28 Armand is Perplexed By a Muffin

July 26th - Twenty days until the convention

Monday afternoon I lay in bed, in the center of my own little mandala of foreboding, surrounded by echoing, geometric ripples of ugh. Figure-drawing week had finally arrived, and I was a nervous wreck.

The good news was that whenever I found myself obsessing over Lucas's welfare, I could easily distract myself by worrying about Skyler. I'd worked with life models before, of course, even ones as young as him, but there was something about him that made me ... protective. It wasn't just that this was his first life-modeling gig; it was what he'd said about himself and his disposition. I worried I'd been too quick to dismiss him, to shut down the conversation.

I turned over in bed, still loath to officially join the waking world, and ran through the conversation for the umpteenth time.

He'd spoken of his gray-aceness in uncertain terms, and that made sense. He was young and far from beholden to prescriptive labels; it was only natural that he'd think and speak of his inclinations in investigative language. For all I knew, he didn't even consider himself asexual.

But there was nothing wrong with the boy thinking of himself as a mystery worth exploring, so long as he didn't transform into a problem in need of solving.

I was likely making a mountain out of a molehill, and Skyler was fine, progressing through what passed for a natural, normal adolescence in this country and in his generation. To me, however, Skyler seemed particularly vulnerable. There was a strange sort of openness that thrummed with his every movement and which reminded me so disturbingly of an ethereal version of my younger self, to be perfectly and narcissistically honest.

There was nothing shameful about this line of physical work, being a professional object and whatnot, but I'd be lying if I didn't say it had its dangers. Life modeling, like the dancing I used to do, required a certain negation of self—a toolifying, if you will. Which you probably shouldn't.

I flung off the covers with the intent to finally, really this time, roll out of bed and begin this dreaded day, but didn't get much farther.

Damn it, I was worried that Skyler would be tempted to romanticize his own body and its effect on others (combined with his own perceived "coldness") and be led down a road paved by Pygmalion's ivory wife. There, I've said it.

Or at least, done my best to.

That thought spurred me out of bed and into the shower.

Once clean and cleansed, I made it to the kitchen, where I stopped in my tracks, faced with something I hadn't seen in days.

A note. A little yellow sticky note on the refrigerator, most likely a bollocking, a passive-aggressive request regarding washing up, an arrow pointing at a mess I'd left followed by a question mark.

He was home.

"Lucas?" I called out, my voice breaking. I swallowed and tried again. "Lucas, are you here?"

No answer. I slumped in a muddled mix of relief and defeat, taking the time to read the note itself.

This one was short and pointed, Lucas's usual fare, yet insanely more obtuse:

I am a vegetarian.

What could that possibly mean?

I squinted at the kitchen at large; the muffins I'd baked the day before in a moment of weakness still stood in their place on the counter, untouched. For a millisecond, my feelings were mildly bruised, but the wonderment at Lucas's response cast them in shadow.

I am a vegetarian?

I blinked at the note a few more times before turning it over and scribbling my own rejoinder. Feeling a little better, I reappropriated one of the now-rather-stale muffins and bit into it in a confused act of defiance.

I almost choked when Finch knocked on the front door.

He chattered aimlessly at me as we drove, which I had come to perceive as a good thing; I had begun to think of Finch's prattling as one does the crying of a sick child—the time to worry was when it stopped. He still seemed a bit pale and wan but clearly at least invested in the semblance of excitement about "the show" drawing nearer—right, he meant the play he was performing in.

"Wait till you see me wire-flying! I'm telling you, I was born to exist in a zero-g environment."

"That's nice, Titch, can't wait." I sighed.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "You know it's the day before the con? I already got your ticket."

Oh bugger everything, the con.

For a moment I was worried I might vomit, here in a tiny yellow car in America, but instead I shut my eyes tight and breathed deep through my nose, trying to focus on the feel of my hands gripping the seat, the breeze from the window, the rumble of the engine traveling up my legs—

I'd actually let my brain shove the convention and the fact that I was meant to speak at it into a dark little corner of my mind and forget about it. But Finch was right. There were twenty days left before the workshop was over and I was expected to speak before a large crowd and answer questions and account for myself and my comic—

"Armand, are you okay?"

"Mm-hmm. Aye." I groaned, opening my eyes and unclenching my hands. Breathe, pet. "Sorry. I'm a bit ... I'm fine."

Finch gave a concerned little nod, no mockery, for once. "Okay, just let me know if you want me to pull over."

"I'm fine, Titch."

Now he rolled his eyes, but mercifully changed the subject. "Why did you want me to pick you up so early today? I mean, early for you."

"I'm meeting with the life model before class," I said, choosing to interpret his teasing as a good sign. It was how he expressed affection for me, it seemed. We parked, and as usual Finch walked me to the arts building, as if he were still uncertain of my abilities to find it on my own. He didn't seem offended, however, when I told him it would be best if he wasn't present for my meeting with the model. In fact, he seemed to be in full agreement.

"Are you kidding? It's not gonna be awkward enough when it's me and a billion other people? No, let's get up close and personal with you in the room. Because, you know, you're so good at defusing uncomfortable social situations." He winked.

Yep. Definitely affection.

I glared at him half-heartedly. "I can't fire you, can I?"

"You can talk to the university about replacing me." He shrugged, then lowered his head and grinned up at me past his messy ginger fringe. "But you won't, because I'm adorable and you think of me as your snarky younger brother. Besides, you're British, so verbal abuse is a bit like Vitamin D for you, innit?"

I gave him a reluctant smile. "Aye. Now run along and do something useful."

