thanatophilia
noun | than·a·to-phil·ia | \ˌtha-nə-ˈtä-ˈfil-ē-ə\
the obsessive fascination with corpses and/or death. see also: necrophilia.
Hobbies, Nixon Henderson finds, are a lot harder to kill when one can focus on other tasks. When he moved to New York, he hoped to make a new life for himself outside of California — a rebirth — yet he’s drawn to the same old things in college as he was in high school. Manhattan was a new beginning. At least, it had been, until Nixon plants his ass in Professor Blake’s criminology course. Fate, as insignificant as the word means to him, decides that his art major can wait in favor of a few extra hours spent delving into a childhood obsession.
He’d thought it stupid at first, but now Nixon hums with every tick of the clock that beckons him off to the building all the way across campus. Whatever charms the professor has on him, Nixon isn’t sure. It’s become increasingly difficult to focus on the notes he should be taking when half the time he stares at Aspen, he thinks of fucking him in front of the whole class. It’s where he’s at now, truthfully, laptop open and fingers typing as he only half-listens to the lecture. His mind is off elsewhere, daydreaming of his professor bent over his stupid vintage desk, ass red and raw, writhing as he begs and begs for Nixon to fuck him—
“—correct, Mr. Henderson?”
Nixon blinks only to find as half the class — and Professor Blake — stares at him. He’s usually not one to shy from stares, but the back of his neck is on fire as he clears his throat, shifts in his seat, scans his notes quickly. However long he’d been lost in his fantasy he wasn’t sure. Professor Blake doesn’t look amused. “I…” Nixon’s throat is dry so he swallows, tries to shake the rasp of his voice away. He’s half-hard in his jeans, and thanks the god above him that his laptop covers the bulge. “I apologize, sir; I didn’t hear the question.” It’s the understatement of the century. Nixon meets his professor’s dark gaze and sucks in a deep breath. The last thing he needs to think about is how many times he pictures Aspen broken beneath him, eyes glazed over the deeper he thrusts. Nixon clears his throat, averts his gaze, stares at his notes. Christ. Definitely not what he needed.
To the surprise of no one, the slightest mention of art has Nixon practically bouncing in excitement. It’s the very reason that he has a high-priced membership for The Met, dragging Aspen with him to view art that they’ve both seen hundreds of times. It’s the very thing that will have him opening up within seconds. Unfortunately, it’s also one of the many things he’s lost inspiration for. Even years after freedom, after escaping a fate he’d never thought possible, he shrinks at the touch of a paint brush. Some days it’s even difficult to pick up his tattoo gun, but it’s not the same as charcoal or paints. Painting was the closest to bearing his soul he could get. To Nixon, they had been everything — only to be taken away and mocked.
He doesn’t paint anymore. At least, he tries, but it’s hesitant, not as free as it once had been. On top of that, it’s emotionally draining, and most of the time he ends up ripping the canvas in two. Anger shouldn’t guide his outlet, yet it’s one of the few things that has him trying again only to end up in disaster. He doesn’t paint, no matter how bad he wants to and no matter how often Aspen gently pushes him to. It’s hard to explain to himself let alone to his boyfriend, so he avoids it altogether, stores any brushes and palettes he bought on a whim in a box shoved far into his closet.
As he glances over at Deacon, a pang of envy washes through him. He’d give anything to be able to hold a paintbrush again without seeing his hands shake and hearing the mocking tone of his ex as he destroys piece after piece that he slaved over. He wants to paint and draw and sketch beautiful portraits. He wants to feel satisfied after seeing his artwork, not choked. Deacon doesn’t have that problem. He’s jealous — so fucking jealous — that what feels like drowning comes naturally to his companion. He’s so tired of feeling this way.
Impulse opens his mouth and claws the words out of his throat before he can stop them. “Can you help me paint?” Nixon stills before he tears a nervous hand through his curls. He shakes his head. The usual smooth baritone of his voice is higher, shaky, and he falters as he stares helplessly at his best friend. “No. No, I… I don’t know. I’m— I don’t know. I… want to but I’m… scared.” Of what, he isn’t sure. Nixon examines his hands, head dipped low in shame. “It’s stupid. I just… I haven’t painted in years. Not since I was fifteen.”
“Nathanael.” Soft. Hesitant. A boy just shy of eighteen stirs in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent as he paws at the covers on his body. The ocean rumbles gently, a soothing white noise that Nat has taken comfort in since he was small. A hand presses to his shoulder, his upper arm, shakes him soft. His eyebrows twitch. He holds on to the vision in his sleep, smiles softly as he imagines kisses placed to his cheeks. They’re in a meadow, somewhere with flowers, and Nat picks them happily before fastening them into a crown. The daisies look beautiful on his companion, much as everything does. In his dream they laugh and they cuddle under the comforts of the sun. His lover says his name as a sigh between kisses.
“Nathanael.”
