Chapter 7
The sun is just starting to set by the time Michael arrives back at the Castle, satchel slung over his shoulder and jacket zipped up to the top. Gerry sits in the middle of the room on one of the foldable stools from the supplies stashed in the bedroom, the coffee table cluttered with tubes of paint and trays of pastels, a cup of stained paint brushes stuffed between his thighs as he works. He’s focused, the line of his should relaxed and smooth as he works, a palette of paint held in his right hand. A clunky pair of headphones cover his ears, a faint, tinny sound drifting through the room, a few worn stickers stuck over the sides. Walking closer, he moves into Gerry’s line of sight, waving to get his attention. He looks up, startled for a split second before his face breaks open into a radiant smile, setting the paints aside as he pulls the headphones off.
“Michael, you’re home early,” he says, setting the headphones onto the table by the paints.
“Yeah,” Michael says, stuffing his hands into his pockets, the word home rattling around in his brain on a loop. “Berta Jeane wanted me to take off early, she was impatient to get back to her reading. I’ll do a bit of overtime tomorrow to make up for the hours I missed today.”
Gerry hums, taking his cup of muddily colored water to the sink, half a dozen paint brushes drifting through the brownish-purple slew before they’re dumped into the sink to be cleaned. While he has his back turned, Michael can’t resist taking a peek at the canvas, trying to puzzle out what’s going on.
“Gerry…?”
“Yes?”
“Not to pry, but what exactly is going on in this piece?”
Gerry glances over his shoulder and grins, a smudge of magenta on his jaw, matching the waistcoat of the twisted woman in the painting.
“Oh, that one is an interesting one. My client wanted me to paint his wife in the style of the one I’ve got up in that gallery, said his wife was just blown away by it and he wanted one done of her, too.”
Michael stares at the eyesore of a piece, unsure if his vision is actually swirling again, or if Gerry really is that good at creating optical illusions. Theres something eerily familiar about this, the colors and the scent of bubblegum and nickels that fills his nose at the sight of her, the vague, smeary lines of her face stretched into a smile that makes Michael’s stomach drop. Blinking and looking away, the scent vanishes, and he coughs.
“That’s sweet of him. It’s a very…modernistic style.”
“I like to dabble,” Gerry says with a hint of amusement in his voice. “It’s not so impressive as realism, but I do like to play with colors, and breaking the rules gives me more freedom. Besides, that thing isn’t nearly done, I’m just putting down the acrylic base, it’ll take a lot more effort to get it to where I need it to be.” Drying his hands, he leaves the brushes out to dry and crosses back to Michael. “I’m ready to head down to the gallery if you’d like to just go now. Unless you want to do something else first?”
“Like what?”
“Like…grab drinks, or maybe a bite to eat? You were at work for a few hours, and if I recall correctly, you said Berta eats cream of mushroom soup and tea biscuits on the daily as her only meals, I’m sure you could stand to get something a bit more substantial in you before we walk around for a bit.”
Michael can’t help but smile faintly at that, Gerry’s insistence to remember the smallest little details, down to a throw away conversation filler from weeks ago. “You do remember correctly, yes. Dinner would be nice, but perhaps we should hold off on drinks, this morning was indicator enough that you can’t hold you liquor,”
“Of course,” Gerry huffs out a laugh, moving to grab his coat-no, not his coat, Michael’s coat, but when he puts it on, Michael can’t bring himself to mind. There’s still a smear of purple still glowing against his skin, and when he moves closer, Michael can’t help dragging his thumb over the half dried paint, pulling back and showing Gerry the splash of color staining him. Gerry turns a glorious shade of rose, embarrassment for the paint, which Michael immediately seeks to rectify.
