Page 93 of Refraction

“’Kay.” Tucker went to the kitchen, turned on the music, and started singing as he clanged and banged and made his drink.

He smiled at the music. Tucker put on music a lot. So far mostly stuff he remembered from high school and his first couple of years in the city. It was fun.

He picked up the big painting, the biggest of the bunch, and carried it around the corner, down a short hall, around another corner and through a doorway to this completely empty room near the bedroom. All the walls were white but one. He assumed that the gray wall was original and Tucker had built the rest of them.

He jogged back out and found the hammer and the wall hooks that he’d stolen from other walls where art used to be. He wondered what was on those walls before he arrived.

He hung the big painting in the center of the gray wall and admired the soaring birdmen, all ruffled feathers and dark silhouettes against blue sky. The others were mostly lit by streetlights at dusk or dawn, but this one seemed more like early morning. Maybe the morning rush through Midtown or something. It was busy.

It was happy, somehow, and that suited him, that Tucker’s memories of the city weren’t all bad.

It was still kind of amazing to Calvin how he could do that for Tucker. Turn things around, make him smile, inspire him to paint in blue and white instead of black and red.

Tucker was moody, he got that, but he was hopeful he could help Tucker keep a healthy balance at least. Things like regular meals and a little fun could go a long way.

Satisfied with the placement of this one, he went to grab the last two from the kitchen.

Tucker was drinking his limeade and drawing on a blank wall, a human-sized birdman appearing on the plaster.

He hung back to watch not only the image taking shape, but his lover as well. Tucker looked like a big kid standing there sketching on the wall, sucking limeade through a straw. He didn’t recall seeing any mural-type art anywhere else in the house, but it was hard to know whether this was something new or whether Tucker had just painted over everything else.

“Do you do this a lot?”

“Draw? Yeah. I paint over all the time. I like the idea that there are layers and layers of art in the walls.”

“Hmm. Yeah.” He looked at the last two paintings, suddenly imagining all the demons painted one on top of another, separated only by layers of white paint. He found that disturbing. It wasn’t like he could see them anywhere, but just knowing they were there was a little disconcerting.

Whoa.He shook that image off. He hadn’t meant to go there at all.

No wonder Tucker worried. How weird.

“You okay? Get a cold chill?”

“Yup. Just fine.” He gave Tucker a quick kiss to prove it—to both of them. “I’m going to go hang these.” He grabbed the paintings and wound his way through the rooms again, this time finding one with a view of the pool. He hung the paintings, happy with his choices. They would have to pass by at least one of the paintings going pretty much anywhere in the house.

“I’m all done,” he called, turning corners again until he figured out how to get back to the kitchen. He was starting to get used to the place.

“Excellent. I am too.” The sketched-out birdman was tangled in some yarn, the strings caught in his feathers.

“Aw. Poor birdman. Was he trying to make a nest?”

“I was thinking that thing that you do with the strings…. Uh. Cat’s cradle? You know about that? I like the nest thing too, though.” Tucker winked at him. “I dropped the marker and had to improvise. You’d be surprised how much of art is an accident.”

“Oh yeah? You’re giving away all of your artist secrets.” He smiled at Tucker. “Nothing about modeling is an accident. Ever. Sometimes you get lucky, like if you’re outdoors and the light does something cool all of a sudden, though.”

And then sometimes you don’t get lucky. Or you’re just not good enough. Sometimes you might as well be invisible.

He felt his forehead pulling down like storm clouds to go with the hollow feeling in his chest. He didn’t want Tucker to see him all frowny when they were having such a nice day, so he turned away and went to get more water. “You have enough to drink?”

“I do.” Tucker followed him. “Not much about commercial art like you do is accidental. I think that’s harder sometimes. I’ve always said I could never be a model. I’m not good at still.”

“Still is one thing Iamgood at.” It was apparently something else he was missing. He wished he knew what it was; he’d change it. Fix it. He grabbed another bottle of water and opened it up.

“They’re fuckers, you know. I’d happily beat them down for you.”

He sipped the water, then put the cap carefully back on the bottle and put it down. “They’re not. The other guy was just better. I know better than to get my hopes up, but Michael said—” Michael had told him it was going to be his. “I worked really hard. I wish I could ask what I’m missing. What’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. And yeah, I know, I’m supposed to be all reasonable and thoughtful and shit, but I love you, and I think you’re the finest thing since sliced bread, and I don’t have to be anything but in love. I think you’re all the good things, and I want to smack the living shit out of anyone that hurts you.”

---