Work Text:
He's late. He's very late.
It's not his fault, and really, he can't even be mad at Mrs Burbank who had been running late herself and thus had caused Simon to stay back at the kindergarten until she'd waged her battle through Brooklyn traffic to pick up her daughter.
Now it means Simon can't go home for a shower and change of clothes before meeting Markus. He still has to catch the subway across to Manhattan and the closest station is a five minute jog away. He self consciously tugs his coat over his uniform. Of all the days for this to happen, it has to be the day he'd been invited over to Markus' studio.
The train ride gives Simon just enough time to panic thoroughly at the absurdity of it all. He's a kindergarten teacher and Markus is- well he's Markus Manfred, an artist just as amazing as his father the famous Carl Manfred of Detroit. Both had moved to New York five years ago to further immerse Markus in the Arts scene and five months ago Simon had unceremoniously walked into his yet unopened solo debut exhibit.
For some unknown, mysterious reason Markus seems to like talking to him. Not just on the most terrifyingly awkward night of Simon's life, where he felt like he was drowning in an Olympic diving pool in terms of being out of his depths, but also afterward. Markus messaged him three days later asking if Simon wanted to meet for coffee. Sure, he'd agreed, and that became a regular thing; Simon taking the Lexington 6 subway from Brooklyn to Upper East Side 86th.
Markus lives in a completely different world of manicured topiary and marble columns and towering apartment complexes and coffee that cost way more than it had the right to. But Markus invited him in to that world and Simon was helpless to follow. He's pretty sure if Markus asked him to start a revolution demanding equal rights for their roombas he'd say yes. Why shouldn't machines be compensated for their work? He can almost hear Markus' voice asking him.
He's a galaxy out of Simon's league but spending time around him Simon can liken to glimpsing a different realm. One where men can talk about philosphy and the arts and their emotions and be generous with physical affection, one where they can afford to pay for overpriced coffee and freshly toasted aged cheddar and tomato croissants. Markus even gives him flowers every now and then- artsy people really do just inhabit a different plane of existence.
The autumnal afternoon breeze is just cold enough to warn of the impending winter, and Simon pops the collar of his coat up to protect his nape. 86th Street is lined with trees swaying with sunset coloured leaves like flocks of birds with brilliant plummage. He takes out his phone and snaps some photos. Maybe he'll message them to Kara to show Alice. Maybe he'll message them to North to see if she wants to dye her hair that colour. Maybe he'll just keep them and live in this idyllic bubble.
"Hey Simon." Markus greets him with a smile as he stands from where he'd been sitting on the steps. Simon jogs the rest of the way.
"I'm so sorry, I hope you weren't waiting long one of the parents got stuck in traffic so I had to stay back and-"
"It's fine Si, it's fine." Markus laughs, slinging an arm around his shoulders affectionately. "Glad you could make it."
"You asked for my help with something, I'm not sure how much use I'll be."
"You're perfect for it, Si." His grin softens into something fond, something that makes Simon's heart skip and squeeze in his chest. Who decided this is ok though, who made Markus far more attractive than anyone ever has the right to be?
He lets himself be ushered inside and it really is like stepping into a different realm. The townhouse is huge and filled with art and there's honest to god a gilded cage by the coat rack with little animatronic birds because of course Markus would never dream of caging real animals right?
"Simon are you ok?" Markus gives his shoulder a squeeze.
"This is a lot to take in oh my god Markus, I'm in Carl Manfred's house." He doesn't know why he's whispering but it just feels like he's intruding into sacred space.
"You're in our house." He corrects with a laugh. "Is that your uniform? Who would choose white for a kindergarten wouldn't the kids get your uniform dirty like, immediately?"
Simon freezes midway through hanging up his coat before he realises yes he's still in the stark white trousers and shirt with the reflective blue cuffs on the sleeves.
"Yeah well we don't exactly get a say in kindergarten fashion." He sighs and tugs on the hem of his shirt self-consciously.
"Markus I didn't know you were bringing your boy home tonight." Carl's deep rasp interrupts them, the older man chuckling fondly as he catches Simon's bewildered gaze. "I wish you'd told me, I could've made myself scarce."
