Fractured (ON HOLD)

Seventeen - Franny

Tyler's drawing is an absolute mess and he gave up halfway through and painted a smiley face on the large circle he designated as the head.

"Beautifully done," I comment.

"Ha-ha, asshole," he says, rolling his eyes.

He leans back, hands gripping the front of the stool between his legs. His gaze turns to the easel in front of me and he takes in the charcoal strokes. The way I flexed my wrist to thicken the line, the slight shake to my hand as I pressed a precise dot to create the mole beside the model's eye.

His face is soft as he takes in the drawing.

"Huh," Tyler says.

My face falls and I look between him and the drawing. "What?"

"You're just..." he sighs. "Incredible."

My cheeks flare red as my heart skips a beat.

"Shut up, Ty," I mumble.

He grins. "Still can't take a compliment."

"Come on," I say, getting up. "Everyone's already gone. I just need to pack up everything and then we can go."

I grab a medium sized canvas from one of the racks and hold it out to Tyler.

He looks confused. "What's this for?"

"After class activity."

***

"You want me to paint for therapy?"

We're in his apartment, the canvas laying on the ground between us. I try not to think about how the last time I was here we were technically in bed together.

"You know, you've got a lot of anger up in there," I say.

Tyler tilts his head. "Can be useful for other things."

Oh? Oh.

I cough to try and force myself to not blush at that. "Come on, humour me. I was thinking of going back to school. Try and become an art therapist."

"Want me to be your Guinea pig, Howard?"

I shrug. "If you trust me."

I swear I hear him whisper "always" but his back is turned as he heads towards the large canvas lying flat on the floor.

"Just go for it?" he asks.

"Well, not actually licensed yet so I have no idea how this works."

Tyler laughs softly and picks up a large brush, gentle dipping it into the black paint. His brush strokes start off tentative, a little self-conscious. But then they become broader, confident and strong. I try not to wantonly watch his arm muscles contract over and over again but my eyes keep gliding to the way his tattoos move. My finger itches to grab a paintbrush of my own and drag the bristles over the inker leaves that spread over upper arm, hiding into his short sleeves. A small bird sits on the branches, its head covered by Tyler's sleeves.

He leans back from the canvas and glances down at the small tubes of paint I'd thrown onto the floor. His grabs one, turning it back and forth until he sees the word "red" and snaps the cap open.

Red joins black and they swirl together in a kaleidoscope. Of relief. Of pain. Of love. I have no idea.

His breath becomes deeper the longer the time passes. A light sheen of sweat marks his forehead. I walk closer to him, kneeling down beside Ty when he finally puts the paintbrush down. I tilt my head, frowning at it.