“Hold on,” he says, moving back to the sink and wetting a rag, squeezing the excess water out before moving back to Gerry and his pink-tipped ears, the ponytail not helping him a bit. Brushing a curl out of his way, Michael takes hold of Gerry’s chin in a gentle grip, tipping his head to the side to give him access and begins to gently wipe the mess off his jaw. Gerry twitches slightly, throat bobbing, and that is interesting, and something that Michael refuses to think about until he has the Castle to himself once more and space to melt into a puddle over the memory of it. Michael’s grip tightens ever so slightly, eyes flicking to Gerry’s and holding his gaze for a second. “Be still, please, I’m almost done.”
“Alright,” Gerry rasps, voice suddenly deliciously rough, and Michael has to force his hands to not tremble as the last bit of purple finally lifts from Gerry’s warm skin.
“There. All better,” he says, releasing Gerry and absolutely not stumbling as he walks to the sink to drop the cloth into the basin. Gerry doesn’t move, eyes following his every move, and Michael has to clear his throat before speaking, Gerry’s gaze piercing and weighty, something burning like a candle in those magnetic eyes. “Ready to go?”
Gerry doesn’t answer for a moment, watching him carefully, questioningly, before he blinks and smiles faintly. “Yeah, sure, let’s go.”
-
Dinner is torture. Sitting across from Michael in a tiny ramen shop a few blocks from the gallery, his knee keeps fucking touching Michael’s, the flashes of contact a screaming reminder of Michael’s hands on his face, his warm breath on Gerry’s cheek, his long fingers delicately tucking a curl behind his ear. Fucking shit and goddamn, Gerry feels like a damned highschooler, addicted to every single little thing Michael does, hanging onto his every word like a puppy to a favored toy, being drug this way and that with the thing clamped tight between his teeth. He’s just lucky he didn’t pop a boner when Michael used that stupid fucking tone, all gentle control while taking care of Gerry, good god, he shouldn’t even be thinking about it in public, the only thing keeping it from happening is his decency and quickly fleeting self-respect, not wanting to make a scene and embarrass Michael.
Michael, his friend.
Michael, his goddamn tennant.
Michael sips at a spoonful of broth, fingers curled around the handle, and Gerry’s throat nearly closes up.
There is something incredibly wrong with him.
Mourning his dignity, he shoots Olivia a text.
I have a severe problem
Seconds later, she texts back.
You o k ?
Gerry:
No. :)
O: Need me to stab someone ?
G: NO.
Well.
Me.
Please?
O: Gerry.
G: Green.
O: ltrlly what is going on rn
Explain yourself.
G: I think im on a date :0
Throwing his phone down, he takes a massive bite on his ramen and nearly chokes as his phone starts buzzing rapid-fire. Picking it up, he opens his messages, and nearly laughs.
O: :0
WHAT
W H A T
GERRY
GERARD
GERARD JAMES KEAY
GET UR SKINNY LITTLE ASS BACK IN HERE NOW.
G: what…….
O: WITH WHO ??? WHAT GUY IS IT?
Pls tell me it isn’t Jonah again.
OH GOD ITS JONAH ISNT IT
WHAT DID I SAY ABT HOOKING UP W YOUR EXES.
G: jesus that was a 1-time thing and no not Jonah
O: praise BE
Wait then who ??
G: Michael
Turning his phone on silent, he ignores Olivia’s call that lights up his screen a second later, instead shoving it beneath his thigh and devoting himself to watching the way Michael’s hair frames his face. Michael gives him a soft smile.
“How’s your food?”
Taking a quick bite, Gerry flashes a smile back. “Good, really good, we gotta come here more often.
We. Intentional. Gerry watches Michael absorb that, ducking his head as he sips at his water. “That’s-yes. Yes, we do.” He’s smiling faintly again, and it burrows warmly into Gerry’s chest. Michael’s phone begins to buzz, multiple texts coming in at once, and he picks it up, glancing at the screen. “Oh, Olivia is texting me, just a moment Gerry.” Eyes scanning the messages, he pales slightly, setting down his spoon and using both hands to type.
