"Well, shit," he says to no one and then belches quietly. He runs a hand up and down his thigh as he takes in the painting. It's just as impressive as it was at the gallery.
It's unusual.
First, it's a photograph, one of an area near where Peter grew up that was about to be demolished. Black and white, washed out, with an almost sepia tinge to it. But then there's another layer, ridges of paint that look like creatures, shadows in the dark that sort of look like demons or ghosts, and it gives the impression of corruption, of danger, and a past that maybe never really existed. Not necessarily apocalyptic, but gone.
He can't look away. What a shame the artist hates him. He has no fucking idea what he's going to do with the damned thing now. He looks back at the photo of Sebastian Craft.
He is, in fact, twenty-two.
Christ on a cracker. That is a thirteen-year difference. When Peter was twenty, Sebastian was seven. He is a lecherous son of a bitch, he thinks, touching the photo absently with his index finger. God, the boy's lips. His chin. Those eyes. And his hands. He's smiling in the photo.
Peter didn't see him smile. Thank goodness. He wouldn't have survived. He'd have done something embarrassing, been speechless or drooled.
The young man is undoubtedly straight, he thinks, and turns the paper over. It says he's gay. He's donated the proceeds of the picture to an LGBTQ youth group. Of course! A virtuous young man who stands on principle and is certain that Peter is the devil.
Peter isn't the devil, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and he's pretty sure his shoes are greased.
Peter's food arrives and he devours it while sitting on the couch, falls asleep watchingM*A*S*H, and stumbles to his bedroom at four in the morning.
Just another night being the people's representative for his great state.
2
The picture mocks him. It's the bane of Peter's existence. Two days later he can't stand it anymore, and he takes it with him to the office, leaving it with his assistant.
"He didn't want me to have it. Can we give it back?"
"Give it back?" she asks, looking at Peter like he's crazy.
Peter shrugs. "Donate it?"
"I don't know how that would look," she says, gaze narrowing in contemplation.
He leaves the painting with her, goes to a meeting, a fundraiser, and then gets pummeled and flattened at the jujitsu place he's been going to since he got back from deployment.
It's possible he's getting too old to do that, too. Maybe he should take up running or yoga. They both sound terrible.
What's a sport that won't shorten my life expectancy?he texts his sister.
LITERALLY anything that doesn't require physical combat.She quickly responds.
He sends back a thumbs-up because she isn't wrong. He'll put it on the long list of things about his life he needs to change.
He's pulling up to his small two-story house when he gets an alert that his back door alarm (which is silent) has just been tripped. He rejects police help because the same thing has happened three times already, and he needs to just get the lock replaced, but he's never home to make the appointment. He should probably get his assistant to do it, but wouldn't that just make him an asshole? He goes around the back of the house to be sure.
He doesn't see anyone or anything suspicious.
But the door is ajar. Which isn't a great sign.
The house is dark but the moon is bright, and as he goes inside, he can just make out a man coming down the stairs. Unarmed.
Instinct propels him forward, military training telling him to act while he has the advantage. He recognizes Sebastian just as he's raising his fist.
"Fucking hell!" Sebastian yells and stumbles at the sight of Peter's raised arm. He trips, missing the next step, and slams into Peter, knocking him back.
Peter's knee gives, and they both go down in a heap on the carpet below. Thank god for carpet, he thinks.
"God dammit." Peter grunts, and then Sebastian's forehead collides with Peter's lip, and Peter tastes blood.
