Fanfic: Perspectives (Chalk And Charcoal Series)

[smokingmirror]

Title: Perspectives
Series: Chalk And Charcoal
Author: Avarice
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mikhael/Tybalt
Spoilers: pre BMB
Summary: The trials and tribulations of moving in together. June 1995.
Word Count: 3177
Date First Posted: 2003
Date Revised: 22-05-2011
Beta: Tink.
Awards: -
Notes: Multiple POV. Tybalt has a growing sense of dread as to how he's becoming invested in the relationship. I think Ty's section is my favourite, especially the first part where he's bouncing between cold feet and feeling guilt.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.
Also Archived At: LJ

Mikhael

We waited until after finals to properly begin the move to block J, though both of us had been making small, almost symbolic trips together. He would bring over a laundry basket of clothes at the same time I turned up with a box of art supplies.

Final exams were stressful and hurried as usual, but spending an hour arguing with Tybalt about which side of the closet was his was, for some utterly ludicrous reason, relaxing.

Even when our aesthetic opinions clashed and disagreements got a good deal more vocal, there was no true heat to them -- he always ended up in my arms at the end.

And now he would be there at the end of every day.

I honestly didn't know if the idea thrilled me or scared me.

I never expected him to say yes. As a matter of fact, I had been banking on him saying no. The contingency plans for his refusal would have been in motion the minute he declined. Ready to return the key to Stephen, the guy who looked after block J, to renew my accommodation in my old room. I even planned to ask at a time when our schedules didn't mesh as much, just in case his response led to awkwardness and distraction in class. I really had it wrapped up for a 'no'.

And he said yes...

Tybalt, if anything, is predictably unpredictable. And I was left floundering with three upcoming finals, a larger dorm room, an imminent move, a new roommate, and the stupidest grin that wouldn't leave my face, no matter how hard I tried to rid myself of it.

***

Tybalt's dust collectors and knick-knacks far outnumbered my own, but I didn't mind. I had very little in the way of photos and the general sort of bric a brac that make a place a home.

One thing I did notice was that while extraordinarily diverse in design and origin, his objects shared a common ideal -- they were either figures of intense beauty, or grotesque ugliness. Even if the form wasn't physically ugly, there was a disfigurement of the... spirit, and it was tangible. I wondered what category I fit into.

Amongst his curios and oddities were a number of pictures of him from various stages in his life. At age eight, in his track gear with a blue ribbon. At thirteen, in a park, leaning over a fence.

I noticed that there weren't any photos of him with anyone else in them -- he always seemed to be alone. The picture that looked the most recent was located high on a bookshelf, almost out of his reach. But not mine.

In the photograph, Tybalt seemed to be sitting on a sofa, back ramrod straight, hands stiffly resting on his knees. His expression contained not a trace of humour, amusement or... anything. It was as devoid of emotion as I'd ever seen, and definitely unlike any of the other pictures.

It was then that I noticed the fingers curled around his left elbow, right at the edge of the frame. It wasn't much, but enough to confirm he wasn't alone in the photo. I couldn't help the paranoid glance at the door, even though Tybalt said he wouldn't be over until some time later.

The very edges of the picture seemed crinkled. With trepidation, I opened the wooden back of the frame.

It seemed to be a larger picture that had been folded over just to show Tybalt. On either side of him sat an older -- middle aged -- couple. Both austere, similar expressions of serious, controlled blandness.

I didn't have to jump very far to reach the conclusion that they were his parents. He possessed a far more pleasant reshuffling of their combined features, as well as a few that were purely his own. He shared the cheekbones with his mother.

They were conservatively dressed. Upper middle class trying for something more, maybe? She wore pastel yellow, with a burnt orange coat. He wore an ivory shirt, tweed sports jacket, camel pants. Put a pitchfork in his hands and it was American Gothic.

His father's hair was short, a dark blond sprinkled with grey. Mother's was auburn, noticeable red highlights, the richness of which could only be obtained from a bottle at her apparent age.

