Drawing Closer (25 page)

while Charles was still wearing this outfit, wanted to feel the smooth, black fabric against his

skin, the brush of a cuff, stiff and scratchy, as Charles positioned him.

Charles nudged him with his knee, giving him a puzzled look and nodding toward the stage.

Where the auctioneer was smiling with polite satisfaction because the bidding on Gray's painting

had turned into a well-bred tussle between three bidders and the amount was -- whoa--

"It's not worth that much," Gray hissed in Charles' ear, trying to keep his expression blandly calm and failing utterly. "Charles, it's just not."

"It bloody well is, now shut up," Charles hissed back.

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His palms were hurting because he was pressing them together hard and he was blushing, sweat

prickling damply over his body. This sucked. Big time.

"I want to get out of here."

"As we're in the middle of the row, that's not such a good idea." Charles' hand, cool and firm, closed over his. "Gray? Calm down. Now. It's over, really; it's gone well beyond the amount we

hoped for, and anything else is just--"

"Gravy?"

Charles chuckled. "Exactly."

"Right. I'm calm. Totally." Gray leaned back in his chair and focused on the distant square of canvas. His painting. Selling for more money than every painting he'd ever sold times two. Going.

Times three.

Times--

Oh, fuck, that was too much!

He said it again and got a look from Charles that silenced him.

Gone.

He spent the rest of the auction in a daze, jolted out of it only when Charles began to applaud,

nudging Gray with his elbow, and he realized that Margaret was getting presented with some

flowers accompanied by an equally flowery speech.

Even from where he was sitting, he could see the amusement in her eyes.

"I need a drink," Charles said in his ear. "Want to risk getting trampled and head for the bar?"

"Sure." Gray stood when Charles did, doing it too fast, so that the room spun giddily for a

moment. He put his hand out and grabbed Charles' arm to steady himself, surprised, but pleased,

when Charles slid an arm around him until Gray had found his balance. "Thanks. Got up too

fast."

"And you've had nothing to eat all day."

"I ate!" Gray protested. He couldn't resist the downward flick of his eyes. "Want me to remind you what it was?"

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"Brat," Charles told him, sounding resigned. "Behave. You're about to meet some fans, including the woman who bought your painting."

"Huh? Who?" Gray had just about registered that the hand waving a bidding flag with an

imperious snap had been female, going by the glitter and sparkle of rings and bracelets, but that

was it. And he didn't know anyone, so even seeing her face wouldn't have helped.

As he made his way to the aisle, which was emptying rapidly -- looked like Charles wasn't the

only one in need of a drink -- he kept an eye on the advancing woman, who, for someone who

came up his shoulder and was rail-thin, was doing a good job of making the people part and let

her through. She paused in front of him, scanning him in a swift glance that definitely took in

Charles as well, although her eyes stayed on Gray, and then smiled.

"So you're the young man who means I'll be redecorating a room very shortly." She looked at

Charles, arctic-blue eyes gleaming. "It's a deadly shade of brown," she confided. "His painting would be lost against that, and we can't have that, can we?" She pierced Gray with a look.

"Well?"

"No, ma'am," Gray said, feeling as if he should bow and click his heels together, kiss her hand.

Something.

She was pretty scary.

"Thank you," he added belatedly. "I'm glad you, uh, liked it."

"Well, don't sound so surprised!" She poked him with her rolled-up program. "You should tell me I got a bargain."

"Oh, God, no, you didn't!" He knew Charles was rolling his eyes, he just knew it. "That is -- it --

the charity needed it, so it wasn't a -- you didn't pay way too much--"

"Ellen, leave Gray alone." Margaret appeared at the woman's shoulder and gave her a kiss on the cheek and a small, reproving shake. "He was a sweetheart to donate and I want another next year,

which I won't get if you scare him off."

"Next year?" Ellen snorted. "I won't be able to afford him next year."

Gray could feel the tips of his ears burning. "I--" Charles' hand found its way unobtrusively to the small of Gray's back, resting there for a brief, reassuring moment. It was all he needed.

