Drawing Closer (21 page)

"What?" Charles went to the fridge, needing to put some space between them, taking out a bottle of beer and rolling the icy smoothness against the rising bruises on his skin.

"The painting. If it went -- when it goes to that auction -- how much?"

"God, I don't know." Charles tried to make his hand close tightly enough around the bottle so

that he could use his other hand to twist off the top. He couldn't. Mutely, he held the bottle out

to Carl, who sighed, uncapped it, drank, and then passed it over.

Charles wiped the top of it clean and followed Carl's sterling example. Whiskey would've been

better, but this would do.

"You must have some idea," Carl insisted, following Charles as he went to sit down on the couch.

"Ten, fifteen…" Carl still looked as if he was waiting for something so Charles spelled it out.

"Thousand. The bidding would start at a thousand, I suppose, and then… well, it all depends on

how drunk they are, what tax write offs they need… and I suppose there might be one or two in

the audience with a glimmer of artistic appreciation who just like the painting." He tried not to

look at it. "Or not. It's… hot, as you put it, but it's not exactly mainstream." He scowled,

irritation rising. "I don't know what the hell he's playing at. This is his big chance; God, this could make him! He could be on the next plane out of here the morning after the auction if it sold well,

caught a reporter's eye…"

He swallowed some beer and passed the bottle to Carl, perched on the arm of the couch. "You

know, that thought's only just occurred to me. He could leave, couldn't he?" Charles chuckled,

low and humorless. "I'll fucking kill Drew."

"Leave?" Carl's voice cracked on the word. "And you've got to be kidding me about that much money; he sells them for a few hundred more than the cost of framing them, that's all."

"It could go much higher." He saw that Carl wasn't getting it, and sighed. "It's a charity auction, Carl, attended by some very rich people with money to waste. The very fact that the painting's

up there makes it worth something; they'll assume it's valuable just from that. And they'll want it

to cost them a lot because it's only then that it'll have any value in their eyes."

Carl got that. Dressed head to toe in designer labels, he'd have to.

"Gray wouldn't leave." Carl didn't sound sure and his hands were shaking as he tipped the bottle up again.

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"He might."

"
No
." Carl's lips thinned. "He went to Europe that time and it was…. I missed him."

"If he did go to New York, it's not that far--"

"No." Carl stood, slamming the bottle down on the coffee table hard enough that it teetered and fell, spilling out the dregs. He ignored it, and Charles' automatic protest, and was at the door and

through it before Charles could find the words to stop him.

Alone, the quietness was unbearable. He cleaned up the spilled beer, put the bottle in the trash,

and left, never once letting his gaze fall on the painting.

***

claws. He could smell whiskey, fumes rising from the glass he'd fallen asleep holding, and his

head was spinning.

The door -- someone at the--

Gray came in, moving fast, his face contorted, his voice already raised, words tumbling out. "It

was you, wasn't it? It had to be, couldn't have been anyone else -- How the fuck could you do

that, you bastard? How?"

Charles lifted a hand to ward him off, struggling to clear his head. "Gray--"

"Shut the fuck up!" Gray was screaming at him now, tears wet on his face. Had to be dreaming--

Charles scrubbed at his face and got to his feet, feeling the room spin around him. "Gray," he said, with as much authority as he could scrape together. "Just calm down and--"

The fist connecting with his jaw hurt. He rocked back, riding the blow, his reactions sluggish.

Christ, how much had he had to drink? Too much.

"Fine. Don't calm down. No--" This time he dodged the blow: Gray was sobbing, swinging

wildly, utterly distraught. "Gray, stop it. Please. I don't know what you think I've done, I swear

it. I need you to tell me."

Gray reached into his pocket and for a heart stopping moment, Charles thought he was reaching

for a gun. Given the way Gray was behaving, it wasn't as ludicrous an idea as all that.

But what was thrust at him, pushed at him, was a ragged piece of canvas, paint-daubed and -- oh,

Drawing Closer - 135

God.

