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O-tanjoubi omedetou~
I almost didn't find it in time. X3 Happy birthday, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alarielle!
When Ken went away, time stopped. Lukas spent the days pacing, or reading, or painting. He stared at the calendar. He didn't watch TV, which was too noisy, and he didn't go online -- the only computer left in the house when Ken vanished and whisked away his slim notebook was an archaic piece of ugly plastic that required connection to a modem that could shatter peace, goodwill, and nerves effortlessly with a single screech. Lukas didn't touch that laptop and preferred to pretend it didn't exist. It wasn't even attractive enough to be a good coaster.
Painting was his favorite alone-activity. Everything else he loved could be indulged in with Ken present, but painting was different, it was exclusive. When he was focused on the canvas he couldn't focus on his lover. Soccer was different; it was fun to understand and spectate. Ken could watch him paint but he could never be part of it.
Well-- He could be a part of it, sometimes.
'Do you remember?'
'Mmm, yes.'
'The paint glistened on your skin, making everything so slick and smooth and right... I thought you were going to die when I touched you, the way you choked and bucked into me and begged me for more...'
A husky laugh shivered down his spine. 'You made it like torture. I thought I would die before you were finally satisfied with the way I looked. We should talk about this fetish you have for fucking your art.'
'We can talk about it when you're home. We can talk about it on the floor with edible paint...'
Lukas lived for that voice that haunted the night air on speakerphone when they were apart. Maybe if he could have he would have spent every moment they were apart on the phone, but he wasn't that fond of words, and anyway, if he could really change things, he would have kept Ken from ever leaving in the first place.
So he devoted himself to making beautiful things. He lost himself in ragged sketchy lines and the swirl of paint that made them whole; he created images of whimsy and fantasy that he remembered, that he had lived through, in another world and another era.
It was all silent. Even the dog was silent, when Ken wasn't home. The only sounds were the sweeping of brushes and the absence of the telephone's ringing.
Lukas remembered the moment when it first occurred to him that he used his paint the same way that he used his maryoku: laid it down, settling patterns into place, weaving strands together to make a more beautiful whole. Every act of art became like a reinforcement of the things he loved. Whenever he picked up his watercolors, the invisible designs promoting happiness and good fortune shimmered as if damp with color. Whenever he put away a pencil, the charcoal echoed a new layer of warding around the apartment.
The flat was where all the bits and pieces of Ken lived, and he had to protect them.
Then Ken called again, and the silence melted away. Lukas laid on the floor next to the phone and closed his eyes, smiling, and let his lover's voice soothe away the distance between them.
'Do you remember...?'
'Yes.' Always.
alarielle!When Ken went away, time stopped. Lukas spent the days pacing, or reading, or painting. He stared at the calendar. He didn't watch TV, which was too noisy, and he didn't go online -- the only computer left in the house when Ken vanished and whisked away his slim notebook was an archaic piece of ugly plastic that required connection to a modem that could shatter peace, goodwill, and nerves effortlessly with a single screech. Lukas didn't touch that laptop and preferred to pretend it didn't exist. It wasn't even attractive enough to be a good coaster.
Painting was his favorite alone-activity. Everything else he loved could be indulged in with Ken present, but painting was different, it was exclusive. When he was focused on the canvas he couldn't focus on his lover. Soccer was different; it was fun to understand and spectate. Ken could watch him paint but he could never be part of it.
Well-- He could be a part of it, sometimes.
'Do you remember?'
'Mmm, yes.'
'The paint glistened on your skin, making everything so slick and smooth and right... I thought you were going to die when I touched you, the way you choked and bucked into me and begged me for more...'
A husky laugh shivered down his spine. 'You made it like torture. I thought I would die before you were finally satisfied with the way I looked. We should talk about this fetish you have for fucking your art.'
'We can talk about it when you're home. We can talk about it on the floor with edible paint...'
Lukas lived for that voice that haunted the night air on speakerphone when they were apart. Maybe if he could have he would have spent every moment they were apart on the phone, but he wasn't that fond of words, and anyway, if he could really change things, he would have kept Ken from ever leaving in the first place.
So he devoted himself to making beautiful things. He lost himself in ragged sketchy lines and the swirl of paint that made them whole; he created images of whimsy and fantasy that he remembered, that he had lived through, in another world and another era.
It was all silent. Even the dog was silent, when Ken wasn't home. The only sounds were the sweeping of brushes and the absence of the telephone's ringing.
Lukas remembered the moment when it first occurred to him that he used his paint the same way that he used his maryoku: laid it down, settling patterns into place, weaving strands together to make a more beautiful whole. Every act of art became like a reinforcement of the things he loved. Whenever he picked up his watercolors, the invisible designs promoting happiness and good fortune shimmered as if damp with color. Whenever he put away a pencil, the charcoal echoed a new layer of warding around the apartment.
The flat was where all the bits and pieces of Ken lived, and he had to protect them.
Then Ken called again, and the silence melted away. Lukas laid on the floor next to the phone and closed his eyes, smiling, and let his lover's voice soothe away the distance between them.
'Do you remember...?'
'Yes.' Always.
no subject
*_____________*!!!!
So much love for this! Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!