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There’s one painting at the exhibition and the artist isn’t in attendance.
Tyler wears his best suit and swills champagne and tries his best not to get drunk.
He fails.
“Is this it?” He asks loudly when the painting is finally unveiled.
A few people murmur and move away from him.
In the middle of the room, hanging from two giant metal hooks like some sort of ugly fish, is Josh Dun’s painting. And it’s a slash of red on a black background. That’s it. The title is Acrylic Watercolor 003.
“What kind of name is that?” Tyler asks, again a little too loudly.
Mark, his manager, swoops out of nowhere and saves the day. “Okay, buddy,” he chuckles, leading Tyler away from the painting (if you could even call it that) and the crowd of people, “looks like you’ve had enough to drink.”
He takes Tyler’s fifth glass of champagne from him and hands it off to a passing cocktail waitress. They’re in a back hallway when Tyler says, “I mean, you can’t just call something number three. Where are numbers one and two? It makes no Goddamn sense.”
“Maybe there are numbers two and three,” Mark mutters, jerking the lapels of Tyler’s suit together, making him exhibition-appropriate once more, “I don’t know. Nobody knows - the guy’s a total recluse.”
“Yeah,” Tyler scoffs, “what a move - not even coming to your own exhibition. Do you think it would fly if I pulled that shit?”
With one last harried tug at the front of Tyler’s suit jacket, Mark lays a hand on his shoulder. “The point is you don’t do that. Because you’re not an asshole.”
That’s debatable.
Tyler glances out to the exhibition room, bustling with people who’d love to meet him and who Tyler would love to get away from. “Don’t make me go back out there,” he whines desperately. “Let me go home.”
“No,” Mark says gently, a hand solid between Tyler’s shoulder blades. “You’re gonna go out there and sober up and mingle and later on tonight you’ll thank me for it.”
With a sigh, Tyler stepped back out beside Josh Dun’s ugly painting.
-
In fact, Tyler never thanked Mark for making him sober up and mingle. He just crawled into bed still in his suit and tie and cried over Jenna as he had done every night for the past three months.
And the next morning he goes to his favorite coffee shop on the East side and tips half a bottle of Jameson into his cup.
He keeps his sunglasses on even though it’s overcast out, low-hanging clouds casting a gray blanket over the city. Ever since his spot in the Columbus Sun he’s been a lot more recognizable to the general public and he would prefer not to be. He also has a baseball cap pulled down low on his forehead for good measure.
It’s as he’s leaving that he sees the guy with the blue hair. A flash in his peripheral, as he’s about to push his way back into the gloom outside. But he stops, watches the guy with the blue hair instead. Sitting alone in the corner, sipping a cappuccino, flipping through the newspaper.
A colorful trail of tattoos swirls up his arm and he has a small silver nose ring.
Someone pushes past Tyler and coughs. “Walk much?”
This makes Blue Hair look up and see Tyler staring at him. He looks surprised, of course, but Tyler Joseph was never one to be bashful.
He approaches the guy, who now looks completely bewildered, and doesn’t even ask before he slides into the booth across from him. “Hi. I’d like to paint you.”
There’s this soft little smile on the guy’s face as he shakes his head a bit. “Not draw?”
“What?”
“Y’know - draw me like one of your French girls?” As he says this, he turns his head almost shyly toward the window and the sun winks off of the ring in his nose. Tyler might ask him to take it out if he can.
“I don’t draw,” Tyler says, and realizes this guy has no idea who he is. “At least not professionally.”
Blue Hair lays a hand on the paper he was perusing. “Can I at least finish this article?”
Snatching the paper up, earning a bemused smile from the man across from him, Tyler sees the paper is open to a review of the exhibition last night. Five stars. “You don’t need to read this drivel,” Tyler spits, folding the newspaper up. “I was at that exhibition. Josh Dun is a bigheaded prick who makes metaphorical art and wants everyone to suck his dick just because no one’s ever seen what he looks like.”
The guy tilts his head, smile almost completely gone. “Jeez, mister. You must be some hotshot artist to have been invited to an exhibition like that, huh? And you really seem to know what you’re talking about.”