"Dad!"
"Good evening Mr Manfred." Simon greets, reaching out to shake his hand.
"Oh please, just call me Carl I get enough of Mr Manfred from the ass-kissers. New York's a cesspit of ambition." A roll of his eyes. "Make yourself at home, Simon."
"You remember me?"
"You're all he talks about how could I forget?" Carl teases as Markus looked mortified.
"Stop! I just wanted to show Simon the studio and ask him to help on my latest project."
"Oh is that all you wanted to show him? Well don't let me interrupt boys, you go busy yourselves in the studio." Carl winks at Simon and rolls his wheelchair into the lounge as Markus groans and puts his face in his hands.
"Sorry, he's just...being a dad."
"I can't believe he remembers me, I'm like-" Simon trails after Markus, trying not to be overwhelmed by his surroundings, "I'm like Generic White Male, there's probably a factory assembly line for guys like me."
"We're artists, remember Simon?" Markus grins. "We always remember interesting faces, interesting personalities. Come on, it's through here."
If wandering through the Upper East side is akin to entering a different world, then the Manfred studio is like entering a pocket dimension. It's as if no time flowed through, Simon muses as he steps into an incredible studio space with glass walls and floodlights and the smell of paint in the air. There are canvases propped up everywhere, even in stacks leaning against the walls. Several wooden tables sport paintbrushes in jars like floral arrangements, their brushtips stained forever like flower petals. An impressive row of open standalone shelving houses boxes and boxes from Bellini paints.
"Breathe, Simon." Markus teases, elbowing his side gently. "It's just a studio."
"Just a studio?" Simon sighs in exasperation. "I feel like if I touch something I'm bound to this realm forever."
"I'm fairly sure the rule is if you consume something, you're bound to this realm forever."
"You're a Fae, I knew it there's no way you're a mortal man!" Simon accuses as Markus laughs loudly. "That's why you asked me for my full name when we met!"
"And you gave it to me, so now you're bound to me forever."
There is a misstep, a dip, an offbeat, a brief moment of nothing and everything, a puncture, a hole in time and Simon believes it; he is bound forever to him, to this man, to those eyes, to the constellation of freckles and that beautiful smile, yes, he is bound forever but forever doesn't sound too bad, no, it certainly doesn't.
Then the moment is over and Markus honest to god blushes, ducking his head and rubbing his nape.
"Anyway, I uh," he vaguely gestures at a chair lit by softboxes, and a covered canvas on an easel, "I was hoping you could sit for me?"
"And do what?" Simon asks but he's already moving to sit down on the wooden chair.
"Just sit. Talk to me while I paint." Markus shrugs, starting to fuss with materials on the small table beside the easel.
"You're...going to paint me?"
"I've already started, I just want to get the colours right." He confesses with a sheepish grin. "I started sketching it out the night of my exhibit. I had to paint you, you looked so beautiful under the gallery lights."
Simon feels like his brain has shortcircuited, like his brain tripped and fell and scattered all rational thought. He can't process this, he can't process those words and that grin. He stands abruptly from the chair and comes around to stand beside Markus.
The canvas is swathed in blues and yellows, the brushstrokes thick and textured. He can see the outline of his profile, and there's an ambient glow wrapped around him like a veil. His head is tilted slightly, his eye half lidded, his lips parted. His hand is reaching out towards something, each finger elegantly poised like a marble scultpure.
"I don't look that magical." He argues, feeling his cheeks heat.
"It's not meant to be a replica," Markus explains gently, "it's not a portrait of you. It's a symbol of you and what I felt around you at that one moment in time."
There's a sound, a clink of glass and Simon looks away from the canvas to find Markus carefully spooning bright blue powder onto a glass palette. He takes a bottle of some sort of oil and uses a glass dropper to drip some beside the powder, before taking a palette knife and mixing the two into a paste.
"You mix your paints by hand?"
"It's terribly pretentious, I know." The artist grins apologetically. "I buy the pure pigments rather than the paints because I can control the chroma and consistency myself."