"Will do." He waggled his eyebrows at me. "Want me to pick up a card for Martha Stewart?"

I never should have told him about Lucas. "No, he seems to be ... doing better."

"Still, you should let him know you care." He struck a pose. "Maybe write him an epic love soliloquy. I'll declaim it for you. Oh, Lucas Barclay, would you be bae—"

"Titch."

He chuckled impishly, turned on his heel, and scampered off—every inch an overly enthusiastic and dimwitted Pekinese. A ginger one.

I would spiral about the con later; today was more than game to offer up its own extravaganza of challenges. I took yet another deep breath and headed into the classroom.

Skyler was already there, reclining against the desk and staring up at the rows of seats and easels; his back was curved ever so slightly, highlighting the muscle of the shoulders. The thighs filling out the line of his trousers as they supported his weight, knee bent and sole pressed to the side of the desk—the very picture of an urban Olympian, carved by the hands of a sad, stupidly talented and wishing old man.

The thought gave me pause in the worst way—I was falling for the Pre-Raphaelite trap myself.

I was thinking of Skyler as nothing more than an outlet for my own expression, his beauty and vitality reduced to a reflective surface for my skill and bloody artistry—whatever statement I might potentially make, using his body. He wasn't an ethereal muse or creature of the night, a spirit of indomitable youth and effortless beauty ...

He was a boy.

I cleared my throat and Skyler looked over at me, and for a second I could see the apprehension before it was hurriedly covered. Before we'd even had time to exchange hellos, I set my bag down on the table and said very clearly, "There's no need to carry on with this if you're uncomfortable, mate. I'll make sure there'll be no consequences if you change your mind."

The students who'd been groaning their way through panel design would be disappointed, but I could figure something out. I'd split them up and have them sketch each other perhaps, fully clothed obviously, but—

"I'm not nervous. Who's nervous?" Skyler grinned at me, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaning his head back, taking a deep breath through his teeth. "I'm good, really. I want to do this."

I watched him for a few moments, trying not to empathize hard enough to hurt. I knew what he was looking for, and that he'd find it. There was so much freedom in surrendering yourself to another's interpretation—to present yourself as the vehicle of a stranger's passion and accept whatever utterance was the result. No need to define yourself when others were more than happy to do it for you.

"Right, then." I opened the bag and drew forth the long, thick robe I'd stolen from a hotel somewhere, probably Manchester, and handed it over to Skyler. "You get undressed while I go play silly buggers with the thermostat, aye?"

"Aye-aye," Skyler muttered and took the robe from me, already kicking off his shoes.

The custodian had shown me how to do this the other day, as well as how to mess with the lights so I could make sure the students practiced some proper chiaroscuro. Once Skyler gave the okay on the temperature, I asked him to stand on the dais, and tried the different lighting arrangements combined with the various poses—the plan for today was a quick round of gesture poses followed by two or three undraped contrapposto, so nothing too difficult.

Skyler was remarkably skilled at keeping still, especially for someone who had never worked as a life model before. I complimented him on it again and he shrugged. "I never knew it was a skill to just do nothing," he joked. "I can be without doing."

To be without doing. The idea sent a chill down my spine, especially since I'd spent so many nights trying to accomplish the opposite.

All I was was doing, having convinced myself it was the only proof of my existence and here was a young boy shooting holes in my dogma by simply standing still. I couldn't help smiling up at him in admiration, which, when you remember the scenario, might strike some as a very stupid thing to do.

Skyler's eyes narrowed as he caught me staring, but something in my gaze must have put him at ease, as his face immediately softened and turned carefree once again. He broke the pose to put his hands on his hips and grin down at me. "Don't worry, I won't forget to exist outside their eyes."

Heat rose to my cheeks despite myself. "Pardon?"

"What you said to me in your office." He scratched the bridge of his nose. Then he smiled mischievously and put on a truly horrible mock-cockney accent. "I know I mostn't convince me-self I'm an object."

Before I could open my mouth to answer, I caught sight of the clock on the wall. "Put your robe on, mate, and take a seat. The horde's coming."

The students filed in, whispering excitedly at the sight of the raised dais in the middle of the room. Some of them had spotted Skyler sat in the corner, wrapped in his robe, but more of them hadn't. Once they had all taken their seats and prepared their materials, I climbed up onto the modeling dais and gave them all a good glare.

"All right, listen up, you lot. We're done with paneling, rah rah, bless, yippee." I scowled around at the openly guilty and relieved faces. "Now. You are about to be given a privilege, an opportunity, a bloody gift in the way of learning musculature and movement—how to capture a presence on the page—and it's my job to make sure you don't squander it, so listen carefully. There will be no phones, no recording devices of any kind. There will be no whistling, no snickering, no comments, and no rude gestures. I want to make this crystal clear, you do anything I judge to be even remotely inappropriate and you will never set foot in my classroom again, understood? Think of it as an absolute zero tolerance policy on being a pervy little wanker. If you make this young lad at all uncomfortable, I. Will. End. You."

A brief moment of clarity followed, and I amended: "—r participation in this class. I will end your participation in this class."

I waited for the class's silent confirmation and stepped off the dais, indicating that Skyler could take my place. He nodded and climbed up, then removed the robe and handed it to me. "All right, we'll begin with a series of gesture poses, a minute and a half each. Skyler, if you please."

I watched the students carefully for a long time, and while there were definitely a few flushed faces and trembling charcoal pencils, they all seemed to be intent on behaving themselves.

All but one.

I squinted up at Finch, seated as he was in one of the upper rows, his face striving to match the redness of his hair and his pencil lying limp and unused in his faltering grip.

What was wrong with that boy?