Finnegan Ulysses Cavanaugh was one of the biggest bundles of contradictions Alastair ever met. Alastair was a rebel, pure and simple and perhaps, stereotypically. He blew up at the smallest things, and had a short, but noticeable, rap sheet for the occasional brawl. He was never one for conversation or dialogue. “Red” was a little more complex. He poured his passions into his paints so much so that the man himself was left positively demure. And yet, he never wore clothes unless he had to, and pretty much had sex whenever he wanted to. The nudity could be partially explained away because he was so messy when he painted, but the man lived in a constant sexual buzz. Sometimes, out of the blue, he’d eye Alastair and murmur, “You have something I want.”
And, oh boy!, did he get it.
But there was still a bit of a mystery around the man. First of all, he never stayed the night. The very idea made him cagey. Secondly—it was mundane, but just a little…weird—Finn never invited anyone to, or even hinted he had, a home of any sort. Of course, he had to have one...somewhere. Where did he run off to, when he wouldn’t spend the night? Where else did he store all his canvases? His mountains of painting supplies? Where did he paint when it rained? Where did he keep his pick-up truck? Where did he keep his clothes—when he wore them?
Alastair even intentionally got himself plastered one night to trick Finn into taking him to his mysterious abode. It didn’t work. He found himself in a hotel, no sign of Finn. So much for bright ideas. But that only made things weirder. Not that Alastair was a romantic by any stretch—he never owned a candle, for fuck’s sake—but it was nice to wake up in your man’s arms.
So finally, about three months in, Alastair finally asked, “Why don’t we ever go back to your place?”
Finn went as red as his hair.
“Yeah,” Alastair continued. “You know, a place with four walls and a roof? The place you keep all your stuff?”
“Ha,” Finn replied.
It was a disaster area. Alastair finally got bitchy and put his foot down, demanding to know if not why Finn took off every night, where he took off to. It was a logical argument; Finn couldn’t counter it. Now that he saw it however, Alastair could perfectly understand, if bewilderingly so, why Finn never took anybody to his place.
Canvases were everywhere, the place reeked of turpentine, paints—old, new, and being used—were scattered as if he had thrown them in a fit. Piles of clothes, canvas heaped in the corners. There were gouges in the drywall, clearly inflicted by the sharp a corner of a painting. Drawing pads were practically to the ceiling. The walls were positively psychedelic. It seemed it was on them that Finn experimented with colors and shades. This wasn’t a home. It was a warehouse. Nice neighborhood—Finn lived in San Francisco in the Castro—but his place looked like a bomb had hit. An art-bomb.
“I, uh, cleaned up.”
Good lord, this was the “clean version?” Alastair was agape. He was by no means a neat freak, but was immaculate by comparison. Finn was practically a hoarder.
Finally, the man had a fault.
And in that oblivious manner of many artists, Finn simply didn’t see anything all that wrong with it. In fact, he took Alastair on a pride-filled grand tour. One room was for painting, another for drying (“Oils take a long time”), another was clear some sort of “stage” when he was drawing off a model. One tiny room, a den, really, had his computer, fax, and scanner. And more canvas. Another room just accumulated “stuff." The two rooms that seemed mildly orderly was the kitchen and bathroom (the latter of which, funnily enough, was actually Martha-Stewart perfect. There is an exception to every rule…)
But then the weirdness came back. There was no bedroom. Well, to be extact, no bed. Or futon. Or hammock. Did he sleep on the floor? There wasn’t even a sleeping bag.
Alastair knew “cagey” when he saw it, and clearly Finn was hiding something. And it probably had to do something with the basement that Alastair slipped into when Finn was taking a piss.
Not many things stop Alastair Abercrombie in his tracks, but man-o-man, this did the trick. Except for a space heater, the room was absolutely barren. Oddly, it was actually rather deep. The concrete floor was a good 12 feet below the ceiling. But what rendered Alastair speechless was the odd, contoured cement slab in the middle of the room. And the huge scorch mark around it, a perfect circle. Maybe 10 feet in diameter.
“I’d like you to leave now.”
The surfer nearly had a heart attack. He turned to see Finn looking at him, his face frozen, the walls up, the affection dead.
“I—“
“Leave.”
Alastair made a hasty exit.
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