Freedom in Falling

by J. Emery

  "Also true."

  "Ames is out of town until next week."

  "So they're also excused. Sophie'll probably show up for the meeting looking wasted like always or something. Everyone else though, you got me."

  As if in answer there was a knock on the glass door. Outside, two familiar faces pressed against the locked door. "Let us in." That was from Carter, big, blond, and built like a linebacker. Sophie stood at his side looking like a goth swamp plant. Her green hair was windblown into long weedy tendrils that hung over her face.

  Noah took his time going over, pausing to smile and wave at them standing outside in the cold from within the (only marginally) warmer gallery. It wasn't much warmer with so much glass and a heating system that was older than God, but the walls blocked the wind. That was already a vast improvement on a day like today. The wind had almost knocked Noah flat on his ass earlier.

  "You're late," he called through the door to be sure they heard him.

  Sophie thumped on the window, her splayed fingers leaving a foggy mark like a snowflake. "Open up, you ass."

  "You didn't say please."

  Sophie held up a middle finger. "There's your please."

  Margot shouldered Noah out of the way and unlocked the door. "Don't get high and mighty just because you were on time for once."

  "I can and I will." He stepped aside to let Sophie and Carter in, folding his arms over his chest. "You know I hate spackling. Even the word is terrible. Spackle. It sounds like something caught in your throat." He pointed the metal blade at Sophie. "And you forced me to do it."

  "You're such a fussy bitch. I got here as early as I could." Sophie slapped a paperback against his chest. "I'm glad you're here though. I finished this one so you can have it."

  He turned the book over to inspect the cover. On it, two women embraced, mouths open as though they'd been caught in the middle of laughing at a particularly delicious joke. Promising. He raised an eyebrow. "Good?"

  "And queer. Obviously. It's part of that same series I've been loaning you. The sex was hot."

  "Perfect." He tucked it under his arm.

  "Maybe that'll keep you occupied so you don't get into any trouble," Margot whispered from behind him.

  Noah waved her away.

  "Trouble?" Sophie perked up.

  Behind her, Carter froze like a rabbit sensing danger. Despite being built like a football player, right down to his All American white boy jawline, he was basically a marshmallow with legs. The single time Noah had tried flirting with him, Carter had turned bright red and had fled the scene. Poor thing was out of his depth.

  "Noah has a new hobby," Margot said.

  "Uh oh."

  "Hey. I can hear you. I'm standing right here." Noah smacked Margot in the side with the book since it was the only weapon he had. "And I already told you. I'm not laying a finger on him. I plan to be perfectly professional."

  "Who what now?" Sophie looked between them. "What's happening? Do we need to duct tape you to a chair again?"

  "I mean, I wouldn't say no to that, but at least buy me dinner first. My safeword is cerulean."

  She rolled her eyes and turned to Margot who filled her in. Once Margot was done, Sophie turned back to him. One bright painted nail jabbed towards his face. "No."

  "Is no one listening to me? I already said I wasn't going to try anything. Twice. This is thrice. He hates me anyway. It's not gonna work. And I can see you making the talking hands behind my back, Margot. The windows reflect, remember. I'm serious. I just..." He fell silent. He didn't know how to finish that sentence. How did he explain the feeling of rightness he got whenever he aimed a camera at West? Surly, beautiful, prickly West.

  "I hope it works out," Carter said in his quiet voice.

  "Thank you, Carter. I appreciate that," said Noah. "See? He supports me."

  "He's new." Sophie smirked. "Give him time."

  "That's it. You're off the guest list for my reception." Noah slung an arm around Carter's neck who stiffened and let out a startled squeak as if he didn't outweigh Noah by over fifty pounds, most of it muscle. He waited until Carter had relaxed before leaning his head on his shoulder. It felt good to be so close to someone again, to share in the chill coming off of Carter's clothes. He'd always been tactile and he'd been suffering without someone to lean on. Literally and figuratively. Too bad West wasn't up for the position.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bending

  "Get on your knees."