Tyler blushes - something he doesn’t do very often - and rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “I mean, I don’t like to brag, but…I’m not living off of food stamps, I’ll say that.”
“So, if I say yes is my picture gonna appear in some big magazine? Art & Culture, maybe?”
“Art & Culture?” Tyler snorts. “Please. I might roll it out at my next gala or something. With your permission, of course.”
A pause, as Blue Hair purses his lips. Tyler wants to do more than paint him.
“I don’t even know who you are.” The guy has long porcelain fingers and he curls them around his steaming mug of coffee.
Tyler extends a hand. “My name’s Tyler.”
Blue Hair wraps his fingers - scalding - around Tyler’s. “Jordan.”
-
“You can put your shit anywhere. I’ll get set up.”
There’s a rustling as Jordan steps out of his shoes and leaves them on Tyler’s living room floor. The flannel he was wearing over his T-shirt lands on the arm of the couch and he looks around.
“This is a pretty nice place.”
“Thanks.” Tyler’s canvas sits in its customary spot in front of the bay window. He scatters his paint and brushes on the lip of the easel and goes to get a stool for Jordan, which he plants in the middle of the room. “My manager actually picked this apartment out.”
“He has good taste.”
Tyler hums as he heads into the kitchen and pulls the fridge open. “You want anything to drink?”
“Sure. Do you have any wine?”
Laughing, Tyler grabs two water bottles. “I do, but I actually shouldn’t be drinking before…”
Back in the living room, the rest of Jordan’s clothes have joined his flannel on the sofa.
“Oh,” Tyler says, and it’s barely a breath of air. “You’re-“
“You did mean nude, right?” Jordan is hardly timid, either lacking any propensity towards inhibition or very confident in his body, coming to stand by Tyler and plucking one of the bottles of water from his hand.
“I…didn’t actually. But that’s okay!” He adds, seeing Jordan’s reproachful look. “It might work better like this anyway.”
Taking Jordan by the shoulders, he turns him around and steers him toward the stool, trying - dear God, does he try - not to look at his ass.
He sits him down and positions him how he wants him, moving strong arms and tilting his head just so that his eyes catch the midday light, and tries even harder not to look at his dick.
”Can you take your nose ring out?”
“Is it distracting?”
Tyler takes his place behind the canvas. “It just…doesn’t play well with the light.”
“I’d actually prefer to leave it in, if that’s okay with you.”
Biting his lip, Tyler nods. “Okay. You can move around if you want. Just try not to deviate too much one way or the other.”
For a few minutes, they sit in silence. Tyler swirls a blue and a white together to get the exact color of Jordan’s hair and Jordan sits almost completely still.
“Y’know,” he mutters, obviously trying not to move his lips too much, “I was kinda nervous to come here at first. You looked like the Unabomber with that hat and glasses on.”
Tyler actually spits at that, has to use his wrist to wipe the bubble away from the corner of his mouth because his hands are covered in paint. “Why did you agree to this then?”
“I had a feeling you would be hot without all that stuff on.”
“And were you right?” Tyler asks, paintbrush swirling some green onto Jordan’s arm.
Jordan looks away for half a second, that beautiful soft smile back on his face. “Yeah, I was.”
Facing heating, Tyler takes a swig of water and changes the subject. “You’re not moving at all. Have you done this before?”
“Never. You told me to sit still so that’s what I’ll do.”
They work until the sun dips below the buildings to the West, ruining the light Tyler needs to finish. Well, he works. Jordan just sits there and looks pretty.
“Is it finished?” Jordan stands and stretches, skin straining over the slats of his ribs. Tyler wants to rub paint all over him.
“No, I have maybe a quarter left to do. Would you be willing to come back tomorrow?”
He’s dipping his brushes one by one into a murky glass of water when Jordan starts to come around the side of the canvas.
“What’re you doing?” Tyler asks, holding an arm out and shielding the painting from view.
Jordan frowns. “Can’t I look?”
