You're My Canvas

Addict with a Pen part 1 by phansomiac

Dan loves the ocean.
He loves the fusion of colours, smooth greens and greys which make up the water; loves the way the edges of waves lap up at his feet, biting him with cold. He loves the way it seems to be both calm and vehement at once, loves the rich sound of white horses, racing up to the shore only to draw back at the last minute; Dan uses the ocean as his diary, and he treats it as his friend.
It's almost always overcast where he lives, in a small, almost desolate beach town in the middle of nowhere, where the sky doesn't change and the cold gets under his skin, but he likes it all the same. It's littered with cobbled streets and sandy coves and Dan finds a sort of peace, living here, that's he's never had before. The day gives him patience and the night gives him rolling waves and a cold breeze, and Dan's very okay with it all, despite his loneliness. He tells himself a small moleskine sketchbook and the sounds of the beach will make up for anything he doesn't have. He knows that's a lie, but for now but doesn't have much else.
Tonight, it's freezing. The sky is a mess of dappled blues and greys, raindrops falling onto his cheeks as he looks out at the horizon but it's okay, because Dan wouldn't choose to be anywhere else.
Dan stands at the shore, hands shaking as he twists them together in front of him. The horizon is a thin, thin line and Dan wonders if it can even be reached because hypothetically, once he gets there, there's another, darker horizon ahead and he thinks that maybe he's just thinking too hard, because his lips are tingling from the sting of tiny raindrops falling on his face and his hair is blowing slightly, contributing to the sudden cold that rolls over his figure in waves. Dan's always been criticized for thinking too hard.
And it's not that he's not particularly sad, as such. Just contemplative, in a way which makes his head ache and his fingers grasp for something to hold onto, clutching his sketchbook as a form of support. It's strange because although Dan can feel every pinprick of rain on his cheeks, every grain of sand under his feet, he's still numb; his heart drags in his chest, pulling him down and he can't breathe, but he's still numb. He doesn't quite know whether its a privilege or not, to feel everything and nothing at the same time. He supposes it's a better alternative to crippling sadness.
Dan sits down by the shore, close enough to catch the sea spray on his cheeks, but not enough for the waves to tumble over him and ruin his sketchbook. The moleskine is pulled out of the pocket of his woolen jacket, opened up with shaking hands. And it's a moment, where Dan sits with a pen pressed against his lips as he stares out at the ocean, watching the blending of blues and greens and greys into a mix of time between night and day, until he uncaps the pen lid and begins to draw.
It's nothing interesting, that night. Just a confusion of scribbles in black, words falling over sketches in a way that wouldn't make sense to anyone other than Dan. But somehow, it calms him more than anything else could.
-
It's a few days before Dan has the chance to go back down to the sea, because he's caught up with working for his mum's friend Julie at the B&B and everything just sort of falls on top of him, a little. He lives there, at the B&B, in a small room with a radiator that takes up a whole wall and frilly white curtains and a view out at Marton's Cove, and he likes it, really. It's quite cramped, but Dan hardly spends any time in there, anyway, with the structure of his days. He doesn't love his job, but he appreciates all the efforts Julie has gone to in order to get him a job, make him a little happier. Dan's mother has always been worried sick with him; he hates it, the way she nags, pulls at his strings, but he's scared her enough in the past to make it reasonable, and so he stays at the B&B with Julie, and he works, and he smiles at old ladies.
Dan gets off work at 4pm, after welcoming an old couple into one of the B&B's incredibly small rooms with a smile that hurt his cheeks, and so he walks down by the seafront and decides to buy himself some fish and chips. It's quite a common routine for him, so much so that the shopkeeper, John, knows his name and greets him with a grin each time he goes in. Today isn't any different; except there's a boy standing in front of the counter, and John's occupied, not looking up at Dan until he's stood directly behind the questioning boy.
"Ah! Dan, how are we today?" John smiles, looking over the boy's shoulder at Dan, who returns it wearily.
"I'm doing okay," Dan replies, fueling more optimism into his voice than he can possibly feel. "Lots of new customers at the B&B today."
The boy in front of him seems to contemplate whether to turn round or not as John finishes packing up his order, and only does so after John's handing the package over at the counter, giving Dan a small smile to which Dan reciprocates, noting blue eyes and a flash of black hair. The boy pays, long fingers fumbling through his wallet to find a debit card, and Dan raises his eyebrows at the gesture. Maybe he's just used to it, but Dan hasn't needed anything other than cash for the past three years living here, and it comes as a surprise.
"Margaret and Peter arrived, yet?" John asks Dan whilst waiting for the payment to go through.
Dan nods, a knowing smile twitching his lips upward.