Oh,
God
.

"No." Charles shook his head, rejecting all of it; the accusation, the evidence of the destruction he was holding. "Gray,
no
."

Gray's face hardened. "Carl told me what you tried to do. How he left you there."

"Carl?" Charles felt an irrational spurt of jealousy that when faced with something like this, Gray had turned first to Carl. "You spoke to him?"

"He got to my place not long after I did. Not long after I'd found--" Gray swallowed, his face twisting. "He
told
me."

"I didn't do it." Charles felt helpless in the face of Gray's distress, his words thick and clumsy in his mouth, confusion building. Carl? Carl had gone back?

Gray sneered at him. "No? Didn't you say you hated it?"

"I said I -- yes, something like that, but I didn't mean I hated it, I just--"

"Didn't pick up a knife to... to slash it?"

Fuck. "Yes, I did that, I admit it, but I don't think I would've done it. And Carl stopped me!"

Charles held up his bruised wrist. "See?"

"Looks like he had a hard time holding you back, considering you didn't really want to do it."

Gray was spitting out hard, bitter words and Charles couldn't work out how to make him stop.

"I was angry."

"Why?" Gray shook his head. "What the fuck was there to be angry about?"

"Aside from the fact that it was something only we should own, you were going to -- everyone

would have known about us," Charles said harshly. "Gray -- surely you can see how that made

me feel?"

The look of confusion on Gray's face was enough to rekindle the way he'd felt. "Christ, Gray!

Don't look at me like that! You know what I do for a living; you know what happened to me,

how I felt when it all came out last time; if you'd had any common sense, you'd have known--"

"It wasn't for the auction." Gray stared at him, voice steady now, eyes dry. "It was for you, you asshole. Sort of a belated birthday present because I never gave you one. The one for the auction

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was over in the corner, drying. I'd finished it, been painting all day, and I just had to get out. It's

not of us, not of anyone. It's a -- oh, the hell with it. It doesn't matter." He shrugged, his eyes cold. "Happy birthday, Charles." He flicked his fingers at the piece of canvas Charles was still holding. "Sorry it's not wrapped."

"I did not destroy the painting." Charles put the fragment of canvas down on a side table and

faced Gray. "I give you my word."

"And I don't believe you." Gray's mouth set stubbornly. "Carl told me--"

"Carl? Christ, Gray, Carl
did
it," Charles interrupted, as sure of that as he was of anything in this world. Jealous, scared, desperate Carl… "It has to have been him."

"When? He said he left you there; is that right?"

"Well, yes."

"And he doesn't have a key; I took it back off him because I was sick of him walking in." Gray smiled sourly. "I gave that key to you." He arched his eyebrows. "You locked up when you

left?"

"I think so," Charles said doubtfully. "I was -- I'm sure I did." He couldn't bring himself to lie about it, about anything. And, yes, he had; he'd dropped the key and had to bend to pick it up --

he remembered the flash of irritation he'd felt.

"I'm not seeing how Carl could have done it. Not seeing anyone but you who'd want to do it."

Gray stepped back. "You're fucked up, you know that? Totally fucked up. Stay the hell away

from me."

"Gray--" If he could just make him see--

"Don't want to hear it." Gray walked over to the bottle of whiskey and poured a measure into

Charles' glass. "Go on, Charles; toast yourself on a job well done." His hand tightened on the bottle and he turned, sending it flying across the room to smash in a glitter of glass and a spray of

liquid against the wall. The noise hit Charles like a blow, echoing in his head long after the slam of

the front door as Gray left had faded.

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"Yeah, it looks good." Gray knew he sounded flat but he couldn't help it. He forced a smile onto his face and tried again. "You've done a great job."

The framer, an elderly man whose hands were deft and sure when he worked, trembling slightly

when he wasn't, returned Gray's smile a little doubtfully. "It's a nice piece of work. Pleasure to

frame it. Going to New York? My, my."