“No! It’s not finished yet.”
“I know that,” Jordan chuffs. “But it’s me. I should be able to look at a painting of me, right?”
Tyler presses his lips together. “Yes. When it’s finished.”
“Okay.” Jordan gives a roll of his eyes and Tyler shoos him away. “Hardass. Why’d you wanna paint me anyway?”
“You thought I was hot, I thought you were hot.” Tyler shrugs.
For a minute, Jordan stands in the middle of the living room, still naked, staring at the wall. Some of Tyler’s old paintings are hung there. One is of his mother, another is of Lake Atwood. One is of Jenna.
Tyler tells Jordan he can put his clothes on and head home, if he wants.
“I don’t want.” Jordan looks at Tyler and his eyes are dark. “I wanna know which way your bedroom is.”
Letting his brushes steep, Tyler wipes his hands on his trusty rag and steps around the easel. “Why?”
“So I can fuck you.”
He almost steps back behind the easel. It should come as no surprise that Jordan wants to have sex with him. They’ve both admitted they find the other attractive so why not?
But it’s been months since he’s had sex, years since he’s had sex with someone other than Jenna.
Not that you lose the knowledge of how it works, but y’know.
“If you don’t want to-“
“It’s not that.”
Jordan tilts his head, looking innocent. But Tyler can see his dick rising. “Are you in a relationship?”
“No.” Before Jordan can ask if the blonde woman in the painting on the wall is his girlfriend, Tyler grabs his hand and pulls him toward the bedroom.
When the door closes Jordan stops him with a hand on his arm. “If you don’t want to-” he tries again, severe this time.
Tyler glances to the closet, where some of Jenna’s things are still shoved way in the back like old skeletons, and then pushes Jordan down on the bed. He climbs on top of him and rubs his jean-clad crotch against Jordan’s bare cock.
Jordan’s response is to arch his back gorgeously and put a finger in his mouth.
“You’re beautiful,” Tyler tells him, because it’s true. He’s never much been one for the term ‘muse,’ even when he was with Jenna, always thought the concept was pretty stale and definitely out of date. But he wants to paint Jordan into every backdrop he’s ever seen, with flowers in his hair and sunshine in his eyes.
“Thanks.” Jordan sounds breathless, devoid of air as he slips his fingers under Tyler’s shirt and pulls it off. He runs his hands over the tattoos on Tyler’s chest and down both arms, where he latches onto his wrists and pulls Tyler’s hands to bracket his ribs. “Don’t wanna fuck yet.”
“Then what do you want?”
With his hands kneading on Tyler’s waist, Jordan licks his lips. “Can you touch my nipples?”
“Don’t even have to ask.” He scrapes the dry pads of his thumbs over both of Jordan’s nipples and watches him jerk with a tight moan, hands going stiff on Tyler’s hips.
So Tyler does it again, harder this time, pulling the peachy skin taught. Jordan lets out a strangled moan and bucks again, head thrashing as his cock twitches against his abdomen.
Tyler grunts, leaning down to give a kitten lick to one nipple, rolling the other into a hard nub between his fingers.
“I can cum like this,” Jordan sighs, and Tyler knows he’s telling the truth. His dick is so hard it looks painful, drooling across the lower half of his belly as he squirms.
“I wanna see that,” Tyler murmurs, puckers his lips and blows a rill of cool air over Jordan’s wet nipple. The other he’s still rolling is fingers over, pulling every so often.
Jordan nods, long eyelashes fluttering against his pink cheekbones. He has an arm hooked securely around Tyler’s waist, making sure he can’t go anywhere. Not that Tyler would want to. “Soon.” His voice sounds strangled, like Tyler is playing with his vocal chords instead of his nipples.
Lips pulling back over his teeth, Tyler bites hard at Jordan’s nipple, pulling the other one firmly between his fingers.
“God,” Jordan groans, and cums so hard he makes the bed shake. It’s shooting onto his stomach and Tyler scoops up what he can, rubs it into Jordan’s nipples to make him shake all the harder. His legs are twitching so Tyler rubs his knee against Jordan’s thigh and waits for him to come down.