"They were the last couple I checked in. Kept going on about how they were going to come down here as soon as they got unpacked and get their 'dose'. I think Margaret's expecting a discount because of her hip."
John laughs, shaking his head as he thanks the boy, who moves out of the way quickly, package in hand. Dan casts a glance at him before he leaves the shop, gaze wandering, before he's snapped back to the conversation at hand, and John's sarcastic but cheerful remarks.
"Tell her I'll give her 20%, cheeky bugger."
-
It's raining when he goes down to the ocean that night, even more so than the last time; it's more of a downpour, and Dan's glad he brought a proper coat to hide his face in. The sea seems to spit at him, rolling waves almost roaring up to the tips of his boots before drawing back, and he loves it like this. It's not quite dark, but herds of black clouds thunder in around the cove in a way which makes him curl into his coat further, fingers gripping the lining of his sleeves. Dan can't pull out his sketchbook tonight, but he finds the sea almost speaks for him, drowning out thought and concentration with wave after wave of murky green.
He steps in between layers of sea foam and craggy rocks, gaze swallowing the vast expanse in front of him. It's a beautiful sight, one that he never gets sick of, no matter how many nights he spends down here. The waves crash over his feet, and his boots are beginning to get a little wet but he doesn't mind, because it makes him feel something. Dan's like a puppet, in that respect. Give him a life of misery for 17 years and he ends up not knowing how to function, after being pulled around by his friends, his family; the people he had no choice in controlling everything he did. Now the strings are loose; Dan doesn't know exactly what he's doing, or where he's going or how he's holding himself up but he's doing it anyway, and he guesses his mind is more elaborate than he gives credit for. Not that he knows how to give credit for himself.
The winds only get stronger, rain battering at his body as he's thrown about on the rocks, and perhaps it's verging on dangerous for Dan to be out here but he reckons he can stay a little longer, breathe it all in a little more. It's when he hears a voice, calling out to him from a little way away on the beach. Dan can hardly make the figure out in the darkness but he moves towards it anyway, wondering if the person is in some sort of danger. They're stumbling forwards, hands wrapped tightly around themselves as they make their way towards Dan, and as they approach he realises who it is.
"Dan!" The boy from the fish shop comes into earshot, and he's maneuvering his way along the rock towards Dan almost desperately. Dan's a little confused, but he responds in good manners.
"Yeah? Are you okay?" he calls, watching the boy come closer with an eyebrow quirked. The winds almost knock the boy off the rock, and Dan rolls his eyes, brushing back curls of hair as they're whipped around by the gale.
The boy finally lands next to him and stares, eyes wide. "What are you doing out here?"
Dan gathers a breath, letting his gaze rest on the ocean rather than his company. The tone's changed, almost as quickly as it had appeared. "I come out here a lot. Why?" He's blunt, and he knows it, but this is his place and the boy shouldn't be here.
"It's dangerous. You could get swept away by the waves, or crack your head on the rocks, or-"
"I know what I'm doing." Dan interrupts, words harsher than he expected. The boy seems to flinch back, but stands his ground, staring right at Dan.
"Don't you want to like- I don't know, sit in a warm room with a hot drink and read a book, or something? Wouldn't that be better?"
"No."
Dan looks at the boy then, really looks at him. He notes, again, wide blue eyes, slightly dilated in the evening light, a mess of black hair, a slightly confused but amused smile tinting the edges of his lips. He's never been here before, Dan can tell.
"What's your name?" he calls over the wind, eyes flashing. The boy seems to take it as an invitation.
"Phil." the boy says, and nods, tilts his head. "Do you want me to leave?"
Dan thinks the name suits him, in a way. Phil reminds him of ink and raven feathers and the colour turquoise, and he's different. In the sense that he's the same as everyone Dan's ever met in his life, except he has this demeanour, this almost compelling way of holding himself which makes Dan want to sit and figure him out over a sketchbook and a coffee. He lets himself smile a little.
"You don't have to."
Phil doesn't.
-
Julie lets Dan off the following Sunday with a pat on the back and a suggestion of 'having a little relaxation time', which he isn't sure how to respond to with other than a 'thank you'. Mostly because he isn't sure what he's actually going to do for the whole day, other than sit out on the concrete wall overlooking a pebbled section of beach and draw in his sketchbook. He decides it isn't such a bad idea; maybe Dan can actually get something done, instead of messing with overemotional rough sketches that bleed into his paper and darken the sides of his hands with ink.
The ice cream parlour down by the beach is open and a young family stand in front, children clambering over their parents' limbs in an effort to get their desired flavour. It's a cute shop, all pastel pinks and whites, and Dan decides over a few long seconds to treat himself to one. Not that Dan hasn't indulged himself enough already, but he has a lot of money from working at the B&B to spare, and he doesn't care enough about his future to save it all away. So naturally, he spends it on ice cream.