  West's head snapped up. He glared at Noah. "Why?"

  His answer was a sweet smile as Noah tilted his head to the side. The look was all innocence. Pure as snow. His camera dangled from one hand while he circled, looking for his shot.

  West folded his arms over his chest and tried to pretend that he wasn't overly aware of every single inch of bare skin he was showing. Aware... and enjoying it? He hadn't been sure at first. But that energy bubbling in his veins seemed like pleasure. Running over his skin like fingers. To be standing here in this sunlit room in nearly nothing while Noah eyed every inch of him again. Watching the shift between dark interest and clinical scrutiny in his eyes. It was like being watched by two separate people. And after a month of meeting up for these photography sessions, West was getting better at catching the flip. One minute business. The next hungry. He was getting better at inspiring it too. Sometimes it only took a soft, throaty groan. A touch. A slow blink while meeting Noah's eyes. Then down came the shutters and in its place: fire. There was power there. Near limitless power. And West was enjoying this.

  Before this, if anyone had asked, West wouldn't have been able to name a single thing that he'd ever cared about all that much. Things he liked, sure. Things he did out of habit. But there wasn't anything that thrilled him half as much as the blissful look on Noah's face right now while they worked and knowing West had inspired it.

  Noah's eyes devoured him. "You're very contrary."

  West didn't deny it. He didn't get on his knees either.

  Noah sighed.

  They'd done a series of shots already. West against a wall. Standing posed and draped with one of the sheets Noah had pulled from his trunk of supplies. West beside a window, head tipped back. West with his back turned. West facing forward. West, West, West. West was already getting tired of himself when Noah offered this new command.

  The drape had gone back into the trunk and he faced Noah in only the flesh toned briefs he'd been asked to wear for shooting— "it's the illusion of nudity for the discreet" —and his chest and arms were streaked with black and white paint. The pull against his skin was a different kind of exposure. Every breath a fresh reminder that he was on display.

  "It's really too bad you said I couldn't use your face because the look you've got right now..." Noah shook his head. Strolled closer. His eyes darkened.

  West stiffened on impulse and made himself relax again, waiting for the inevitable brush of fingers along his arms and neck while Noah posed him. At first he'd tried telling West what to do and how, but usually it was easier this way rather than the endless guessing game of which way and how far and which angle that had been their first sessions. Surprisingly he didn't mind being treated like a living mannequin. The careful touches anchored him, reminding him that he didn't have to be himself in this place. He didn't have to be in complete control. He only had to be present and Noah would take care of the rest. But this time instead of pokes and prods, Noah's hand rested against West's cheek, thumb just beside his mouth, within easy reach, as he met West's glare.

  What did he look like in Noah's eyes? How much did West want him to see?

  Everything.

  The answer came unbidden and for a moment West couldn't breathe around the truth of it.

  I don't even like him. He clung desperately to every source of irritation between them. How Noah laughed at his own inane jokes. The way he spoke without thinking. His frequent lateness. Inability to sit still, to be quiet, to be calm. His complete and total refusal to fit in an
y box West tried to place him in. The list was nearly endless. There were so many reasons to dislike him that West barely had to search.

  But Noah's hand on his cheek. Their eyes meeting. Nothing else mattered more than this. The energy in the room when they stood this way with both Noahs looking out from behind his single pair of eyes.

  It felt—

  "Why me?" West hadn't meant to ask. Not now. Maybe not ever. Asking left him raw. It was an admission of curiosity. But the question had buzzed around his head for weeks now, ever since the first time he had stepped through the door of the studio and known he would stay there. He wanted to know. Even with the rawness. His body was already bared to Noah. Baring the rest of himself was such a small step.

  "Hmm?" Noah blinked like he was waking up. He took a step back.

  "Why did you ask me? To do this. When we were at the coffee shop that day, why me?"

  "Truth?"

  "Truth."

  "Because when you're in a room, you're the only thing I want to look at."

  West got on his knees.

