Finn had the pencil poised over the page, ready and sharp, just waiting for the magic to start, to be used to create something beautiful! Standout!
That it was not made-up added another brick in the wall Finn was running into. This was something he had seen, of course. Who could forget it? And yet, while he, as any artist, drew constantly from models and other, “real,” subjects, he now found the reality of the thing was getting in the way. Fantasy was always so much more easy. You always had total control over it. You were only limited by your own imagination. With fantasy, you could do, oh, anything! And--
“You gonna look up?”
Finn nearly convulsed. “…bwah?”
Alastair grinned down at his boyfriend. “Dude, I’ve been standing here for like the past 15 minutes.”
For about two seconds, Finn was the stupidest man on Earth. Then his brain kicked in. “Oh, jeez! I’m sorry!” He put his hand to his head. “I just got caught up in…this.” Good grief, it was the afternoon already?
The pro surfer put his board down. “I’ll say. What’re you doing?” Alastair came around to see the work. “It must be pretty…oooooh. That. Wow.”
“Yeah. This. It’s the face. His face. I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know where to go after I do begin.”
Alastair unzipped the back of his suit, exposing his myriad tattoos splayed across his chest and shoulders. “It’s maybe a little early for it, don’t you think? Maybe you oughta think about it for a few more days. Let it sink in.”
Finn shuddered. “Think that’ll do any good?”
Alastair put his had out. “Nah. But I made the attempt. C’mon. Let’s let Rachel off the babysitting hook.”
Finn stared back at his pad. For a moment, his own expression was as ill-defined as the blank space on the page. Damn. What was his face?
Even after they drove back to the Castro, even after they relieved Rachel of dog-sitting duty, Finn sequestered himself in his studio, surrounded by his completed works, but depressingly deadlocked on the drawing, staring at it for hours on end.
“You’re still at that?” Alastair admonished, coming into the studio and sliding his arms around Finn’s chest. It was late. The rest of the Castro was either asleep or exhausted.
The reply came guiltily. “Yes.”
They were both naked. Finn always painted in the nude, a habit he picked up from staining one too many of his clothes with his paints, Alastair because he just liked being naked all the time. Of course, Alastair was covered in so many tattoos, what was the point of clothing? When it came to ink, Alastair was a walking monument. Even his hair, a Day-Glo yellow (this week) wasn’t the original color; you had to get his pants down to find out that information. Of course, he’d be more than willing to show you. Just ask!
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