"What, you mean you don't use non-toxic water-based paints that come in gallon jugs like the rest of us?" Simon jokes, thinking of the paints they had at the kindergarten.
The cheeky question elicits another laugh from Markus. "I think you outclass me in that medium, Simon."
"I'm pretty classy with food coloured icing too Markus, don't test me." Simon warns, unable to stop a laugh ruining the effect. "I can make a mean set of stylishly dressed gingerbread men and women."
Markus holds up the glass palette in front of Simon's face, scrutinising the colour against his eyes. "There, see? Eyes like a nice day." He echoes Alice's words and Simon realises this is it, he really is bound here forever. "Take a seat again please?"
Simon sits.
The lightboxes are warm on either side of him, and the physical exertion of the work day creeps into his bones. Here, everything is still and quiet except for the swishing of brushes, the clink of glass, the occasional thoughtful hum. He lets his thoughts drift and his gaze unfocus; he truly doesn't know how much time passes, if time passes here at all.
He doesn't even notice Markus moving until the artist is standing in front of him, a hand hovering close to his face.
"I just need to move your head slightly is that alright?" Simon nods, and Markus gently presses his fingers to his jawline and tilts his head. His fingers linger just a little longer than necessary.
"Do you think," Markus breathes as he runs his fingers up the curve of Simon's cheekbone, "in the future we'll have little devices right here."
He draws a small circle on Simon's temple using a smudge of light blue on his fingertip. "It'll show us what the other is thinking."
"Like some LED mood ring?" Simon jests, and Markus grins.
"Maybe we won't even talk with our mouths. Maybe we'll be able to just talk to each other in our heads and look at the colours to read someone's emotions."
His hand stays, and he turns it slightly so the back of his fingers caress Simon's cheek.
Time doesn't pass here, Simon confirms. Let him stay like this forever.
He reaches out and dips his finger into a blob of yellow on the glass palette Markus cradles. Standing so they're at eye level, Simon mimics the gesture and draws a yellow ring on Markus' temple.
"Blue for...stability." Simon muses. "Yellow for...contemplation."
"Can I kiss you now?" It's a whisper, soft and urgent and almost lost under his breath. Markus looks at him with such intense longing that Simon wonders if he's looking into a mirror of his own desires.
"Yes please."
The kiss is electric and he fears his knees are going to buckle. He fists his hands in Markus' shirt as Markus kisses him again, slow and hopeful and mellow. Let him stay like this forever, he begs again and he fancies if they did have little LED mood rings his would be an overwhelmed bright red.
When they part Markus lets out a soft breathy laugh and bumps their noses together. "I was wondering if we'd ever get to do that. We've been dating for so long but we hadn't kissed yet I was beginning to worry you didn't like me that much."
Overwhelmed bright red, definitely.
"What?"
"Well, you know, we've been together for like nearly five months now." Markus frowns, rubbing his nape. "I was afraid I was doing something wrong."
"We're dating?!" Simon blurts, his heart thudding painfully loud in his chest.
"...Are we...not dating?" Markus blinks, confused. "Simon we're dating, aren't we? We- we go on coffee dates. And we've been on dinner dates. And gallery dates, remember that Sunday at the Met? I- I give you flowers? Often? We've held hands?"
"I just thought that's how you show affection you're an artist I just thought it was artsy behaviour!" His voice is two octaves higher in disbelief and Markus is equal parts confused and amused.
"Do you think we shouldn't be dating?"
"God no." Simon grabs his shoulders and yanks him closer, their mouths clumsily crashing together. Markus laughs brightly into the kiss, fumbling to set the palette down so he can wrap his arms around him and thread a hand into his hair. He giggles helplessly, unable to contain the sheer unbridled joy inside and it's then that his memory decides to prompt him.
"You gave me yours too." Simon rubs his thumb over Markus' cheekbone as if to smudge the cinnamon dusting of freckles there. "That same afternoon."
"Hm?"
"Your name." Simon explains, leaning forward to press a featherlight kiss to his lips. "You gave me your full name when we met."
Markus smiles, his eyes crinkling. "Then I guess I'm yours, Simon Morrison. Bound forever."