  THE WATER COMING OUT of the tap in the ancient and closet sized bathroom was frigid as West scrubbed at the paint clinging stubbornly to his skin. It was everywhere. On his chest. His neck. Gluing his arm hair into spiky peaks. And it wasn't going to come off. Not before he lost feeling in two-thirds of his body and rubbed his skin raw.

  From outside the bathroom, Noah called, "I told you. You're probably going to need to shower it off. Give it a scrub with some warm water and it should be fine."

  "I can't go home like this," West snapped back. The brown paper towel in his hands slowly turned into shreds and fell apart.

  "It's dry. It won't get on your clothes. I promise."

  "And how would you know?"

  "I tested it out. Obviously. Pulled like a bastard when I got a clot in my hair too, but it eventually came out. And as you may have noted, I don't have a bald spot so no harm, no foul."

  "Somehow none of that comforts me."

  Another paper towel died and he still looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. West tore the door open. On the other side, Noah flinched back. He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and shrugged.

  "This is all your fault."

  "True. But those shots were great so I'm having a hard time being sorry." Noah's eyes flicked away and back again before they met his. There was still a spark there, hidden so deep West might have missed it if he hadn't been looking so intently. Almost desperately. "Buy you dinner as an apology? Is that glare a no or is it a yes? It's hard to tell with you."

  "I'm not dressed for dinner."

  Noah sucked at his lower lip. "It's not glamorous, but I can order in. No one even needs to know you're half naked."

  West flushed, awareness flooding through him all over again. He'd pulled on his jeans and nothing else before going to clean up. Now shirtless and with hair mussed he was virtually indistinguishable from a hookup, despite the hallway of locked studio doors. The paint swirled over him in peeling patches only added to the debauched air. None of it was like him. Or maybe it was exactly like him. A him that had been buried so deep he'd forgotten it existed. He'd crossed over from anything familiar and into new territory. He could be anyone there. If he wanted. And Noah made him want to want things.

  "All right."

  THEY SAT CROSS LEGGED on a folded sheet Noah had laid out to cushion the bare floorboards. He still felt iced over after his trek outside to retrieve their food from the delivery person and the only thing keeping him from pulling another drape out to use as a cape was the suspicion that West would use it against him later. Better to suffer in silence and keep his dignity. Open and half eaten boxes of food were arrayed around them. He cradled one in his hands just to warm them before setting it aside again. West had contained himself to the lo mein, only breaking off to primly collect his share of the dumplings from Noah. He nibbled at them like a squirrel, holding them between careful fingers, pinky extended as he gave each a one-two dunk in the sauce. No double dipping. He dropped nothing. The paper napkin spread over his lap showed not even a dot of oil.

  And his eyes followed Noah everywhere he went. It was like being stalked by a lion. A very hot but mercurial lion.

  Every tick of silence felt like needles on Noah's skin. "You're not still mad about the paint, are you?" he asked finally.

  "I'm not mad."

  "You sure? Because you look mad. Your face is doing" —he waved a hand— "a thing." West's face was like a color field painting; searching for meaning in it was complicated at best. Noah took another bite, chewing quickly and swallowing. Maybe this had been a bad idea.

  "I'm not mad."

  "You're not talking."

  "I'm eating." A beat of silence. "It's very good. Thank you."

  Noah chuckled. "You're welcome."

  West had pulled his shirt back on but left it half buttoned and the fruits of Noah's paint job were still visible on his skin. A curl of paint had found its way up his neck, curving along his jaw in the path that Noah's hands might take if they kissed, cradling his face. All the attempts to wash off the paint had missed that spot. It was just as crisp and stark as it had been when Noah painted it. His eyes returned to it over and over again. He'd claimed that little patch of skin. Just for tonight.

  "You did well today," Noah said. "A few more sessions like this and I'll have everything I need."

  He expected relief. A grateful sigh. Maybe even a smile at the early release from this photographic torment. Not stunned silence.

