This is my first story, so please, please, please comment, good or bad to rock_on_Summer@yahoo.com. I'm not a native speaker, so I'm sorry for any misspellings, grammar mistakes or whatever mistakes I might have made. Tell me if you liked it and I might post a second chapter ;P
Disclaimer: I wrote this, don't copy it unless you ask. This is fiction. If there are people who are similar to people in the story or have the same name, I didn't intend it. Beware, gay sex! Don't like that -> don't enter, you have been warned. If you like, you're welcome to proceed (even though there won't be sex just yet).
"Hey Weirdo."
"Hi hunny-bunny! And I'm not that weird!"
"Sure you're not! You've got paint on your nose."
I wiped my nose.
"Gone?"
He stepped closer.
"Hm, no."
I rubbed my nose harder.
"Now?"
"Still not."
"Shut up! I don't even have paint on my nose, do I?"
"O, you're right. It's a big pimple! Gee, how could I mistake it for paint?"
"Fuck you! I do not have pimples either!"
And I didn't! I was a blond curly-haired, fair-skinned boy in my early twenties (ok, mid-twenties) and even when puberty hit I had never had the curse of acne. And Case knew it, he just wanted to annoy me.
"You've got the prettiest pimples I've ever seen." He said, kissing me on the nose.
"Let me finish my painting before I beat you up."
And I turned around to my canvas that was set up in the middle of our living-room. Along with the white long-sleeved, oversized, knee-long dress shirt that was splattered with paint it was probably the cause for being called "weirdo" earlier.
I heard him rummage around in the kitchen area, hopefully trying to fix us dinner.
"Hun?"
"Painting, remember?"
"Do we, like, not have butter?" He asked as he looked in from the kitchen with an empty butter container in his hand.
"Hm, I might have, like, used it all up."
I tried hard to concentrate on my painting. A painting of him, I might add, even though, you wouldn't recognize it yet, because it was just his eyes. The whole canvas was black with little bright spots, so that it looked like the night-sky. There was a round black circle in the middle, that was even darker then the rest and was supposed to be his iris. It had a silver sickle, like a half-moon in it that was supposed to be the spark in his eyes. I wasn't satisfied yet, even though it was almost done. Case is of Asiatic heritage and has dark, very pretty, expressive eyes, so that it was especially hard to capture them just right. Case is overall very pretty, but don't tell him, he prefers handsome.
I know pretty when I see it though. I had painted his hair a while ago. I made it a dark blue, almost black, ocean with a little foam on it to resemble the shininess in his hair. He wore it medium long and in careful disarray, a little bit like a character you'd see in a manga. He had light-brown skin, like latte macchiato after moving the spoon, and a lean, nicely defined but not overly so, body.
I always loved his siluette, it was elegant and it was perfect for painting it naked, playing with light and shadow. I had painted many pictures of him, most of them naked. I had sold a few of him dressed, not very willingly, but I had kept all of the ones of him naked. I didn't like selling my paintings; I rather just gave them away as a present whenever I felt a painting felt "right" for somebody, like it would belong there.
Case made me sell some every once in a while, because I can't hold a real job for more then a week it seems, but I somehow have to make money, too. His job pays well, but the house we just got is expansive. I don't really know much about the figures though. Case handles the money. Does a much better job at it then I ever would.
After a while of job-hopping he figured, he should just let me be a painter for a living and stop finding me stupid jobs that got me stressed out and depressed. We had fought a lot on the issue. It was a horrible time that I don't like to remember. So I won't, and I'll concentrate on the space, that was his eyes in the canvas in front of me.
"Lucy?"
Would have liked to, that is.
"Hm."
Little to no response is the best way to get rid of people.
"Since you started being a painter it feels like you have less time then when you were, for example, a marketing director."
"Didn't start being a painter, was born that way. Never been a marketing director either." I mumbled.
He sat on the one of our beige couches behind me with a glass of wine in his hand. I hated when people sat behind me while I painted, it made me feel like I was back in sixth grade when the math teacher would walk around to see if you were solving your problems right. Mine were always wrong and whenever the teacher was right behind me I couldn't think and I'd just stop what I was doing and the teacher would ask me if I ever even did in math what I was supposed to do.
You see, I'm traumatized.
And I knew Case was using it against me. I didn't like it, but I knew Case would make me stop painting, and this was just one of his less-effective weapons. No shame in surrendering early.
So I dropped the paintbrush in its glass and looked at my painting.
"Done." I announced.
"Cool!" He grinned at me, got up and hugged me against him from behind. He was slightly taller then I was and looked over my shoulder at the unfinished painting.
"Almost done, isn't it?"
"Almost."
"I've never seen a painting with so much black in it that still doesn't look threatening or depressive, but, I don't know, happy isn't the right word."
Well, happy wasn't what I was feeling towards him and this painting was about him after all.
