Painted-tcl

Painted -- Ch 7

As the days morphed to weeks morphed to months, he became a part of my routine. I automatically cooked for two, omitting the cucumbers that he detested to vehemently, recorded the TV shows he liked, he cleaned my brushes if I'd fallen asleep in my studio in the middle of the night, he kept the apartment (relatively) clean, I introduced him to my friends as my 'new roommate.' He couldn't do much without all of the paperwork that verified his identity in this world, but as long as I remembered to buy him books he was content.
The comfortable, gentle rhythm that the pair of us fell into made me forget that he was not like me and that I was meant to be figuring out where he came from. He just felt like a person that perfectly complemented my personality. Sure, his absolute ultimate pastime was pestering me witless, and because of that I frequently forgot that he knew me impeccably well.
It had been nearing the early hours of the morning, the moon more than halfway done with its nightly romp across the heavens. Ten had been reading on the couch when he noticed I hadn't come out of my studio for an extended period of time, deciding to heft himself up and check on me.
He strode through the doorway to find me sat at my workbench, a pencil in one hand and my chin in the other, my eyes closed and my head lolling dangerously back and forth.
He couldn't fight a small smile at the sight, but made sure to banish it from his face before stomping towards me, startling me from my siesta.
"What?" I snapped, irritable and still half asleep.
"Go to bed."
"No, I'm not tired."
"And I lived a normal childhood. C'mon, you need to sleep."
"No, I need to finish these concept sketches."
Ten sighed, wrapping his long fingers around my wrist and tugging me gently from my perch on the stool. "Sam, I know how you get when you pull all nighters. No amount of caffeine in the world will make you pleasant to be around tomorrow if you don't sleep."
I tried to escape his admittedly quite delicate hold, swatting at his chest with drowsiness in my eyes. "You're such an asshole," I mumbled. By the time I'd reached the living room, I was already pulling against his hold, my body leaning towards the studio.
He let out a defeated sigh. "You're not going to go to bed in your room, are you?"
"Nope."
"Come here, then," he grumbled, towing me over to the couch and lying down once more. I was barely awake enough to realise what he was doing until he'd already done it, yanking me down until I was sprawled on top of him, my cheek pressed against the dark material of his t-shirt. One arm curved around my torso, holding me against him as the other picked up his book once more, holding it aloft so that he could make out the words over my head. Maybe I should've rejected the embrace, or insulted him for good measure, by the sound of his heartbeat against my ear and the steady rise and fall of his chest and the intermittent sound of the edges of the pages scraping against skin as he turned them lulled me quickly to sleep, one arm reciprocating the huge and the other hanging from the couch. Ten couldn't really breathe very well with my comatose, dead weight on his chest, but the languid sound of my breathing and the warmth from my body and the knowledge that he'd succeeded in taking care of me after I had done so much for him had him disregarding the discomfort.
The feeling of content achievement after that evening (he'd carried me to bed and tucked me in like a pro) had him going out of his way not only to irritate me at any possible opportunity, but also to look after me.
"Have you eaten?"
"I'm not twelve, Ten, I can manage my own mealtimes just fine."
"But have you?"
"Fuck off." Needless to say I rarely let him.