The family move away from the counter after one of their children's ice creams has a near death experience, giving Dan the opportunity to see exactly who is working behind it.
"Phil?"
Phil looks up from where he's wiping strawberry ice cream off the counter and smiles, eyes crinkling a little. He brushes his hands on his apron after giving Dan a cheerful greeting, and Dan watches them fall back to his sides before replying.
"I didn't know you worked- So you're not a tourist, then? You've really moved here?" Dan sounds too hopeful and he knows it, but he's still not dampening the smile that twitches at the corners of his mouth, biting his lip in order to stop a grin erupting and damaging his calm and collected demeanour. Phil nods, resting his elbows on the counter, chin in hands.
"Yeah. It's certainly different, here, but I like it. The job is enjoyable and the pay is okay and the scenery from here is beautiful, so I'm happy." He stares out past Dan at the scene behind him, soft waves rolling into a pebbled beach, and Dan can only agree.
"Where did you come from? Before-"
Phil's features twist a little, but he quickly rearranges them into something unsuspecting. Dan notices, though. "Manchester. I wasn't going anywhere there and- and so I just- moved here." He straightens up, brushes down his apron. Dan doesn't push anything.
"It's nice here." He comments instead, perhaps a little obviously, but Phil doesn't seem to mind.
"It is," Phil echoes with a smile, and raises an eyebrow. "What flavour would you like?"
"Caramel?"
"Good choice."
Phil turns around to make Dan's request, and he's left staring at the back of Phil's head, wondering why all of this feels so new.
-
Dan's sketches only get worse.
Not in quality, although they aren't very distinctive, just lines twisting together to make a sort of discernible shape resemblant to a human portrait, or ocean waves. More in the sense that the lines get darker, run vividly into the creases of paper and stain the pages underneath with the pressure he's inflicting onto his sketchbook. He's becoming more aggressive with each detail, adding sharper flicks and leaving harsher indents of ink than usual, and he doesn't know why but he finds himself wanting to express. Express what, Dan's not really sure; he's not particularly sad, just contemplative.
If there's one thing he can rely on to be a constant, though, it's the weather. It's gloomy and dark and a dozen shades of cold hit his cheeks as he sits down on the sand for the fourth time that week, adding a pink tinge to his features and making him feel a little less dead. His moleskine is pulled out and he's drawing, inflicting a certain violence onto crisp white pages that he's never felt the need to before. Dan's feeling desperate, almost sick in his need to get rid of the feeling that he's not okay anymore, and yet it doesn't go away no matter how much he presses his pen into the paper. He doesn't want to reflect on his works anymore, doesn't want to flip back a page to see yesterday's drawings, because they're ugly and hold too much emotion and Dan's not used to being this overwhelmed by his own mind.
Dan shuts the sketchbook with a sigh after more than a few attempts at coherent drawing, shoving it back into his pocket like it's offended him in some way. It isn't working, and so he tries another method, picking himself up and moving to sit at the shore. The sand is wet, almost freezing as he settles by the waves, but at this point Dan really doesn't care. He needs clarity; needs something to make sense. The thing is, waves don't really offer him anything other than a calming soundtrack.
It's a while that Dan sits there, fiddling with his hands and pushing them into the frigid water every so often, til they're going a little blue from the cold and Dan reckons it'd be a good idea to get back to the B&B and warm up. Except, he's not going to. There's something stopping him from moving, a mental block which seems to immobilize him and keep his limbs locked in place, and so he stays sitting, hands shaking with cold. The dark seems to envelope his surroundings, clouds sinking further into nondescript shapes until it's completely black out and the only light source comes from the moon on the water, and the small, faded street lamps a little way away. Dan's completely secluded, out here. He feels more than a little sick.
The feeling only increases when a figure appears beside him and Dan almost jumps out of his skin, muttering curse words into his hand as he looks up. Phil's there, looking down at him in worry and contemplation and Dan doesn't really need this right now but he's too polite to say anything, really.
"You'll get hypothermia." Comes Phil's words of wisdom, and Dan only just stops himself from rolling his eyes. "Is it really worth it, out here?"
"Yes." Dan leaves barely a second to reply, adamant on convincing Phil his situation is not at all pathetic and rather, something a normal, functioning person would do. It doesn't quite work; not that he thought it would.
"Don't get me wrong, it's pretty out here. But you're in a t-shirt, Dan, and your hands look ready to morph into icicles."
"S'nice though." Dan mumbles, a last attempt to get Phil to leave him alone. Phil sighs.
"You're coming with me, and we're going back to my place and I'm making you the most delicious, hottest hot chocolate you've ever had. Alright?"