And sitting between them was Tybalt. He wore a collared lilac shirt and ink blue trousers. I'd seen Tybalt wear similar things before, but never so... precisely. A few buttons were usually undone, showing a sharp vee of pale chest flesh. Likewise, cuffs were unbuttoned to have the freedom around his wrists.

It wasn't that Tybalt looked anything less than perfect when he dressed, but it was neat with a casual air, a desirable chaotic undertone. The clothes weren't formal, but they didn't have to be -- the tone screamed it.

Perhaps the only concession to identify the Tybalt I knew was that his hair was loose. It was the only physical thing that seemed to be out of place. What with his father's short tidy hair, and his mother's in a tight chignon at the base of her neck, it seemed to be his subtle jibe at being dressed up. Of course, it was neatly combed, but the fact it was loose always reminded me of something decadent. A guilty little pleasure or, in this case, a subtle and infinitely understood rebellion.

By me, at least.

The thought occurred to me then. I had thought this picture so different from all the others in that he wasn't alone. But that wasn't the case.

He was alone. Especially here.

I folded the photograph along its well-worn creases, put it back in the frame and replaced the frame on the shelf.

***

As it happened, I didn't notice the new photo until we had almost finished completely moving in.

I stood in the general living area, surveying the place. There were objects and things placed... everywhere, but it didn't feel cluttered. Not like our old rooms. It only appeared cramped to those who hadn't known how we lived previously.

Room 315 of block J was crowded with art, wall hangings, posters, clothes, trash and treasure. And it wasn't a dorm room to two college art students anymore. It was Tybalt and Mikhael's place.

Our place.

It had a nice ring to it.

The walls were full of colour and life, pictures and memories we'd both collected. A print of Monet's water lilies. A Japanese doukeshi mask. A copy of the Magna Carta, untranslated from its 13th century Latin. A batik Thai dancer.

Our place was eclectic and beautiful. I walked over to the small shelving unit by the television to examine some of the more delicate objects, interspersed between a variety of framed photographs.

It was in a plain wooden frame, a deep walnut colour, and stood off to the side next to a three-inch high carved jade horse, the colour of his eyes.

I picked the frame up and cradled the photograph as something precious.

It was us.

Him and me. I didn't even recall a photo of us together ever being taken, but I held the proof. A quick inspection of the back found the inscription 'Mar '95' scrawled in blue pen. That was only a few months ago.

We were standing under a tree on a lawn, vaguely reminiscent of the grounds around campus. Almost side by side, save for his body slightly overlapping mine, the camera with a three quarter view of his back. A pale white hand was splayed across my chest in an affectionate and proprietary gesture. Right above my heart.

For my part, one of my hands rested on the small of his back lightly, the other in the pocket of my jacket. My head was inclined slightly towards Tybalt, and his to mine.

I studied myself. It almost didn't look like the person I was familiar with. This man in this photo here was holding his boyfriend in a casual manner. He looked relaxed and content and...

Happy.

When did I find time to become happy?

When did I begin to wear such a huge, idiotic grin?

I looked like a moron. But a happy moron. And speaking of grins...

Tybalt's smile was a joyful wonder all its own. It wasn't large and transparently goofy like mine. It wasn't sardonic, lecherous, sexy, or humorous.

It was real. And unlike every single other photograph of him I'd seen, the emotion reached his eyes, lighting them up like halogen bulbs.

His happiness was as real as my own. Sure, we had our disagreements and arguments like anyone else, but underneath...

The thought made my chest warm as if his hand lay upon there, except it came from the inside, starting as pinpricks of heat that expanded out through my torso.

There was a word I wanted to use, but couldn't bring myself to say it, let alone visualise the letters. I didn't want to jinx it, the superstitious fool I was.

I didn't know how long I stood there holding the frame, lost in my thoughts, but the sound of a key followed by the doorknob turning luckily burst me out of my reverie.