"Ma'am, I'd be happy to paint you a picture to match any of your rooms, any time you like." He inclined his head in an abbreviated bow and got a delighted chuckle from the two women.

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"You're a very polite young man," Ellen said, giving him an unwinking stare. "Makes a change. I might take you up on that but you should paint what you want, you know."

"I always do." Gray bowed his head again. "Any room, any color."

"I'd think you were flirting if I wasn't old enough to be your grandmother and you weren't--" The sharp gaze went to Charles and back to Gray, "spoken for."

"I'm not," Gray said. "Flirting, I mean. Definitely spoken for. I'm just grateful. I was wondering if I'd have to buy it myself."

Ellen gave another snort. "You'd better lose the self-deprecation if you want to get on."

Gray shrugged, feeling trapped and helpless. He'd been as polite as he could and now he wanted

to get back to the hotel room he and Charles had barely seen, and grab on to Charles until the

shaking stopped.

"Ellen, I came to tell you; they're calling for you in the reception area. Todd Hunter wants to talk to you about the donation you made to the homeless shelter his group runs."

"Todd's here?" Ellen's face set in determined lines. "I've been trying to get hold of that man all week. Never answers his phone. Never." She turned away without saying goodbye, leaving

Margaret to grimace apologetically before following in Ellen's wake.

"Now, I really need a--"

"Let's go," Gray said, panicking in case someone else got between them and the door. "Can we?

Just sneak out the back, maybe?"

"You make a habit of that, don't you?"

Gray grinned, remembering. "Good thing I did last time."

"I suppose it was."

"Charles -- can we go? Please?"

"When could I ever resist you begging?" Charles murmured.

"Every single time," Gray informed him bitterly. "You've got, like, superhuman powers of

resistance."

"Want to know a secret?" Charles led the way out of the room, heading, thank God, for the main exit. "If you pout, not a deliberate one, just when you can't help it, well, I'm a total sucker for
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that. Gets me every single time."

"I don't pout!" Gray said indignantly. "God, that's so fucking… I don't." Charles glanced at him, his lips curling into a knowing smile and Gray groaned. "I'm not doing it now. Am I?"

"We're leaving, aren't we?"

"Yes, but--" Gray noticed some people glancing at him and then at their programs which

contained a fairly accurate photograph and abandoned the argument. "Okay, I pout, and it's

effective. Good to know and I promise I won't abuse it."

Charles looked skeptical, but since he kept on moving toward the door, Gray didn't care.

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"It's too late to call a birthday present now." Gray ran a fingertip across the top edge of the frame, giving Charles a sidelong glance. "Call it an early Christmas present."

"It's not quite the same as the first one," Charles said quietly. He looked a little pale, but his arm was warm and comfortingly heavy across Gray's shoulders.

"You can't paint the same thing twice. It's, like -- you just can't."

Charles nodded. "I once lost three chapters of a book I was writing. The three which replaced

them bore very little resemblance to the originals. I can understand that." He sighed, a long,

contented exhalation. "It's very good, Gray. Thank you."

"Welcome." Gray grinned. "Are you done looking at it? Can you tear yourself away and thank me for real?"

"No, if I must, and I'm looking forward to it, in that order."

"Sweet."

They turned away from the easel in the center of Gray's studio, Charles giving the painting one

last look, Gray already planning the next one he was going to do as he flicked off the light.

In the rich dimness that surged forward to fill the room, a fading sunset coloring the dusk, the two

men in the painting retreated into the shadows, waiting for the light to illuminate them again.

Gray, face-down on a bed, his head turned so that his profile was a clear, sharp question mark,

his gaze fixed on Charles, sitting beside him.

Who was smiling at Gray, his hand cradling Gray's face. And in the shadowed black, grey, white

of the scene, their bodies pale in the diffused, indistinct light, one splash of color: the wash of red

across Gray's skin where that hand had come to rest again and again.

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