Good fucking god, what the hell is Olivia telling him?
Picking up his own phone, Gerry glares down at the screen, heart pounding in his ears.
G: OLIVIA LISBETH COLLARD.
O: YOURE THE ONE WHO REFUSED TO ANSWER ME !!!
G: I LITERALLY H8 U WHAT R U SAYING TO HIM.
O: JUST ASKING WHAT HES UP TO TONIGHT CHILL
G: U DIRTY LIAR HE LOOKS ILL
O: I JUST ASKED IF HE WAS OUT WITH YOU AND WHEN HE SAID YES I ASKED IF IT WAS A DATE OR STH
NOT MY FAULT I WAS RIGHT !!!
G: FUCK YOU OH MY GOD
IT’S A MAYBE DATE
WHAT DID HE SAY
O: HE SAID THAT U 2 WERE JUST ‘HAVING DINNER’
THAT’S A DATE, RIGHT
RIGHT ??
G: IM LTTRLY GOING 2 STAB U OH MY GOD
Michael is just staring now, a flush building on his cheeks. “Is she texting you as well?”
“Uh…” Gerry clears his throat, giving him a nervous smile. “Yeah, actually, She’s just…being Olivia. Told her I was busy, and…all that.”
“Ah, yes, I told her we were having dinner, I hope that’s alright…?”
“Yeah, Michael, that’s alright,” he sighs, ignoring the 8 knife emojis Olivia sends his way, opting instead to turn his phone back onto silent and focus on his meal. Michael nods, still looking flushed as he resumes eating. They finish quickly, the conversation resuming it’s comfortable air as they exit the restaurant and head back down the street towards the gallery. The evening is cool and calm, the nighttime traffic seeming less frantic than usual as tourists and locals stroll the picturesque streets, stopping by in shops and looking at window displays. The gallery comes into view moments later as Michael rattles on about Berta Jeane’s cat whom he seems to possess a never-ending hatred for, the building painted white and black, all crisp clean edges and modernistic style. Ivy leaves are painted in a massive mural of green and pale yellow along one side of the box-shaped building, the only splash of color on the outside of it besides the warm tea lights hanging over the door.
“-I mean really, he’s a terror to be around, and he sheds like a—”
“Michael,” Gerry laughs, nudging his shoulder. “Really, he can’t be nearly as bad as you’re painting him.”
Michael sniffs disdainfully, chin high. “You’d be shocked. Perhaps I’ll convince Ms. Craye to let you come over sometime to meet him. You’ll understand then.”
“Maybe so,” Gerry grins, stepping up to the door and opening it for Michael, who thanks him with a soft smile. Looking around, Michael takes in his surroundings, the makeshift walls stood up in the middle of the gallery to house more art, and the little blocks that feature small sculptures and glasswork.
“Beautiful,” he says after a moment, giving the man behind the bar a respectful nod as he steps further into the room. Gerry, recognizing the employee as a young man named Emery, gives him a little grin as he gives Gerry a curious look at the sight of Michael. Let him think it’s a date, after all, they very well might be on one soon enough if Gerry can bring himself to put on his big-boy pants and ask Michael out. Christ, that’ll be a doozy, Olivia will have a field day. Some tiny part of him begins to niggle, questioning if Michael would even want that, if he’s into guys. Glancing at the taller man, Gerry almost scoffs, shaking his head. Yeah, definitely into guys. The question here is if the kind of guys he’s into involve ADHD artists with dyed hair and a tendency to hallucinate the strange and unusual. Only one way to find out, he supposes, and he’ll let his curiosity get the better of him sooner or later. Taking a risk, Gerry loops his arm into Michael’s, giving him a shit eating grin that he absolutely does not feel.
“Ready to stroke my ego?”
“Very much,” Michael huffs out a laugh. “I’ve been quite excited to see it all day.”
“Perfect, let’s go find it then, shall we?”