Dan hardly gets a word in before Phil's pulling him upwards, gripping onto his hands tightly in an effort to warm them up. Phil's grip doesn't loosen as they make their way towards the top of the beach, only dropping one of Dan's hands to hold the other, and if anything, Dan's almost wishing for him to just not let go. It makes him sort of uncomfortable that he's so willing, but Phil's hand is warm and he's still smiling at Dan despite how stupid and irrelevant Dan is, so he sucks it up and lets himself relax. It won't last long; Dan has to make sure he cherishes it all while it lasts.
-
They make it back to Phil's cottage and Dan's shivering so hard his body is almost convulsing, jolting upwards in jarred motions. He's trying so hard not to show it but he knows Phil's seen it anyway, judging by the looks of concern Phil keeps shooting him every 5 seconds, and so he just curls his arms into his chest and keeps his gaze to the floor. Phil lets them in and throws the keys onto a table by the door, not waiting for Dan to catch up before darting off into the house. It's dark, still cold, but Phil's flicking the lights on and turning up the central heating and once Dan gets a moment to look around, he's pleasantly surprised by what he sees. The cottage isn't big; one bedroom, by Dan's judgement, but it feels inviting, with plush suede sofas and a flatscreen tv above the fireplace, and Dan sits down, still shivering, and pulls a blanket over his legs. He's feeling a little inadequate, a little bewildered because he really doesn't know what he's doing here. But.
Phil comes back a moment later, a hoodie and blankets draped over his arms, a mug of hot chocolate in his hands.
"You need this." Is all he says, handing the hoodie to Dan, who pulls it on gratefully before taking the steaming mug from Phil's hands. It's such a dramatic temperature change Dan almost drops it, but quickly pulls his sleeves up to lessen the heat.
"Thank you."
Phil shakes his head, though his expression is fond. As fond as he can be whilst coming to terms with a melancholic idiot who can't find the problems with staying out in the harsh colds of late autumn. "You're so confusing."
"I just-" Dan contemplates his words, trying to find away around sounding incredibly pretentious, and moreover, ridiculous. "I don't notice the cold , most of the time. It's- Yeah. It's my place, you know? The beach, the sea."
"For a writer, you really don't have that many words." Phil comments, looking more than amused.
"Artist-" Dan corrects, "I'm an artist. I draw, mostly."
Phil raises an eyebrow but nods, turning back to the kitchen before returning with his own steaming mug. Dan shifts in his seat, but Phil sits across from him instead, looking thoughtful.
"What do you draw?" he asks, before retracting a little. "Is that an invasive question?"
Dan watches him for a second, studying the appealing goldenrod shade of Phil's jumper. It shouldn't suit his skin tone, but somehow it does.
"I'm not very good," Dan ends up saying, before cursing himself mentally because really, his addiction to self deprecation isn't always welcomed. "Just sketches. They're quite abstract- lines, shapes, figures, that kind of thing. Usually I put too much thought into them and they end up a little melodramatic, and I get ink all over my hands which you've probably noticed, I stained one of my favourite jumpers last week-"
He stops himself with the thought that maybe, he shouldn't be telling Phil all of this. Even though he's hardly said anything of depth. But Phil seems satisfied, crossing his legs on the sofa, mug in hand.
"They sound nice. Interesting. I'd love to have a look, if you wouldn't mind, but I get it- personal and all that."
Dan's fingers curl into his jumper sleeves. "Maybe one day."
Phil takes it as an answer, nodding before glancing over at the clock. "Want to watch a movie? It's late, but-"
"Yeah," Dan interrupts, almost too enthusiastically, "What have you got?"
-
It's late when he gets back to his room, and the tinny sound of his key in the door echoes as he tries to wiggle it in such a way that it actually unlocks. The B&B is old; Dan knows that, he just doesn't exactly have the patience to accept its age and general shoddiness at 3am in the morning, when he's half asleep and exhaustion is settling into his bones, ache smothering his muscles every time he moves his arms and legs.
The cold hits him as soon as he's inside and Dan groans, kicking off his shoes before padding over to his bed and falling face first onto the sheets. He's still wearing Phil's hoodie, not that Phil would ever let him take it off, and it's nice, smells like something indecipherable which Dan hazily labels as 'warm'. Dan doesn't usually tire this easily but somehow he's drifting to sleep within moments, fingers curled around his sheets as he moves to pull them over him and bury himself in pillows. All he can think about as he shuts his eyes is the soft tones of Phil's skin and Phil's hair and the way they contrast, the way Phil laughs with his tongue between his teeth, the way he taps his fingers in patterns along his thighs in absent moments, and how Dan would quite like to draw every aspect.