Page 41 of Refraction

It was, but Calvin already had a date tonight. Or tomorrow night. Soon.

He stood still while the hair people and wardrobe people and camera people did their thing. Zoe did the same, looking lovely, half-naked and patient.

It was going to be a long day. He’d already done one set this morning. He’d taken a nap on his lunch break. Then there was this shoot, which Michael told him was for a round of internet advertising, and that would be followed by solo shots with a hundred wardrobe changes for a catalog.

He’d be so busy he wouldn’t have time to miss Tucker like he did right now.

* * *

The birdswere watching him.Tucker crawled out of the bed and started painting again, the people with wings, the men with sharp beaks, the ravens with bare chests and tattoos. The long leather coats with feathers growing from the seams.

They were telling him about their plans, how they filled the streets, a sensual, sexual army with empty shiny black eyes and sharp, sharp beaks.

Tucker’s hands felt like shattered glass lived in his knuckles, crunching and clattering under his swollen skin. He stared down at them, the black paint splashed over them, the dye running along his skin and making feathers.

So many feathers.

He texted Calvin with trembling fingers.

Hope you’re well. Miss you so. Dream the good things.

He wasn’t sure if it was early or late or if the world was just dim.

The reply came back instantly.Just got up. Dinner? I’ll even eat.

Yes.

He didn’t know what to do for a second. Did he offer to go there? Have Calvin come here? Where was here compared to there? He needed a shower. He was stained, top to bottom. Feathers. “They’re not feathers. Stop it. Stop being crazy.”

Fuck, his voice was raw.

Need a shower first. Text me your addy. I know it’s cold but I need to get outside. Can we walk to dinner?

Sure. Me too. Showering.He sent the address, then headed to the bathroom with the shower stall thing that was a fancy showerhead and a drain in the floor. How much paint had gone down that drain? Were the pipes stained with a thousand paintings?

God, that would be horrifying and wonderful and sad.

Seemed like a good while before Calvin rang his bell, enough time to find clean jeans and comb his hair and make the bed, anyway. Maybe Calvin wouldn’t be completely horrified.

He’d had paint in his ears, in his beard, everywhere. He was damn near normal now.

He opened the door, eager to see his lover, his Calvin.

“Hey, Mr. New York Artist.” Calvin’s smile was warm. He stepped right inside, tugging his thick scarf down to loosen it, and lifted his chin up for a kiss. “I missed you.”

“I hear that. Yes.” Tucker leaned down, the kiss a little desperate, a little wild, a lot hungry.

Calvin whimpered lightly in answer and pressed into him, one hand cupping his jaw.

Sweet. Calvin tasted sweet, rich, necessary, and he drew his lover in, the sensation of their bodies rocking together pure heaven.

A second later, though, Calvin was suddenly heavy in Tucker’s arms, and he broke off the kiss, blinking like he was trying to get his bearings. “Whoo. Let’s go eat something, okay?”

“Yeah. Yes, sure. Sorry. Come on and we’ll find something wonderful.” He hadn’t gone outside since he’d come up, so he had no idea what was here, but there ought to be things. This was a city. Cities had things out the wazoo.

“We will.” Calvin got his feet under him and smiled. “Don’t forget where we left off, though. I liked that.” He tugged his scarf back up. “Did you get out for a new coat yet? It’s cold out there.”

“No worries.” He would be fine. Tucker grabbed his jacket and his gloves, his gimme cap. “Let’s go see what we see.”

---