  West froze with the chopsticks hovering in front of his mouth. He lowered his hand back into his lap. "Oh. So soon?"

  That couldn't be disappointment. That was like asking a rainbow to shower gold coins. Fantasy. So whatever he saw on West's face, it wasn't what it looked like. Couldn't be. "I'm always in the market for another model if you're interested. But for this show, yeah." He lifted one shoulder in a shrug and returned to his food. "I figured you would be happy."

  "I am," West said a little too quickly. "Happy. I'll need the extra time soon for classes anyway."

  "Perfect timing."

  "Yeah. When?"

  "What?"

  "When? How soon? Will you be done?" he clarified.

  Noah scratched the back of his neck. "I'm not sure exactly." He took another bite while he thought. "Two weeks? Maybe less? I could make do with less."

  "I don't want to rush your work. Are you sure that's enough time?"

  "I guess we'll see." Noah set the takeout box down again and dropped onto his back, eyes trained on the ceiling, hands on his stomach. Something about feeling it rise and fall with his breathing always soothed him.

  But the silence still prickled every time it fell. He couldn't resist filling it.

  "So, what is it you study exactly? I've been trying to guess for days and I've still got no clue. You read but you don't strike me as a Lit major."

  If he tilted his head back, West was barely visible out of the corner of his eye. From this angle, he looked larger than life. Amazing and untouchable. His hair hung around his cheeks, the shadows left by the single desk light giving them a starkness they didn't have during the day. Without his lamps and the sun shining through the window, the studio was dim and intimate. It might almost have been cozy, but the space heater couldn't quite dispel the bite to the air, especially when they were sitting on the floor.

  And if he tilted his head the other way, the window reflected the view back at him, everything beyond it a hazy evening blue. He couldn't see the moon. All he could see was West captured in the glass. And himself, one arm bent to cushion his head, watching himself watching West. Being charmed by him.

  Noah sat back up.

  "You're not actually interested in my classes," West said dryly.

  "Sure I am." Noah could only hold out under his stare for a minute before he blinked. "Okay, I'm probably not interested in them, but I'm still curious. You're a mystery. I know next to nothing about you besides the
fact that you look good covered in paint and you eat dumplings with your little fingers out like it's a tea party."

  "You know my name."

  "And I know your name," he agreed. "But I got that from your sister. Who is adorable by the way and I mean that in a completely non-creepy way because I just realized how that might sound. She's perky though. You should bring her by sometime. I'll give her another drawing lesson."

  West had dropped his chopsticks back into his takeout box and now his hands rested on his knees. His stare turned so intense Noah could feel his hair singeing.

  "Not here," Noah added. Sighing. "The coffee shop or something. Shit. Sometimes you act like I'm trying to lure you into my murder basement. You forget, I've already had plenty of chances to have my wicked way with you if that was what I wanted and you're—remarkably—still alive. And in one piece. Behold the fucking miracle." He started closing up boxes, putting tabs into slots, and shoving them back into the bag.

  "I wasn't—" West blew out a breath. "Accounting."

  "What?"

  "I'm studying accounting."

  Noah frowned at him, more confused than ever. If they were being friendly, he wished someone would notify him so he knew how to act. "Was that so hard?"

  "Yes." West's lips twitched into a playful smile. Noah didn't even know he could do that, but he wanted more of it. "I'm not good at this. At small talk," he explained. "I don't usually talk about myself. And I do not eat dumplings like it's a tea party."

  "You absolutely do. You had fancy pinkies." He lifted one in illustration.

  West grimaced, those lips of his pressing flat. "Did not."

  "Please, don't stop on my account. It was cute." He'd buy West all the dumplings just to watch them be eaten that way, with careful fingers and soft lips. His mouth was one of the great wonders of the world.

  Their eyes met. Surely West could read everything he was thinking. Like how good Noah thought he looked so relaxed, just talking. Still thorny but gradually opening, unfurling to reveal his beautiful silky soft center. Noah had never cared for roses, but this one might be an exception.