They spend the next 20 minuets wandering through the gallery, their arms slowly sliding apart until their wrists catch and fingers slip together. All accidental, of course, and Gerry finds himself grinning at the way Michael’s cheeks are glowing in Gerry’s periphery, rosy red. He could’ve taken Michael straight to his painting, but truth be told, he just wants to spend more time with the man, and once they leave the gallery, he’s half certain he’ll have to go to his own home tonight. Afterall, his place is closer than the Castle, and there’s no good reason for Gerry to stay the night at Michael’s anyways. Eventually, they find themselves in the row where Gerry’s painting hangs, and he stops Michael before he can see it, going behind him and going up on his toes to slide his hands over Michael’s eyes. He laughs in that breathless way of his, letting Gerry guide him forwards and position him in front of the piece, not opening his eyes even when Gerry removes his hands.
“There, you can look now,” Gerry grins, eyes flicking between his neon creation and Michael’s face. Michael’s eyes flutter open, the half-smile playing on his mouth dropping as soon as he looks at it as he goes very, very pale. Eyes wide, they’re glued to the painting, the silver pools reflecting the colors in a way that’s entirely inhuman, and for a moment Gerry’s vision bleeds, flickers like it does whenever the visions start up, Michael and the thing in the painting becoming one and the same before he blinks and they separate, the colors still clinging to the edges of Michael’s clothes as if dragging him back in. Michael is still whereas the painting is not, taking on a life of it’s own as the life bleaches from his skin. After his head stops spinning, he steps forwards, touching Michael’s elbow gently, stomach dropping as Michael flinches away like he’s been burnt. “Michael…?”
He looks at Gerry, eyes wide, the whites showing, a caged animal with a shotgun in its face. Gerry’s vision blurs, a steel trap wrapped around Michael’s ankle, blood on the floor, there one second and gone the next, but the sickly metallic scent still sticks in his nose. He can taste burnt rubber and cinnamon in his mouth, Michael’s eye melting down his cheek.
Fuck, fuck, not now, not now when he’s been doing so well—
“I’m sorry,” Michael gasps, voice high and thin, stepping back, nearly tripping on the lace of his untied sneaker. “I’m-I—”
Despite the way Michael is morphing and shifting, despite the way the world is turning on it’s head and the man with the eye earring is laughing and laughing behind him, he still reaches for his sleeve, the rain-proof material slipping between his fingers as Michael blurts out more apologies and whimpers of Gerry’s name, turning and stumbling from the gallery as Gerry can only watch and watch and Watch.
-
It's late by the time he finally makes it home, Gee-Gee already tucked into bed, the light out under her door. Gerry crashes into bed, still wearing Michael’s coat, his stupid fucking coat, Jesus.
Swearing and shaking, he tears it off, throwing it to the ground and cursing himself for whatever the hell happened back at the gallery with Michael. He still hasn’t texted, hasn’t reached out, and Gerry isn’t ready to face the three thousand texts from Olivia asking how their ‘date’ went.
Fucking hell, Jesus shiting Christ.
Curling into himself, Gerry tries to figure out what exactly went wrong. It had all been so perfect, he’d held Michael’s hand for fucks sake, but then he’d seen the painting and Gerry’s visions came back, and all hell had broken loose. Pulling out his phone, he pulls up Michael’s contact, typing out four different messages before deleting it all and tossing his phone onto the bedside table. Grabbing the bottle of pills beside it, he takes two dry, wincing as they go down rough, staring at the label.
Keay, Gerard. Take two as needed for assistance sleeping. Do not exceed more than 4 pills in 24 hours.
Stripping off his jeans, he can’t bring himself to do much more than that, feeling the need to soak in his self-pity until morning comes and he can actually act like the adult he is. Ignoring the spirits floating near the door, Gerry faces the wall, curling up beneath the sheets, and lets himself drift off, still smelling Michael’s cologne on his skin.