Jordan’s nipples are red and puffy and Tyler leans up to pet the backs of his fingers over them as Jordan rolls his head of blue hair and presses his cheek into the sheets.
“I barely even touched you,” Tyler says, in awe.
“They’re so s-sensitive.” Jordan presses his hands down over his nipples and shudders one more time.
Tyler stretches out beside him and hums, kissing his jaw, hand resting on Jordan’s chest between the two spots of red.
Jordan is trailing his fingers up and down Tyler’s back, dipping into the curve just above his waistband and then back up. He’s staring at the ceiling, where Tyler has a painting of a rosebush.
“Didn’t take you for a flower guy.”
Tyler studies the painting, one of his favorites. Hence why it hangs above his bed. Jenna never liked it. “Hydrangeas are my favorite, but they’re difficult to find around Columbus.”
Jordan’s fingers are in Tyler’s hair then, pulling him down for a languorous kiss with a fair bit of tongue that makes Tyler see cobalt on the backs of his eyelids. “Don’t think I’m gonna forget about you,” he mumbles against Tyler’s lips.
“Now? Or in general?”
“Both,” Jordan says, and worms his fingers into Tyler’s jeans.
-
In the living room, Tyler helps Jordan back into his clothes, still nude himself. They can’t keep their hands off of each other, Jordan’s fingers splaying over Tyler’s sides and Tyler trying to pull Jordan down onto the couch for one more go.
“I already came twice,” Jordan complains halfheartedly, pants on but with his zipper still unzipped and the button wide open.
“I’m sure you have one more in you,” Tyler mutters, kissing sloppily at Jordan’s neck and chest.
A hum, as Jordan stills. “We can go again if you let me see the painting.”
And just like that Tyler’s boner is nil. “Sorry.” He stands and grins at a pouting Jordan, holds his T-shirt out. “You’ll be here tomorrow, right? You can see it then.”
“Of course.”
Jordan leaves with a lingering kiss to the apple of Tyler’s cheek.
-
Tyler doesn’t see Jordan tomorrow.
What he sees when he sits down to breakfast in the morning, pinky out as he sips his tea, is a picture on the front page of the Sun. The headline reads JOSH DUN OUT AND ABOUT. Must have been a slow day in the world of news when the front page of the local newspaper was about a dickhead reclusive artist.
He’s wearing the trademark alien mask he always wears when paparazzi manage to find him and take pictures of him. Tyler rolls his eyes. Total weirdo.
Only, he’s also holding an arm up to shield himself from the flash and there’s a block of tattoos on said arm. Normally Tyler wouldn’t give a shit about Josh Dun or whether he covered himself in tattoos of a million fluffy cats. But there’s something familiar about this particular tattoo.
The closer he looks the more panicked he becomes. Setting his cup of tea down as gently as he can, he takes the paper and darts into the living room, where the unfinished painting sits against the backdrop of the bay window.
Tyler looks from the painting to the photo to the painting and back again. The exact same.
He throws the paper down and screams.
-
“So that’s the story of how you accidentally slept with Josh Dun, your arch nemesis?” Mark is smiling and Tyler can tell he’s barely containing the laugh that wants to make its way into Tyler’s face.
Tyler, however, is jiggling his knee restlessly under the table as Under The Sea plays on the grainy overhead diner speakers. “This isn’t fucking funny.”
“I didn’t say it was-“
“You’re laughing.”
“Not yet. But I’m about to. Because - get this - you’ve never even met the guy, right? Hardly anyone has. And you claim to hate him. But you had sex with him yesterday. And called him beautiful. Do you not see the irony?”
“I get paid to see the beauty in things, not the irony. I’m an artist, not a writer. He lied to me.” With shaking fingers, he brings his bottle of Jameson out from the inside pocket of his jacket.
Mark reaches across the table and stills his hand. “Please don’t.” Slowly, Tyler acquiesces, slips the bottle back inside the pocket and feels it sitting there burning a hole. “Then, can’t you see the beauty in it? You guys could be such a power couple.”
