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smokingmirrorAuthor: Avarice
Rating: R
Pairing: Mikhael/Tybalt
Spoilers: pre BMB
Summary: Mikhael experiences some creative difficulties. August 1994.
Word Count: 1769
Date First Posted: 09-11-2001
Date Revised: 22-05-2011
Beta: Tink, Kita.
Awards: -
Notes: Not sure if anyone ever picked up on it, but Mikhael's painting was quite significant. He'd painted it in Tybalt's basic 'colour scheme', but changed it to Harley's.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.
Also Archived At: LJ
Campus was deserted. That is to say, the studios, workshops and classrooms were. There were no up and coming deadlines, which usually would have seen two to three students in each studio, frantically working into the night. College life was good, and they were taking advantage of their freedom by getting as far away from it as possible. Except...
"Ubl'yudok!" [1] Mikhael cursed fluently, eyes alight with frustration. It wasn't working. It wasn't working and there was nothing he could do to make it work.
Mikhael hissed his displeasure and paced like a caged tiger. All his ideas had been there when he'd started painting, not six hours ago. But the further he had gotten into his project, the further away the reasons and the ideas behind his initial inspiration had gone.
The brunet was stubborn. Stubborn enough to curse up a Russian blue streak. The words seemed odd coming out of his mouth, but there were really some things that could only be expressed in the harsh-sounding tongue.
The painting was of a phoenix.
It was supposed to be, at any rate.
But there was something wrong. Just... wrong.
Maybe it was because he never usually painted animals, much less mythical ones. His work bounced between something akin to a modernist abstraction and a classical figurative -- sometimes a bit of both. But a phoenix...
He had dreamt of a phoenix last night; a magnificent creature, delicate and strong in equal measures. Tenacious, but with a deep compassion running through the core. It had been stirring, vivid, and the impression of its image had stayed with him into his waking hours.
Upon rising, all he knew was that he needed to paint it. Mik generally paid heed to his creative urges, and decided to start the painting after a scheduled lecture in the morning, having a free afternoon.
The studios gradually emptied out. Students on their way home or out... To have fun, to rest, to relax. Mikhael was left alone in a stuffy workspace with a slowly burning fuse.
But somewhere along the line... He couldn't explain what had happened. There was just something off about what he was doing.
Mik looked critically at his work once again. The phoenix's eyes burnt with an unholy green light, mouth open and reared in defiance. Its posture was arrogant, head held high, claws bared, rust-coloured feathers almost bristling.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. It wasn't like his dream at all.
A look of disgust and annoyance twisted his face once again and in an uncharacteristic display of violence, he kicked at a stray chair, toppling it over.
"Pososi moyu konfetku!" he snarled at the half-finished painting, before collapsing into another seat and resting his head in his hands.
"You make me wish I'd taken Russian in high school," an amused voice announced.
Tybalt leant against the doorframe, arms crossed. He stayed for a moment, waiting for Mikhael to look up. Once he had eye contact, the redhead sauntered into the studio. Striding directly up to Mik, he crouched down and braced himself against the larger man's thighs.
"'Course, I could always take Russian now," he breathed, looking up at his boyfriend through lowered lashes. A small smile graced Mikhael's face, but all-too-quickly it gave way to despair.
"It's not working, beloved," Mikhael said sadly, "it's in my head, but it won't come out."
Tybalt nodded, genuine sympathy on his face. He trailed his hands up Mikhael's slumped form, taking the brunet's head in his hands. Lifting them, he raised the level of Mik's eyes to meet his own. "Your heart is in it, but your mind is not. Let your head rest, and it will come to you."
"But-"
"In other words, shut up and relax."
Mikhael sighed and closed his mouth and eyes as Tybalt pressed strong forefingers into his temples in a soothing, circular fashion.
"I didn't know you actually spoke Russian," Tybalt remarked after a few moments.
A wrinkle appeared in Mik's forehead between his brows, and he paused before answering. "Not properly. I can understand it more than I can speak it... I was born in North Carolina, after all."
"Picked up a few choice phrases here and there then, eh?"
"Swearing or insults, from my older brother and sister. I never heard much that was very nice. Mainly just got the ability to do a bastardised Russian accent out of the deal."
Tybalt watched the spectres of memory flicker across his boyfriend's face at the mention of family. He covered his sombre expression with another question.
"So, what did you say when I came in, then?"
Mikhael's brow furrowed. "Came in? I was saying--" he stopped short and opened his eyes, and Tybalt saw the telltale blush start to creep onto his cheeks. The redhead pounced.
"Come on... what did you say?" he cajoled, letting his hands drift down from Mikhael's face to latch around his neck.
"I don't remember," Mikhael said, not meeting Tybalt's gaze as he did.
"You are a crap liar. Now let's try this again," Tybalt remarked, rubbing open palms over the Russian' biceps. "What did you say?"
"Suck my dick," he responded hoarsely.
