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smokingmirrorSeries: Chalk And Charcoal
Author: Avarice
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mikhael/Tybalt
Spoilers: pre BMB
Summary: Snapshot out of another day. Tybalt shares something personal. August 1995.
Word Count: 1160
Date First Posted: 25-05-2003
Date Revised: 22-05-2011
Beta: Tink.
Awards: -
Notes: The last of C&C that I got around to writing, before Fox and Collin consumed my brain :) The events described were based on my high school art teacher.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.
Also Archived At: LJ
"Honey, I'm home," Mikhael announced as he opened the door.
"Don't make us sound like we're in 'I Love Lucy'," a caustic voice answered back, "we are not the Ricardos."
"Yes," agreed Mikhael. "For one thing, I can't play the bongos."
Mik waited for the inevitable snarky reply that did not come. It turned out Tybalt was too engrossed in his work. The brunet walked up to Tybalt's stool and easel. The redhead sat comfortably enough, but he was by no means relaxed.
Little things clued Mikhael into his boyfriend's mood; the tightly bound hair, pursed lips, tapping fingers. Much like an annoyed feline swishing its tail, Tybalt drummed his long fingers on any surface, preferably one where his fingernails could make a good noise.
Mikhael put his folio down carefully and stood behind Tybalt. He hesitated in touching him, but reasoned if Tybalt could make a joke about 'I Love Lucy', then he probably wasn't in a completely vile mood.
With care, he put his large hands gently on Tybalt's shoulders. He let out a little breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in when Ty sighed at the touch and sagged into the stool, patting Mik's hand distractedly.
"What's wrong?" the brunet asked softly.
"My angles are off," Tybalt said flatly, eyes not leaving the work in front of him. Mikhael scrutinised the drawing in front of him, and after a few practiced moments of appraisal discovered he was indeed right.
Tybalt's perspective with one of the woman's legs was slightly out, his foreshortening incorrect. It wasn't a terribly difficult error to fix, but one that required careful thought to correct. The mistake had been drawn, erased and redrawn, but never quite right. And Tybalt was getting understandably frustrated, his handsome face flushed with anger.
Mikhael rubbed his shoulders empathetically. Everyone had off days, but more than anyone else, it seemed Ty had the hardest time admitting he was having an off day.
It was always a subject Mikhael was tender in dealing with. It was hard to know whether Tybalt wanted help unless he asked -- which he never did. But by the same token, just because he didn't ask it didn't mean that it wasn't wanted, and wouldn't make a problem later because it wasn't offered.
The whole situation tended to give Mikhael a headache.
Hedging his bets, the brunet decided to offer assistance. "I think I know how to fix it," he commented lightly. Silence greeted his words for a few long moments, but Tybalt turned slightly, his interest momentarily piqued.
"Yes?" he asked, carefully controlled hope layered with indifference.
Mik bent over to rest his chin on Tybalt's shoulder and stretch his arms out towards the picture. "All you need to do is move this line down about half an inch and--" he stopped as Tybalt abruptly stiffened as soon as Mik's fingers came close to the paper.
Tybalt's rigid body confused and slightly upset Mikhael. He withdrew his hand. "I'm sorry. I wasn't going to touch it," he said, doing his best to disguise the hurt in his voice. He made to move away, but Tybalt grabbed his hand.
"No... I-- I know you weren't," Ty sighed again, but didn't continue.
"Then what's wrong?" Mikhael asked in a soft voice, rubbing his boyfriend's fingers.
Tybalt stared at his paper for a moment longer in silence. At length, the redhead spoke to him.
"I was good at all my subjects in high school," he began, "math, english, history, track... in the top fifteen percent of my classes. But I loved art. It was where I could do what I wanted, and still have the right answer. And I was damned good at it."
There was a pause. "My tenth grade art teacher didn't think so. She made it her mission in life to not assist her students, but shape what they created into her artistic vision," Tybalt snorted a soft laugh. "Does that sound like something I'd like?"
"Not so much, no," Mikhael answered.
"It's an understatement to say that at 15 I was... rather headstrong. I didn't take to her methods, and she couldn't stand me. Trust me when I say the feeling was more than mutual. I didn't like her style, her skill, and I hated--" he stopped, his voice getting more charged with emotion. He stopped, and began the sentence again.
"I hated the way she would change things. Her method was not to suggest, or talk through a problem... she would physically alter my work. Drew over it -- badly, irreparably -- if she thought I'd done something wrong. It illustrated her 'illustrious technique' over my own... and ruined whatever I had been working on."
Mikhael stroked Tybalt's fingers absently, and he understood. The dark-haired man stayed quiet and let his boyfriend continue. "I just... have this thing. And when you lifted up your hand... it was like I was back in school, and being told how to do it."
Mikhael maneuvered so that he could see Tybalt's face, and brushed a red lock of hair away from his eyes. "More than simply knowing I wouldn't, you have my spoken word I would never do something like that to you," he said softly, but determinedly.
"Yeah," Tybalt answered in a faraway voice.
The brunet picked up Tybalt's discarded charcoal. "And if you'd let me, I'd still like to help." He held the compressed black stick to the redhead. "On your terms."
Tybalt's green eyes glittered with a smile that barely touched his lips. He took the charcoal from Mikhael's fingers, who then moved to stand behind the seated artist. Tybalt reached a hesitant hand up to his work and made contact with the paper. Black specks rained down onto the easel's ledge as he ground it into the paper, still contemplating his line.
Mikhael's hand reached over his shoulder and gently touched Tybalt's pale wrist. Tybalt began the line. Mikhael, ever so gently guided the direction of Ty's hand, but in such a way that all the real control still belonged to Tybalt. The black line began to appear across the page. Once they'd gotten the angle right, Mikhael took his hand away and let the artist finish it the rest of the way.
Tybalt stared at the page intently, and also with some wonder. "It's right," he commented, more to himself than anyone else. He brushed a tapered finger over the end, smudging it to his satisfaction.
Mikhael allowed himself a small, happy smile at Tybalt's renewed vigor. His hands came to rest on Tybalt's shoulders and squeezed.
"I'll let you be," he said, before taking a step back and walking away.
"I have another line to go," Tybalt said abruptly.
Mikhael turned. "Yes," he said simply.
Tybalt had turned his head slightly to give Mikhael a view of his fine profile. "So are you helping me or not?"
Mik smiled wider and rejoined the redhead.
~finis