Tyler chokes. “Couple? Nononononononono. I don’t plan to ever see that motherfucker again in my life. He’s so fucking pretentious and up his own ass, not to mention the ass of every single critic in Columbus.”
“Didn’t you tell him to come over again today?”
“Yeah. That’s why I told you to meet me here instead of there. I’m staying out all day so I’m not there when he shows up. If I were, I might just fight him.”
Mark sighs like there’s nothing else for him to do, like there’s no talking sense into Tyler. Because there isn’t. “Well, I can’t hang out with you all day. I have manager duties to perform.”
“That’s fine. I might go see Zack.”
“And tell him about your little rendezvous?” Mark waggles his eyebrows.
Tyler stares. “My little brother does not need to know about my sexual endeavors.” He takes a sip of coffee and taps his fingers on the table. “How’s the display coming?”
“Pretty good. I was thinking we could open on the 16th. Would you…want to add the painting of Josh or-“
“What kind of stupid question is that? I’m destroying it as soon as I get home. Just stick with what we have now.”
Another sigh and Mark stands. “Alright. Take care of yourself, Ty.”
With a clap to Tyler’s shoulder and a slight squeeze, he leaves Tyler with the check.
-
Tyler doesn’t destroy the painting.
He gets home late, when it’s pitch black out, and stands looking at it for a long time, walks away and into the kitchen, and then back to it.
The only thing missing is Josh’s face. He turned it into a portrait after Josh took all his clothes off and knew that if he drew the face first he might get frustrated and quit altogether if the nose ring gave him too much trouble.
He’s entirely too tempted to dip his biggest brush in black and paint comical angry eyes on the otherwise beautiful painting, maybe a forked tongue snaking out from a mouth dripping blood. In big black letters he could scrawl JOSH DUN, THE DEVIL at the top.
But something stops him.
It’s the way he felt when Jordan - Josh, and God that makes him want to scream again - wrapped gentle fingers around his cock and stroked him slowly, bringing him to such a shuddering orgasm that Tyler’s vision went fuzzy. It’s the way he remembers kissing Josh, trying to drag him down onto the couch so they could make love again.
Frustrated, he takes his sheets and throws them in the wash so that they no longer smell like Josh, sprays the couch cushions with Febreze and the spot where Josh had sat posing for the portrait for good measure.
It’s impossible not to think of Josh when he’s in bed that night, though, holding a pillow close and staring up at the rosebush ceiling.
-
Days pass and Tyler’s life goes on - he attends more exhibits he’s been invited to, while getting ready for another of his own, and drinks more than those know-it-alls in AA said he should.
He still cries at night, but now he doesn’t know if it’s over Jenna or Josh. He tells himself the former, of course, but it’s very easy to lie to ourselves, as any artist knows.
A week before his next exhibit is set to open, Tyler’s phone dings with a text from Mark.
josh has been trying to get in contact w/ u
How do you know?
he was out for like the first time last night, at the met. He introduced himself and asked if i knew you. i blew him off but i thought you should know.
Tyler is picking a PopTart apart with the tips of his index fingers. He twitches and accidentally squishes a piece. Crumbs fall into his lap. Some small part of him wants to see Josh, he can’t deny that. If only to ask him why the hell he lied.
And why the hell he still wanted to have sex with Tyler even after Tyler ripped him to pieces in the coffee shop.
But he’ll never know. Because he doesn’t plan to see Josh again.
Thanks. If you see him again let him know he can kiss my ass.
-
Tyler’s exhibition is a more formal affair than Josh’s was. And he makes sure of it. No champagne and certainly no cocktail waitresses in skin-tight, ass-length dresses. There’s a frozen bar along one wall and that’s it. Mark advised him to forego the alcohol altogether, but even though he’s Tyler’s manager Tyler hardly ever heeds his advice.
Which means he’ll be sloshed before the party’s even halfway over.
Tyler makes his rounds, discusses the pieces with his audience, and takes more than a few selfies with a gin twist in hand.
