "I know. Believe me. No one buys anxiety on a canvas anyway, unless the colors are pretty and match their living room set. Especially not around here." He leaned back against the wall with a shrug that said it didn't matter to him, but there was a hardness to his face that meant it really did. "Photos are small and they stack. That's why I stick with photography. One of the reasons."
"What's the other reason?" West shuffled through the canvases leaning four deep—most of them abstract blobs of color—before he replaced them.
"Privileged information, sorry. And we were supposed to be talking about you, not me."
The center of the studio was clear of everything but the stools and the folding table Noah used to lay out his gear while they were working. Everything else was covered by fabric drapes or stowed in Noah's supply trunk. Its open padlock hung from the latch as though Noah had intended to dip back inside. An enticement.
West hadn't explored the studio much the last few times he'd visited. He was a guest and none of these were his things. It had seemed rude. Today he didn't really care if it was.
West pulled the padlock out of the latch on the trunk and set it aside. Noah stiffened, a muscle working in his jaw, as West slid his fingers along the lid of the trunk. It felt good to get a reaction out of him. Finally. West had been the only one reacting, blushing, worrying, for too long. "What's in here?"
"My gear." His hands flexed at his sides before curling into fists. He sighed. "You can look just... don't move anything. I have it organized."
"Don't you trust me?"
"Unfortunately, I do. That's the only reason you're still touching that box."
West pushed up the lid. Then, while he was distracted, he pushed out the truth. "I thought about what you said last time. About what I needed to be more comfortable with... all of this."
"And?"
The contents of the trunk were arranged in trays that stacked atop each other, all of it more organized than West had had any reason to believe it would be. Noah seemed to thrive in chaos. It was in his voice and his brazen stare and the way he jumped from topic to topic without a pause. But all of his supplies were arranged in near perfect order. Boxes of pencils and erasers beside another of charcoal sticks. West wouldn't have recognized them if not for Charlotte. Beneath that sat a layer of sketchbooks whose covers were smudged with fingerprints. Rolls of electrical tape, duct tape, spare camera batteries, and extension cords held together with color coded velcro straps. Folded cloth in a variety of colors for draping. West almost missed the hanks of rope at the bottom. They blended with everything else at first, just one more color and texture in the background of Noah's gear, until suddenly there they were. Silky twists of rope. Figure eights in white, black, and the golden brown of natural fiber. Below that a loop of red. He couldn't pretend to mistake their purpose. West caught himself before he reached for one of the bundles.
"Saw the rope, didn't you?" Noah asked. When West looked up his grin was back, wider and more knowing than before. Not an ounce of shame. Maybe he should have been used to that from Noah by now. "Everyone gets that look when they see it for the first time. Don't worry. It's not for you."
Why not?
He didn't say it. The question strangled itself in his throat, wrung dry by the knowledge that it was the wrong question. Wasn't it?
"Then why is it there?" West couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. It was either that or let Noah hear the longing he hadn't ever let out in public. It had been the uncomfortable underscoring to so many moments in his life. The rope was an accusation as much as Noah's smile was. As if he could see right through West to the deep, dark center of every need he'd never been able to satisfy, had never felt comfortable trying to satisfy. Because good boys didn't. They didn't want that and when it came right down to it, he could never trust himself in anyone else's hands anyway. Not like that. Not knowing what they might think of him afterwards. Every time he'd considered it, he'd imagined the reactions and frozen up again. It was like a curse in a fairy tale. Always wanting, never finding.
Except he didn't actually care what Noah thought of him. They weren't friends. Not enemies anymore, either, he thought. They were something else. A grey area. And strangely the sight of the rope made it easier to tell Noah the other thing he'd come here to say today, that West had finally realized what would make him more comfortable in front of the camera. It was so simple really. If he couldn't see the camera, it might as well not even be there. All he needed was a blindfold. Blindfolded he could be anyone, anywhere. If no one saw his eyes they couldn't know it was him, not for sure. In theory. He had worried it would sound strange but it was practically mundane in comparison to a pile of multicolored rope sitting in the bottom of Noah's trunk.
He looked up at Noah. Noah looked back. His mouth opened and music filled the air.
What the hell?
The swelling sound of strings caught Noah like a bat upside the head. He went rigid and his eyes widened in something that looked impossibly like fear. His hand slapped down over his front pocket as if he could block the knowledge of his ringing phone by muffling the sound of the music. "I'll be right back," he said in a too loud voice. Then he turned and penguin walked out the door of the studio, slamming it behind him. From the thump outside he missed one of the stairs on the way down. After a moment, West heard the sound of him whisper-shouting into the phone. The words were too muffled to make out clearly, but they went on for a long time.
While he waited, West sifted through the trunk again, taking his time lifting things out and examining them now that he was alone. He let his fingers drift over the rope, once, twice, before he worked one coil free and pulled it out of the trunk. He brushed it over his palm. It felt soft. Ready.
The door burst open. Noah tripped back inside. "Sorry about that. My family is hounding me about some wedding stuff—not mine, it's my older brother's—and I keep telling them no, but they
don't know how to let things go. It would serve them right if I really did show up to the service in an assless tux. Maybe then they would leave me alone for—oh." He fell silent as he saw what West held.
"I was just looking."
"So I see. Find something you like?"
"I—" West's hands tightened almost imperceptibly on the rope. Only then did he realize he was kneeling at Noah's feet.
I wonder what he looks like on his knees. That was what Noah had blurted all those weeks ago. West wondered if it was still true. Did he still want it to be true?
Yes. God, yes.
West's pulse beat so hard that it made his head spin. Maybe that's why he heard his own voice saying, "Yeah, I did."
"I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M doing this," West said. The words were muffled by the numbness in his lips. Was he shivering? He felt like he was shivering, but the room wasn't cold. It was stifling. Volcanic.
Noah paused in the middle of wrapping the end of the rope over the coils that already held West's wrists together. His touch was a light brush against bare skin and pulse, almost impersonal, when West wished it to be anything else. He had never felt more exposed in his life. It was only fair Noah should feel a fraction of that too. But if he did, he gave no sign.
"You'll recall that this was your idea, not mine. But if you're not game anymore, we stop. No judgment. Up to you."
West moved his hands gingerly, tugging against the length of rope as carefully as he could without dislodging it. Noah had made three passes with the folded rope around his wrists, before wrapping the free end between his wrists and pulling it almost snug. It wasn't knotted yet. Even the brief testing threatened to unravel it. All West had to do was say "no more" and pull his hands free of the open loop and that would be the end of it.
He believed Noah when he said that was all there was to it. That he could stop. Walk away at any moment if he wasn't comfortable. Noah had said that multiple times before they even began and every pass of the rope came filled with searching glances from his green eyes. A part of West wished he didn't have to say a word, that the matter would be taken out of his hands and he could lay it on Noah instead. He couldn't be blamed if he'd never had a choice. There was something about that which appealed, at least in theory. In practice, it wasn't fair or safe or even what he really wanted. But he could have the illusion if he wanted.