I carefully replaced the frame back in its place on the shelf, and moved to greet my lover at our door.

+++

Tybalt

We were almost entirely moved in when I really began to wonder whether I wasn't making a huge fucking mistake.

It was hard not to think that as I looked around my nearly bare dorm room. I'd lived, worked, played and had been played with here for going on 2 years. I liked my place. But 'my' was going to turn into 'our'.

Our.

I didn't think I was ready for 'our'. I was still, and have always been very much about 'my'. So sue me, I'm an only fucking child.

Don't get me wrong, Mikhael was... okay, he was great. But the big question seemed to be was I prepared to give up my freedom for him?

It started on one of our recent moving trips to the -- our -- new room. He unlocked the door and I went to walk in. No big deal, except his hand on my chest held me back. I asked him what he was doing. He picked me up. Arms under my bent knees and around my back.

"Carrying you over the threshold."

The prickling at the back of my neck started then. "Why?"

"Well... it's tradition, isn't it?"

"Tradition for marriage," I said with a frown. The great dumbass.

"Oh."

You know, marriage? Commitment? The exchanging of legally binding documents and cheap gold rings?

He raised a dark eyebrow in question. "So?"

A trickle of cold sweat ran down my spine. He knew the difference between marriage and moving in... right? Satan and his unholy legions, bugger me now.

"So..." I enunciated, as if speaking to a small child, "put me the fuck down," my voice sounded controlled and cool, but honestly, my insides raged.

Mikhael stiffened slightly, his hands clenched reflexively as he jerkily set me back on the ground. He glanced at the floor, shoulders tense. It was apology stance.

I felt like primordial sludge.

Mik shuffled his feet, murmuring 'I'm sorry's. I also heard a few choice Russian curse words he only used for special occasions, when he thought he'd done something really stupid.

"I'm sorry, Ty... I didn't mean to upset you. I just... I-"

And even though it disturbed me beyond belief...

"Are you going to stutter, or are you going to carry me in?" I groused, hands on hips.

Of course, Mikhael didn't waste any time picking me up again. Though this time, I got a prime view of his ass as he threw me over his shoulder and marched inside.

He dumped me on the carpet with a caveman-like grunt, and we made long, languorous love in the middle of the room.

It didn't ease my mind.

***

I'd lived with people before. Many different people, and in many different places in my pursuit to get out of home, but never with anyone I was fucking on a regular basis, much less dating 'exclusively'.

There was no buffer zone when you lived with someone you dated.

In the first few weeks I soon discovered those bumbling little quirks that so endeared Mik to me in the times we spent together were actually irritating the shit out of me on a 24-hour basis.

But a lot of that had to do with settling into a sort of routine together. For some reason, Mikhael thought he had to act differently around me. Like I didn't already know how he lived his life. It took a few days of convincing him that nothing he did could really surprise me, for him to relax. Somewhat.

I'd never lived with anyone who gave a toss where I was at all hours of the day, how long I was gone for, and when I would be back. But Mikhael did. Every time he got home and I was already there, he would get this look on his face -- a sort of pleasant shock -- like he didn't actually expect me to still be there when he returned.

It was nice.

Fucking scary, but nice.

If I was engrossed in a project when Mikhael wanted me, he would come up behind me slowly, quietly, until his breath tickled the short hairs on the back of my neck. If I took my hands away from my clay, or paint, he took that as an affirmative and fastened his lips around my neck, and arms around my waist.

In those first few weeks I felt bad about my second and third thoughts half the time, and bad that he distracted me from my misgivings the other half. Because dammit, Tybalt O'Donnel did not get tied down.

Did. Past tense, I guess.

What was I doing?

I was living with this guy who was handsome and not without a fair amount of charm, who cared for me and would do anything for me even though he was dirt poor himself.

And I loved it.

He arranged his socks not via the spectrum, as you would expect most obsessively anal individuals to. Ever with the soul of the artist, Mikhael grouped them according to Goethe's colour theory. He named his paintbrushes. The synthetic bristled fan was Nastasia. The tiny pointed horsehair was Paris. The half-inch wedge was Valentine. The large one with variegated bristles was Randall.