He’s headed back to the bar when Mark dances between two women talking in hushed voices and skids to a stop beside him.
“Josh is here.”
Those three words are enough to make Tyler almost drop his glass. “Come again?” He looks around, giving himself whiplash, scanning the entrance, the doorway leading into the other room, even the balcony, as though Josh were able to scale entire skyscrapers.
“Josh is here. I just wanted to warn you before-“
“Tyler.”
“Before that.”
Mark gazes over Tyler’s shoulder, tracking something. As if by instinct, Tyler knows Josh is reaching out to him. He turns and steps back, even though he stumbles over Mark’s foot as he does. “Don’t touch me.”
Josh’s hair is a more faded blue than when Tyler last saw him. He looks hurt. And isn’t that rich? He lied to Tyler and he’s the one who’s hurt.
“I should hit you right now, Jordan,” Tyler says, and people stop to watch, murmuring.
Somewhere in the crowd someone says, “Isn’t that Josh Dun?” and the murmuring becomes louder.
“Please let me explain,” Josh pleads, strains toward Tyler like some kind of invisible chain is holding him back. “I can explain if you just let me.”
“Why would I?” Tyler barks, unwilling to let the fervor of his exhibition be lost to some lying, ascetic hermit. “This is a private party and I’d like to ask you to leave.”
“Tyler.” Josh’s voice is broken, Tyler’s name wrung out from him like a damp wash rag.
Tyler turns away. “Mark, get security.”
Hesitantly, Mark begins to step away.
“No,” Josh says, and Tyler can tell from his voice that the look on his face must be miserable. “I’ll see myself out.”
He does, and amidst the mutterings and wonderings of the crowd, the exhibit continues.
Mark puts a hand on Tyler’s arm. “Ty-“
“I’m fine. I’m gonna get another drink.”
-
The following morning Tyler wakes with a pounding headache to someone knocking incessantly at the front door. He wants to yell at them to give him a minute, but he doesn’t. Just in case it’s Josh, who he realizes knows where he lives.
But when he looks through the peephole with a groan, he sees a delivery guy standing on the front stoop, face going red as he brings his fist down on the door again and again.
“Jesus, okay-“ Tyler unlatches the door and opens it.
“Took you long enough,” the guy huffs, shoving a bouquet of flowers into Tyler’s arms, as well as a giant box of what appear to be chocolates. He doesn’t even make Tyler sign, just rolls his eyes and starts back to his truck.
“Some of us like to sleep in the mornings, bud!” Tyler shouts, and hears the guy say something about a ‘fucking alcoholic.’
With the door closed again, Tyler exhales against the crook of his arm and sniffs. He does indeed smell ripely of old gin and lime.
Sighing, he examines the flowers and realizes without looking at anything that they must be from Josh. But they’re not just any flowers. They’re hydrangeas, vibrant clusters of bluish purple, centered in the middle with the slightest green.
Tyler puts them on the kitchen table and glares at them. “I hate you.”
There’s a card amidst the stems, which Tyler pulls out and reads.
You were right - hydrangeas are difficult to find in Columbus
J
No apology, though. Figures.
Irately, Tyler crumples the card and tosses it in the trash.
The chocolates he keeps, however, eating them throughout the week.
And the flowers? The flowers he puts on a side table near the bay window and the unfinished portrait of Josh.
He waters them every day.
-
Tyler goes to the movies with Mark and tries not to think about the girl and the guy kissing on the screen as him and Josh.
He thinks about Mark in the diner, telling Tyler what a power couple he and Josh could be. Two of the best artists in Columbus. Except Josh isn’t a good artist. Josh sucks. He makes art for himself, not his audience. What kind of pandering asshole does that?
The good kind, his shoulder devil tells him. Because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s seen how much a Josh Dun painting goes for and it’s about as much - maybe even a little higher - than one of Tyler’s.
When the movie ends, he feels like his throat is laced with sandpaper. There are tears stinging his eyes.
Mark pulls him aside in the parking lot and sort of rubs his arm. It’s awkward. “Hey, man. Tonight I want you to think about some stuff.”