Gray ran his finger around the smooth wood of the frame. "That's right. Do you still do the

shipping service? I'd like it to get there as soon as possible."

Mr. Jackson nodded. "Give me the address and it'll be there first thing tomorrow morning; we'll

see to the packing and everything else. That suit you?"

"That's fine." Gray took one last look at the painting, wishing on one level that he could keep it.

It was good. It was
really
good. He could be objective when he'd finished something, could see

every flaw with a cool, merciless appraisal. Nothing wrong with this one, though. He'd taken his

initial idea of painting a brush, magnified to the point of being unrecognizable, and turned it into

so much more. Scattered, clinging to each strand of the fine hair of the brush, were tiny images

from paintings he'd done with the brush, chosen to merge into it. You had to look, you had to

look just right. And then he'd taken the brush and broken it down, splinters and strands and a

gleam of gold from the maker's name on the wood, and placed it within the painting, making it

real, dense, something you wanted to touch.

The painting spoke to him and invited him in: look here, no, here; see this, no, that… And when

you stepped back and looked at it from a distance, it
still
fucking worked. He'd described it to Drew and been told that, yes, people, the bidders, would get a chance to see it close before the

bidding began; there'd be a pre-show of the artwork section of the auction.

Speaking to Drew had been weird. He could tell that Drew knew about what had happened with

Charles from that first cautious 'Yes?' when Drew had realized who was calling him. They hadn't

discussed it. He wasn't going to bring it up, and Drew had enough smarts to get that it was off

limits.

Fine.

He didn't want to know how Charles was taking it in the two weeks since he'd last seen him.

Drawing Closer - 138

Didn't give a fuck if the man was drinking himself to death, blowing off lectures, generally going

to pieces. Didn't want to know if Charles was dealing with it like it didn't matter, maybe dating

again. Didn't want to know
anything,
which was why he'd cut Carl and his grandmother off at the knees when they tried to bring the subject up, Carl awkwardly, Beatrice with an incisive, brutal

curiosity only close family could've gotten away with.

Charles was history. A mistake. One of those experiences you learned from -- yeah, learned to

avoid. And now Charles had stopped calling him, finally getting the message that Gray just didn't

want to know. Gray hadn't even spoken to him, just hung up the instant he'd heard Charles'

voice.

And the one time Charles had come around, well, Carl had taken care of that, shoving Charles

back out into the cold and slamming the door in his face when Charles had tried to push past him.

It'd taken Carl a while to get Gray to calm down after that. He'd been shaking, close to crying,

wanting to break things, smash them up… and Carl had held him, held him tight, until Gray had

stopped fighting and rubbed a wet face against a broad shoulder, quieting down, his head aching

so much, God, it'd been fucking killing him. And Carl had made him go to bed and curled up with

him, silent for once, wrapped around Gray like a blanket until they'd both fallen asleep.

So, yeah, ignorance was bliss. His time with Charles was forgotten, metaphorically over there in a

closed box, locked and gathering dust. A box with a couple of months' worth (eight weeks, three

days since the exhibition, which was when he counted from but he wasn't counting, not anymore)

of memories.

He couldn't let himself think about a single one. Couldn't jerk off without focusing on what

Charles had done to him; the smart and tingle of his ass when it'd been spanked, the imagined hiss

and burn of something more than a hand he'd hoped for when he'd managed to persuade Charles

he was ready for it; the breathless, painful constriction of his chest when he was tied, held still,

before that warm, soft peace rolled over him, head to toe.

Impossible to think of any of that and not think of Charles, so he just -- wasn't. No jerking off,

no sex, even if Carl had started dropping hints about a friend of Debbie's, or hey, her cousin's got

this older brother… no, younger than you, but available, I could--?

No. And no. No to all of it, the suggestions of going out, getting drunk, having fun, getting laid; a

barely grudging yes when Carl pushed for the night in with pizza, beer, and a movie. Grudging,