Mikhael would randomly wake at 3am with an idea and half-stagger, half-fall out of bed, usually waking me up in the process. He wouldn't be able to rest until he had at least gotten his muse's picture to the second stage of completion.

He conducted an imaginary orchestra playing Vivaldi when he thought he was alone.

He never painted with shoes on.

He could navigate the room and make coffee first thing in the morning without actually opening his eyes.

He screamed my name when awake, and murmured it as his last bastion of coherence before slipping into sleep.

***

It was purely by accident that I found the folio.

I had been sitting on the sofa, drawing with my favourite black inking pen when it slipped from my grasp and rolled underneath the seat. Forgoing the vulnerable yet alluring head-down, ass-up pose, I moved the sofa away from the wall to retrieve it.

In doing so, I dislodged a smallish folio -- around A1 size -- that had been slotted in behind the backrest. Picking up my rogue pen, and moving the sofa back into position, I sat with the folder on my knees.

It was handmade from thick cardboard and red material adhesive tape. The sort everyone makes when they can't afford those black laminex things with shiny buckles. My fingers flicked through the paper of all different thicknesses sticking out the end.

In the end, curiosity won out, and I pulled the cardboard away and the pile of drawings. Papers scattered, some falling to the floor, most ending up in a pile in my lap.

I saw...

I saw me.

Drawing upon drawing of me. In thin pencil, thick graphite. Charcoal. Pen and ink. Crayon. Wet media. Dry media. One even seemed to be my likeness smudged with dirty fingers.

Cameras were clinical. Wonderful inventions, yes, but they glossed over so much. Sterile. Cold. Lifeless.

But I. Was. Alive.

My cheekbones were so severe... they cast great shadows down into the hollows of my cheeks and jaw. Perfect lines, perfect curves. Each slash predestined.

Lips... my lips pursed. I knew the action, felt it, but had never seen it. Pencil lovingly traced the bow of my lips, the shallow dip beneath my nose.

Graphite shaded the voluminous strands of my hair, flying in the wind. I was cold and perfectly beautiful. My eyes... so sad.

Ink traced the contours of my shoulder blades in a study of my back, half-obscured with hair. The lines were precise, a Leonardo study of a nude. Chiaroscuro. Darkness and light and humanity.

My hands, my eyes, my neck, my face. I could not escape the image of me, the true image of me. Smiling. Laughing. Solemn. Thoughtful. Arrogant. Infuriated. Sly. Content.

He drew me coming. Detailed with a soft brown conte, my mouth was open, eyes closed, brow furrowed. I traced my fingers over the line of my outstretched neck. Great pain synonymous with ecstasy.

There was the truth, and then there was the sympathy of portrayal. Even in my anger, when anyone else would have been ugly, there was a feral beauty. Dangerous and still a figure of perfection.

A figure of adoration... and love.

He saw me as I'd never seen myself. As no one else had ever seen me.

He saw me. Mikhael saw me.

Mikhael loved... me.

I didn't know what to do with that thought, so I let it sit while I looked through the rest of the drawings. I marveled at the texture and detail of some, the rough gesture of others.

The sincerity threatened to overwhelm me, as I'd never experienced anything like it before.

Never... never like this. How had I not had this before? The warmth...

It took me half an hour to pore through the rest of the pictures, before reluctantly replacing them back into the folio. The taped cardboard suddenly heavier in my hands, I stood it back behind the sofa.

My temples were damp with sweat, as was my shirt, sticking uncomfortably to me. I walked to the (our) bedroom and got a fresh shirt.

I needed some... time.

I needed a walk.

I picked up my pen and put my small sketchbook under my arm, and left. About twelve steps down the hall I stopped dead still. With a trembling hand, I opened the book to my unfinished drawing.

It looked like Mikhael.

~finis