“What stuff?” Tyler is frowning.
“Just…think about it, okay?”
Tyler thinks about Mark’s cryptic words on the way home, thinks about them walking down the drive, thinks about them turning the key in his lock.
Then he abruptly stops thinking about them because someone is sat on his couch.
He screams. Loud.
Josh jumps up and shushes him. “Tyler, Ty. It’s me. It’s okay.”
“Whafuck?” Tyler gasps, heart pounding against his ribs. He’s shaking. “It isn’t fucking okay - what the fuck are you doing in my house? And why?”
He can guess the why, actually, but the how is what he’s more interested in. He has a lot of valuable shit in here. All of it’s insured, sure, but if there’s a fallacy in his alarm system he’d like to know about it now before he has to go through the hassle of haggling with the insurance company when some vagabond rolls through and pilfers all of his shit.
Looking guilty, Josh pulls a key from his pocket and holds it out. “Mark gave me this. So we could talk.”
Tyler snatches the key from Josh’s open palm, his fingers brushing damp skin. “Fucking asshole. This is what he was talking about.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” Tyler snaps, pocketing the key. He looks at Josh, at his blue hair and downturned eyes. “You wanna talk, then talk.”
“Really?”
“Before I change my mind.”
Josh’s deep eyes cast around the dim living room, as though searching for a place to start. “You hate me.”
Tyler shrugs. “Not a secret.”
“Why?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking the questions here?”
Josh nods, spreads his hands. “Sure.” He takes a seat back on the couch. “Go ahead.”
“Why did you lie to me?”
A humorless laugh from between Josh’s plump lips. “Because I knew you hated me.”
“But…” Tyler touches his forehead with the pads of his index and middle fingers. He shakes his head. “But I hated you. So why did you want to come up here? Why let me paint you? Why have sex with me? Jesus.”
There’s a pause, but Tyler doesn’t think Josh doesn’t know what to say. He thinks Josh might not want to tell him the truth. But he does, seemingly. “I thought I could change your mind.” Tyler opens his mouth, but Josh holds up a finger. “And I did, didn’t I? For a couple hours, you had no idea who I was and you liked me. More than that. You called me beautiful. Do you know the last time someone called me beautiful?”
Tyler doesn’t care, he wants this to end. He hates Josh. Hates his disgusting, smarmy art and his disgusting, toothy smile. He hates the way they came together in his bed with bright red roses watching over them.
Josh doesn’t tell him anyway, about the last time someone called him beautiful. He’s looking at the hydrangeas on the table. “You kept the flowers I sent.”
“Ate all the chocolate, too,” Tyler admits, still idling by the door.
“You don’t hate me,” Josh says, and Tyler doesn’t agree. “And I certainly don’t hate you. You gave me-“
“The best orgasm of your life?”
Josh actually laughs at that, a full bellied, thundering laugh, and doubles over. “Yes! That, too. But you actually gave me something to look forward to for once. You know why I don’t appear in public very often?”
“Because you’re a fucking affected jerkoff?”
Josh ignores that. “I have such high anxiety it makes me sick. I take meds for it, but they only help when I’m at home. When I’m out everything is way too much, too loud. I’m sure you know the feeling. I call it artist’s brain.”
Tyler does know the feeling, except he sees it as a gift - everything amplified. It lets him see even the tiniest details in a scene, lets him get the truth out in his art when truth is so few and far between.
To Josh it’s a curse. And Tyler begins to understand.
“I guess, uh…I guess I should be the one apologizing, huh?”
“You don’t have to. You didn’t know. Other people have said I’m a pompous troglodyte, but your opinion is the only one that matters.”
Tyler chuckles, shuffling forward. “Trogolodye. That’s a new one.”
“Tyler?” Chewing on his lip, Tyler glances up through his lashes. Josh fixes him with a steady look. “Do you want to finish the painting?”
“Yes.” But he doesn’t go to his easel. Instead he drops between Josh’s legs and runs unshakeable hands up Josh’s thighs. “But first I want to apologize.”