“So would you call it a comfort dish or is this to avoid a hangover?” Victor takes the sketchbook with him, but as soon as he’s walking next to me, his hand is on my back. If I were a cat, I’d purr.
Scratch that, I don’t need to be a cat to purr, and he seems delighted by the sound I make deep in my chest.
“Both? It is a Russian dish,” I quip and place the bowls on the table then pull out a chair, offering it to him.
He’s blushing and, fuck, I want to have him right here, on this table.
If only I wasn’t so fucking exhausted. Even my fingers ache from holding a pencil way too firmly as I recreated Victor’s spent body and smiling face on paper.
He’s so damn beautiful when he believes himself desirable. I’m loving every new facet of him, and he made quite the picture with a fresh twinkle of confidence in his eyes.
He pulls his chair that bit closer, and gives me a quick kiss as he grabs the spoon. “Have you made it for a boyfriend before?”
It’s adorable how needy he is. Like he wants to take that spoon, open my skull and eat up every single thought and memory.
And I don’t hate that.
“I never... never had a relationship like that,” I tell him, unsure whether I should discourage him using the word ‘boyfriend’, but the truth is that I don’t hatethateither. Of course a part of me wonders if he’s trying to manipulate me into a sense of false security, but it’s only an echo, because Victor is messed-up enough to fall into a relationship with a man who is keeping him prisoner.
“Oh? I thought you said you’ve been with many guys?” He stuffs his mouth full, and I’m pretty sure he’s stopped blinking altogether.
I sample the broth first, and as its delicately complex flavor spreads on my tongue, I put my arm around Victor’s shoulders and shake my head. “I slept with many guys, yes, but in my... other career it’s difficult to date. I’d eventually need to tell them why I travel so much, or they’d discover my stash of weapons, or they’d just be sick of me never being there. It was easier not to get emotionally entangled with anyone.”
He’s silent for a while, but then strokes my thigh gently. “You’re my first boyfriend too,” he says as if I didn’t know. Insecurity creeps into his expression as soon as he says that. “Because wearethat, right?”
I smirk. This is adorable. The past me would have now taken his leave and never seen Victor again. I’m older now. Wiser. Familiar with what solitude means. And most importantly, I already can’t imaginehimnot being here. He slotted into my life with such ease, stoking the fire that’s been slowly dwindling.
I do want him.
And I want him to know it.
“Depends. Do you like the pelmeni?” I tease.
He beams at me, smiling wider than ever before. “Very much. I can help you make them next time if you teach me. I want to have all the boyfriend skills.”
The smile freezes on my face, because I check every single product that enters my pantry and never let anyone prepare my meals anymore. It’s hard to believe Victor would be callous enough to poison me, but people are all vipers, and I can’t shake off the voice telling me my new boyfriend is simply that good of an actor.
It’s overly cautious, I know, but I would long be gone from this world if it wasn’t for my paranoia. It has served me well.
“I will be with you every step of the way. No funny additives or spices that don’t belong.” I wag my finger at him but hope it comes off as a joke. “Cooking is like painting. Too much of the wrong pigment, and the end result is a disappointment.”
Victor draws shapes over my thigh with his fingertips. “Would you let me paint you? Teach me? It doesn’t need to take up much time, I know you need me for other stuff, and it won’t be like your self-portraits, so it’s not like I intend to show it anywhere… but I’d like that a lot. And not like the crazy shit from my notebook,” he adds, but I stop him with a gesture.
“Don’t apologize. It’s not an unreasonable request,” I say to give myself more time to think. This isn’t the first time Victor’s voiced this question, but I haven’t let anyone draw me since my teenagehood, and I’ve been so protective of my image that I turned it into a 2D statue—a lifeless, beautiful man on a canvas painted with expensive oils and real gold.
Could Victor give a soul to my reflection? After all, his focus has been painting dead people.
I find myself wondering how he sees me now that I’m not just a faraway rival with perfect facial features. On one hand, I worry that what he comes up with might frustrate me, but on the other, I’m so curious whether this could be a step forward for him in the same way painting Victor has been for me.
“What medium do you have in mind?”
I love how he lights up and squeezes my knee. “Just pencils to start with, maybe charcoal. I don’t want to get ahead of myself and waste your paint until I know I’ve got something good to work with.”
“So you don’t think I deserve color?” I deadpan, watching him squirm at my question.
“No! You deserve everything you want. I’d love to try oils if you let me. I just don’t know where I’d even start with that.”
“That’s all right, I can teach you,” I tell him, slowly eating my food. “If you let me sketch you from the back next time I fuck you.”