He nuzzled my shoulder and then the bastard bit my neck. Hard. And then he started tickling me, which had me boxing his abs and squealing like a baby-piggy.
"Case you dick-head. Stop it!!! Stop!!!" I squealed and begged.
He threw me on the couch and finally let go of me, so I could catch my breath.
I fake-glared at him.
"Look at your shirt! Now you got painting on it."
"O no. Really? This is my best shirt!"
"No, not really. It's a pimple."
"Haha. How do you spell humour?"
I stuck my tongue out at him. "Stop hosing around and make me dinner, bitch! It's your turn!"
"I'll feed you dinner!" He got up and grabbed his crotch.
O boy.
Then he removed his shirt and tossed it at me.
"You can do the laundry while I'll get us something to eat!"
I tossed it right back at him (in the hopes he wouldn't put it back on)
"This is cheating Case!"
"Why? You told me to get you food, I got you food."
"You dialled the delivery service."
"Stop bitching and be grateful for what the Lord has prepared for you!" he mumbled around a fork of spaghetti.
"I don't get bitchy, I'm no girl I'm a guy. Guys get snippy, and I wasn't getting that either."
"Keep it up and you won't be getting any."
"At least I CAN keep it up."
I knew he could too, but I wanted to annoy him so he'd prove it. He stuck his tongue out. How mature.
"Back to the cooking."
"That you never do."
"And that you're going to do next week for my boss, his wife und us."
"I am?"
I was really surprised here. Case usually didn't invite people he worked with to our place. He worked at this marketing, investment advice-giving thingy, don't really know what it's called but he tells clueless businesspeople how to run their company. Fancy people that wear Armani suits (like him by the way) and that have wives with pearl necklaces, fur coats and three pink poodles - okay scratch the poodles but you get the picture.
It would be weird having people like that in our home. I really loved our house the way it was and I knew Case did too. But it was kind of^Å like a backpacker's hostel.
The living room was big but half of it was occupied with paint-stained wooden easels, one with the painting of his eyes on it, paintings were lined-up leaning against the wall in various sizes. The floor was rough, paint-splattered wood and had four big beige cotton couches on it (some of them with paint-stains and small cigarette burns), that were set up on the other side of the living room, where the floor was two steps higher and that we used as a stage when we held parties at our place.
In other words: it was chaotic and they wouldn't like it
"It would be nice if you could."
I looked around me. We were sitting in the "dining room" that was a lot nicer then the living room and the kitchen, but wasn't for show either. We had a divan in it, black leather with cherry wood feet, next to a small red-brick fireplace, a small round antic table and four matching chairs, made of polished cherry wood, with little Chinese dragons carved in them, a present from Case's grandmother. Quite stylish actually. Case kept this room neat and my clutter wasn't allowed in here ("you've got five other rooms that you can store your crap (he wanted to say art) in, get this stuff out or I'll burn it!")
So far so good, but I had been allowed to decorate the walls and shelves, that were build into the walls. The walls had three paintings of Case on them, all in black frames. It was a series in dark and pale colours and I made the paintings as large as live. One showed him naked in obscure light, with the arms of another unrecognizable men (me of course) holding him from behind, the other picture showed him from behind, exposing his perfect little butt while looking over his shoulder, my hands were on his hip and shoulder in this painting and in the third painting you saw him kissing somebody standing in the shadows with curly hair (me). Very classy paintings (and I'm usually very self-critical), but not something you necessarily wanted your boss to see.
I was just glad he wouldn't get to see the bedroom with the larger-then-live erotic/pornographic paintings (partly with close ups) that I drew on the wall.
"You really want to take them here?" I said sceptically.
"My boss wanted to get to know me better, see how I live."
"You think he can take it?"
"I don't know. It makes you uncomfortable right?"
"A little."
"I think if we clean up the living room a little and if you could maybe finish early that day, oh and of course, if you don't burn dinner, things should be fine." Ass. I never burned dinner. The only reason I couldn't maintain my job as a cook was that I could never get up in time. Even though some people think 11am isn't all that early. Which made me think.
"It is nothing you could lose your job over, right?"
"No, not really. He might think I'm weird, but our customers go for the unconventional solutions that I offer. It's kind of my unique selling point. He already likes me though and we get along good. He's really nice, you'll see. But maybe if we don't seem as much like the chaotic whacos that we are, he'll promote me earlier and you would have to sell less stuff."
"Ok. I'll cook. I'll prepare the rooms. I'll even polish our silverware if you want me to."
"Babe, we don't have silverware."
"I could get some. Haven't you always wanted silverware? And porcelain, I could get classy porcelain too"
"No. I like our cheap dishes that I can throw at you without having a bad conscious. And I like our cluttered, messy living room and" he said, liking my ear "I like you."
"Really?" I whispered.
"No, not really, I'm just saying that to get you to sleep with me."
I knew I would be ashamed to have to eat in this room with his boss after what we did on the dining table that night.