Bobcat

Paint on My Hands

Chapter Songs:
Torbellino - Marianos
Karma Tattoo -Chet Hanx

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Cole's POV:

"Apparently Dylan fully moved out and didn't tell anyone," I said over my bowl of cereal the next morning. She was sitting across from me eating an orange in one of my shirts. She had lodged one of the slices against her teeth, letting the corners rest inside her cheeks as she gave me an awkward orange smile, her eyes glistening with the want of laughter. I chuckled softly as I put my spoon down. "I'm serious though. All of his stuff is gone, and I will bet money he's trying to move into your place."

"He didn't even tell you? He just left? He's been moved in for like a week," she said with a raised eye brow. I shook my head as I took another bite of cereal. I chewed quietly as I watched her. "Well, do you need someone to help you pay rent, because this place seemed really up there. It's got to cost a small fortune. You could put up a flyer around campus."

"It's not that much, but it would be nice to have a roommate," I said shrugging. "Just for not alone at night purposes since someone actually goes home sometimes." I stood up from the table. I pushed my fingers through my hair as I set my bowl in the sink, turning to face her. I leaned back against the counter as she ate another slice of orange. I could ask her to move in with me, but would that be too fast? She already practically lived here, but I didn't know where the line between us was at the moment. The line kept moving.

"You know, Cole, I could just switch rooms with Dylan," she said leaning back in her chair. "Nova is going to drive him insane eventually and he's going to want his own room to escape to. He hides in my room anyway. Found out he tried my makeup on Monday. That shit was in shambles." She pulled her legs under her in the small seat, smiling idiotically as she stared at the floor. "That picture was worth it." She had said it so calmly and subtly, like she hadn't been thinking about, and it seemed like a valid option, which it was. I don't see why they couldn't just switch rooms, even though Nova and Dylan slept in the same bed. They would get their own space and poor Delia wouldn't have to deal with their obnoxiously ways.

"It wouldn't be an awful idea. I think it might be smart actually. We could make a day out of it. Moving you in, I mean. We could get Lyel and Jordan to help out," I said casually as she got up to throw her orange away. "I'm enjoying the idea of you moving in too much." She walked towards me after that. The shirt of mine hung against her thighs as she slid her arms around my waist, looking up at me with a soft smile, her chin against my chest.

"It'll be fun," she whispered up to me. "But I'm making you sleep in your own bed." I started to frown, but she let out a light laugh. "I'm only joking. We can turn his room into our art room, because we're such art sluts." I rolled my eyes before leaning down and pecking her lips. "I need help picking out which paintings to turn in anyway."

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Delia's POV:

I pushed open my apartment door. Nova and Dylan were sitting on the couch, snuggled into the weirdest position I could imagine. I wasn't sure where one body ended and the other began. I raised my eye brow at them as I held the empty boxes against my chest.

"Dylan, I'm taking your room at Cole's. You can now have sex wherever you want. Congratulations," I smirked as I walked towards my room. I could practically hear him choke on his own spit before he started coughing. I heard Cole walk in with more boxes at that exact moment.

"Delia and I are starting in your room and ending on the kitchen counter. We hope you don't mind," he said from down the hall. I heard a sound of rejection from Dylan before Cole closed my door behind him. This is why I loved him. He played along so easily with me that I could have been saying it myself. He set down the boxes on the bed, slowly glancing up at me with a smile.

"Where do you want to begin?"

"I was thinking," I said before pausing, looking around my room. It wasn't a mess, but there were so many small items that it was almost like I barely lived here. I hadn't really thought about it until now, but I by all technicality lived with Cole. Most of my clothes were there. A lot of my art supplies were there. My eyes landed on the paintings that were leaning against the wall that I had set aside. They were my best. They were all going in the gallery. I had already decided that much. I was just one painting short. I knew I'd have to start painting at some point tonight. I felt bad that all of my paintings weren't of Cole, but I couldn't paint twelve new paintings of Cole in two weeks. It wasn't possible. Not with school.

I pointed at my desk, planning on leaving the paintings for last.

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Delia's POV:

We had set down all of my boxes at the top of the stairs, and we were working on figuring out where my furniture would go. We had moved my desk into what used to by Dylan's room, just under the wide window. Cole had already set up a white backdrop and photography lights in the corner. I was busy setting up my easel as he walked in, arms full of paints against his bare chest. The house was burning up, and I was already in my tank top and a pair shorts that I had found on top of the pile of clothes that I had thrown in my bag. My hair was piled on top of my head, held out of my face by a black colored bandana. One of my favorite songs was playing in the background.

I pointed to where I wanted the paints to be, turning my back to him again, trying to get my easel the way I wanted it. I heard him give a soft groan. I looked over my shoulder as the lyrics echoed around the room.

You told me love was pain and you wrote it on my skin.

I sat there thinking as I watched him smear the paints against his arms. I got my last idea for my art for the gallery. I said art because it wasn't necessarily a painting.

"Hey, Cole? Do you think I could use your camera some time, because I just realized what I wanted my last painting to be." He nodded as he smeared the paint even more against his arms and chest, looking a little befuddled. I walked over to him slowly, picking up one of my paints, looking up at him slowly. He looked down at me confused and concerned. "Be still."

I squeezed some of the paint in my hand, not taking my eyes off him as I gently dragged my dark blue paint covered hand across his chest. He shivered slightly. The paint squished between my fingers as I smeared it up his neck and over his jaw as I leaned up, gently pressing my lips to his.

"If every word you've ever said were painted on your skin, would you still be beautiful?" I whispered up to him. I pushed my clean hand through his hair before squeezing a different paint in my hands, smearing the deep black against his chest. "In a world of darkness, will you have been a light?" I picked up a medium paint brush, brushing it in the white paint that he had split. I traced the word 'peace' on his chest in cursive. He had caught on. There was a look of recognition in his eyes. "I want you to be my main feature. I want you as all the words you have said to inspire people."

He never once took his eyes off me. He stayed quiet, but I could tell he wanted to say something as I kept slowly painting against his skin. An hour later his body was covered in all kinds of loving words and sayings and a couple of his own tweets about the security of the world and how easily it could break; however, on his cheek was as small as I could write it, my own name. Love was written on his arm for the To Write Love on Her Arms organization that promoted knowledge about suicide prevention. I had painted almost Van Gogh like stars along his body against the dark paint. I gently pushed him toward the white backdrop, turning on the flash lights placed at a diagonal light across his body going upward and to the left. I quietly picked up his camera as the song hit soft beats of through out the room.

I was so focused on him as he stood in the lights against the white screen. I pulled the camera up to my eye, closing the other. I snapped a picture almost slowly as it felt like time was moving at the pace of the ocean, lapping against the sand just to let it leave again. I snapped another few pictures as he moved naturally, tilting his head to the side and pushing his fingers through his dark hair. He turned to look right into the camera as he held his arm out straight and hand up, showing me his black palm with the word 'hope' written in a loose cursive. The lens was focused on his hand and faded out the further back the eye could see into a soft fuzz.

That was it. That was the photo.