Heterochromic Haze

6- The point of no return

It takes me a week to ask Amyas for Everett's number.

The entire ordeal is painful, Amyas full of knowing smirks and suggestive comments but I ignore him, far too concerned to really pay attention to his teasing. Despite how encouraging he's been, I can't stop my mind from playing out every worst case scenario it can imagine.

Suppose I lose Amyas, my best friend, my port in the storm. Suppose Everett isn't all that I had imagined he would be, that I am disappointed by the man that has renewed me. Suppose...suppose this time things are different. Suppose I don't want to let him go.

But regardless of all this, hope pushes me forwards. 

It takes me a further three days to text Everett and I decide upon keeping it simple. Straightforward.

"You still want to sit for me?"

He replies almost immediately.

"Yes."

I swallow harshly at that, cradling my head in my hand as I re-read his message. How in the hell was I going to do this? A small part of me had been hoping that he'd been drunk or hopelessly sexually frustrated. That he'd say it was a mistake, that he'd changed his mind.

It would have shattered all my dreams, but at least I'd keep some small hold on my sanity.

I sigh heavily, texting out my reply.

"Alright. When are you available? I'll need you for a few hours."

I hit send, putting my phone in my pocket before almost immediately getting it back out again as it vibrates.

"I'm free now?"

I groan. Of course he is.

I text him my address and get busy tidying up.

I take my time setting the scene, rifling through sketches until I find the one I'm looking for. It's the one I did at the coffee shop, the most incredible contrasts of light making it one of the best sketches I've ever done.

I arrange a chair in a similar position, painstakingly setting the scene with a tall, domed lamp.

I flit between the chair and my sculpting position by the window until I'm finally happy.

When a knock emanates from my door, I freeze, somehow having forgotten just who was coming over, and what I was preparing to do. I exhale shakily, wishing I had taken the time to change out of my paint stained turtle neck top but it's too late now.

I open the door, leaning against it as I relax almost instantly. It's so odd, how he can relax me and keep me on edge all at the same time.

His eyes roam my body freely but I keep my eyes on his.

"Last chance to change your mind." I say lowly.

He exhales slowly and I step back, opening the door. He steps over the threshold confidently, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up, looking as though he's been here a hundred times before.

But his eyes roam the room curiously.

I look at the paint smears on the walls, the sketches and photographs pinned to my desk and taped to the ceiling. The sculpting tools that are tucked into pots with toothbrushes, pencils and salt and pepper sachets, my makeshift wardrobe of several poorly stacked cabinets, my embarrassing collection of assorted lamps and my doorstop which is literally a cardboard box with a brick in it.

It's chaos, but it's a pretty accurate description of my mental situation.

He glances at me, waiting for my instruction and I sigh. I guide him to the chair, turning to look quizzically at him.

"How do you feel about nudity?" I ask and he raises an eyebrow, not looking entirely surprised.

"Whatever you want." He says, but his voice isn't nearly as firm as I'm sure he had hoped.

I smile, my eyes wandering up and down his body. Not that I wouldn't love to see the full package, but I'm trying to show restraint. I have to. Now that he's here, now that I'm so close I find that I couldn't send him away even if I wanted to. My heart races, desperate to start what I've been waiting to do for all this time.

"Shirt off." I order and he nods diligently. I monitor him closely for any sign of discontent or regret.

He slips off his shirt, perching on the chair. He doesn't look uncomfortable or awkward in the slightest and I take this as a sign to continue.

I move closer, my eyes raking over him hungrily, finally. I take in the muscles, imagining the connections beneath the surface of his skin. The flesh on his back is perfectly even and flawlessly smooth, stretching delicately over his taught body with a kind of grace that I'm not sure I can recreate.

My hand flutters to his shoulder before hesitating.

"Do you mind if I touch you?" I ask, my usual flirtation gone. I need him to be comfortable with me, with this. If he were to leave now, I don't know what I'd do.

"Not at all." He says and I rest my hand more firmly on his shoulder.

I push him forwards slightly, angling his shoulder back until I see the shadowing I want. I run my hands over the muscles lightly, applying a firm, steady pressure as I assess the musculature.

"You'd be great at massages." He says suddenly and I blink, laughing as my focus is momentarily broken.

"I'll keep that in mind." I say coyly, continuing my work.

I rearrange his legs, before coming to his face. I turn his jaw this way and that, my fingers running along the underside of his mandible. I then trail along his cheekbones, moving upward to assess his zygomatic. His eyes flutter closed and I pause for a second, wondering if he could possibly be enjoying this as much as I am.

I pull away, nudging his head before finding a position I'm happy with. I then run my hands through his hair, stifling a laugh at his quiet moan. I tousle it, nudging individual strands into place before stepping back.

He looks like a wet dream, and something far more artistic that my brain can't come up with because it's malfunctioning.

I begin my sketch, his eyes never leaving mine.

I want to be flustered, but I'm too focused and eventually, I stop noticing the heavy weight of his stare. He sits patiently and silently, not complaining once even though it must be more than an hour I keep him there. 

I do multiple, basic sketches, moving round the room taking in every aspect of him and when I decide I'm happy, I stand up to show him.

He stands up eagerly, stretching his arms, cracking his neck before taking my sketchbook from me.

His eyes run over the pages, taking in every detail before handing it back. He doesn't say anything, but I find that the look in his eyes says more than words ever possibly could.