Tybalt quirked an eyebrow. "Okay, but after you tell me what you said." Mikhael blushed a further shade of red, and the longhaired man understood.
"Ohhhhhh," he nodded, completely failing to keep the smile from his face. With a deliberate languidness, hands moved further down, over firm pectorals, lower over the abs, where they finally snagged on the waistband. "Well, I'm happy to do anything that furthers the course of creative development."
Nimble fingers worked at the fly of his worn painting jeans, already slung low. It didn't take much to convince Mikhael to lift his hips enough to get the waistband down around muscular thighs. Tybalt lightly stroked the swollen column of flesh still encased in underwear.
Mikhael's breathing became erratic as fingers skimmed bare skin through the pants slit. The slightest touch of his lover's hands made Mik's heart race, for a number of different reasons. The redhead pulled Mik's waistband down with agonising slowness, damp breath on the exposed flesh eliciting a shudder.
Tybalt used his fingers in much the same manner as he had rubbed Mikhael's temples previously, massaging and getting the blood flowing, until the brunet's erection was painfully stiff. The redhead leant forward and kissed away the tiny clear droplet forming. He allowed his lover the time it took to gasp as respite before taking the crown in his mouth.
With an incoherent moan, Mikhael's hands came to grasp Tybalt's hair for purchase, pulling it out of the loose ponytail it was in. Long strands of the copper tresses tickled the Russian's legs. The sight of the scarlet waterfall of hair falling over his thighs took Mikhael's breath away, and he murmured his lover's name, voice ragged with desire.
Tybalt eyes closed in triumph, tongue laving a wet path up the underside of Mik's length. "Say it again," he whispered as he teased the mushroom head for a few moments longer, before going down on as much of Mikhael's shaft as he could fit in his mouth.
The brunet almost jerked out of the chair. "Tybalt," the name was torn from Mikhael's throat, full of passionate desperation. No matter how many times Tybalt did this to him, each time felt like the first.
It was too much feeling for his overworked mind and exhausted body to prolong. With a strangled yell, Mikhael climaxed. Tybalt willingly swallowed all he could, bracing his hands on the Russian's thighs.
Tybalt sat back on his haunches just in time to help Mikhael, who had decided to bonelessly slide out of the seat and onto the floor. Before he knew it, Mik was cradled against Tybalt's chest on the floor, their legs tangled together.
Mik reached up and wound his finger around a stray lock of copper hair. Tybalt chuckled softly. "I liked that. Should I know any other choice phrases?"
The brunet looked thoughtful for a moment, before cupping Tybalt's cheek in his palm. "Just one. Vy ochen' krasivy."
"It means 'I have sex with farm animals', doesn't it?"
Mikhael grinned, before pulling Tybalt's face down closer to his own. "It means you are very beautiful," he whispered before pressing his lips against his lover's. They parted easily, and their tongues danced unhurriedly. Mikhael sighed quietly into that mouth. Tybalt tasted of danger and passion. Intoxicating. Something in that kiss not only sizzled the nerve endings in his body, but in his brain and--
The Russian's eyes snapped open and he froze. Tybalt opened one eye experimentally when Mik became unresponsive. A slight raise of the eyebrow asked the question he wanted answered.
"I've got it..." he murmured before scrambling up off the floor. "I know what's wrong... it's... it's all the wrong colour." Grabbing a brush from the abandoned palette, Mikhael's brown furrowed in concentration as he applied a dab of yellow to the feathers on one of the wings, lightening it considerably.
"It's too dark... and the eyes..." Using a damp cloth, he softened a few of the harsh lines around its eye sockets before playing the almost neon green down to a light azure.
Tybalt stood silently and observed, wrapping his arms around Mikhael's waist as the Russian worked. After a few minutes, not only were the colours lighter, but the posture was modified, taking the angle of the head down and closing its gaping maw somewhat.
Mikhael put the brush down and looked at his work critically. A smirk twitched at his lips, which slowly bloomed into a large smile. The brunet turned in Tybalt's embrace, wrapping arms around his lover's shoulders and planting a lingering kiss on his lips.
"Let's go," he whispered into the crook of the redhead's neck. Tybalt frowned.
"Don't you want to finish it now?"
"It's oils," Mik murmured, "still be wet tomorrow. Besides, I have a muse to thank thoroughly."
Tybalt grinned. "Nice plan. Especially since this muse has half a bottle of chocolate syrup in the fridge," Mikhael pulled Tybalt just that bit closer.
"See? You continue to move me."
"I want to move you towards my bedroom, but any flat surface will do, really."
The Russian chuckled, not bothering to disengage himself from Tybalt's arms to close the toolbox with all his art supplies and secure the hinges on his easel. Once finished, he slung an arm around the redhead's narrow waist, both heading for the door.
"Who am I to argue with the very spirit of inspiration?"
~finis
[1] bastard - Russian
