*Re-post from my other account* The one about the Danger Days-cover...
"Look what you did! Look" You cry, pointing to the mess, but the laughter in your voice spoils your sad-face. His hair is hanging in front of his features like a ripped and ruined curtain, all of his tiny little teeth glinting back at you from behind it.
They're all like little stars...
You think to yourself. Pretty little stars as white as the smudge his brush has created.
"I know" he says through his grin, making the words sound tucked in and muffled and strangely warm.
That word you never thought would describe your awkward artist. Yet, that's what he is, nowadays. His smile is warm, his eyes are warm and he is warm in your inky arms. Happy and glowing and WARM. Not out and cold like you found him so many times, years ago. Of course, there was warmth back then, too. But it was another kind of warm. For in the chill, even a soothing hand touching a frozen cheek, feels like a heated iron.
With a mischevous smirk you stole straight from him, mimicked, you inspect his work. The long, spindly legs sprawl over the freshly printed photograph like, well, spider-legs. He has cut the borders away, trimmed the photo so that it would fit his purpose and the strips of paper lie now lonely on the floor. They can stay there best they want, because all you care about is how you created this together. The two of you. Perhaps, in a strange, unintentional way, but still, together. You can recall the scorching sunday afternoon when you shot the photo, like a dream as you look over the seated artist's shoulder. You bury your hands in his hair, because you want to, and it's just slightly greasy against your calloused fingers. He holds the paper up to give you a better view but you're daydreaming. Floating around in the memories of his arms around your waist as you focused the lens on that rock. The haphazard "Hey"s you exchanged, like were you merely teens.
"Hey" It startles you from your dream. Your hands are on his shoulders now, sneaked there on their own while you were off elsewhere. His head is lolled backwards and he's staring up at you through his smoothly hazel eyes, hair falling down towards the floor like a cascade of vibrant, red silk threads. He's curious, see. He want's confirmation that he's done well, much like a child. Much like anyone. But this means more than so to him because he feels your photograph is perfect by itself. He doesn't want to ruin it. Has he ruined it?
"It's perfect, Gee. Perfect." You lean in, peck him sweetly on the lips. It's uncomfortable kissing with your neck bent back over the top of a chair, is concluded. Still, his long, sleek fingers find their way up into your hair, tousling it. You can still smell the wet paint on him. You know very well what that means.
You're not at all surprised that when you look into the mirror that night, there are dots of the same acrylic substance mingling in your hair. And on your cheek. And almost everywhere.
And when could you care less?