It takes a moment, but he wakes. The act is slow, long limbs stretching out first before he even manages to open his eyes. One eye, and then the next, green hues blinking dazedly up at a boy very much resembling the one in his vision. At first, Nat genuinely believes he’s still dreaming. He reaches up and caresses an olive toned cheek, voice deep and husky as he mumbles good morning. Nat catches a smile, the feel of too-hot skin beneath his palm, before he realizes that this is reality.
His hand falls back to rest at the sheets of his bed, cheeks burning scarlet as he attempts — and fails — to act as if he was just truly waking. Arsenio Baldovini has been the star of Nat’s dreams for weeks, and he’d intended for them to be kept secret, but it’s hopeless now when they seem to occur every single night. He rubs at his eyes and tries not to think of the way his heart sputters in his chest when he gets a better look at the Italian boy. The sunlight from the window makes the pink of Arsenio’s lips stand out more. Nat looks away and pretends that he wasn’t admiring.
“You’re awake,” Nat says softly, confused, as he sits up in his bed. He’s usually an early bird himself, waking well before the sun rises, but he spent a long while searching for seashells on the beach. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he doesn’t need to work today. Nat touches the bag of seashells underneath his pillow and lets a smile grace his lips at the thought of Arsenio’s face when he sees them. It’s not time, not yet, but soon. “Why are you awake? Are you okay?”
Concern washes through Nat as he places his hands on Arsenio’s cheek, cups his jaw, touches his forehead. He’s burning up, but he’s been that way since he and his family have come to stay with them. A frown, soft as ever, pulls his full lips down. Green eyes search desperately for an answer that will not come to him, so he retracts, places his hands in his lap. He worries so much. Too much, as his mother would say. You’re always worrying, Nathanael. “I’m sorry.” Nat looks up, nibbles on his bottom lip. He apologizes too much, too. “Would you believe me if I said I was still dreaming?”
it’s here, in the safe confines of his luxury apartment with the love of his fucking life, that nixon can finally breathe. hours upon hours of meetings — important ones, no less, but meetings — have taken their toll on the youngest versuch, and he lets out a loud, albeit dramatic groan as he all but throws himself down onto their soft, exceedingly expensive couch. bundy meows gently at the arrival of his parents, and while nixon loves the stupid cat more than fucking light itself, aspen will always have his heart, his soul, his very essence of being.
and, aspen’s a lot warmer than bundy. so it’s a win-win.
nixon stretches his arms out for his pint-sized lover, digits curling around the other’s nimble wrist, before he yanks him down onto his lap unceremoniously. there. that, at least, is better than space separating them. before aspen has time to react, nixon buries his nose into the fabric of his shirt, arms already snaking around his waist, as if to keep him trapped there forever with intentions of never letting go — as if aspen would ever want to leave in the first place.
“it’s so good to be home,” nixon muses with a light air. the heat aspen radiates off is ten times hotter than it was when nixon was human, but months of dealing with the change, months of controlling urges and desires and the ability to be near aspen without wanting to tear every piece of clothing off one by one, have subsided. now, nixon is colder to the touch, dropped down to the same body temperature as windsor, but much more powerful. —too powerful. “do you think we can stay here until the end of forever?” nixon gazes up at his fiancé, awe and wonder and undeniable affection etched over every inch of his expression. when he stares at aspen, he doesn’t just see the world, he sees the entire universe. and then he grins. “if i have to spend one more fucking meeting without you in my lap, i think i’ll die.” // @bloodstaineds
The Brooklyn sun shines through their bedroom window at exactly six thirty-five and fourteen seconds — and, despite how often he admires, regardless of where they are, the light on Aspen’s dark Italian skin still knocks the breath out of Nixon. A tender smile touches the corners of Nixon’s lips as he stares, fingers casting shadows over his fiancé while his thumb caresses Aspen’s smooth complexion. What feels like a lifetime spent together, and what will be eternity spent in the future, and Nixon still feels the skip in his heart like when they’d first met. “Rise and shine, tesoro...” His lips press soft against his lover’s cheekbone and his legs tangle endlessly with Aspen’s, desperate for warmth, for touch, for him. Nixon drags his tongue along the shell of Aspen’s ear, places a kiss on his temple, lets the calloused pads of his fingertips trace patterns in his lover’s skin. “There’s food to eat, people to see, countries to take over... We’ve already conquered Italy.” Each sentence, accentuated with a kiss, a bite, a lick. “It’s time to reclaim our throne, darling.” // @bonebreaking
CHARACTERS: Aspen Blake and Nixon Henderson
LOCATION: Nixon’s apartment — Manhattan, NY
DATE & TIME: January 11th, 2015 at 9:48 AM
WORD COUNT: 4,537 words
WARNINGS: Brief mentions of physical and emotional abuse
He breaks two rules.
The first: Don’t have sex undressed. Don’t take off your shirt. Don’t remove your pants. Absolutely, under no circumstances, don’t let them see or touch your thighs.
The second: Don’t let anyone spend the night.
They’re important rules to Nixon. They’re vital during his one night stands, no matter how much he breaks their hearts during and after the process. He’s been kicked out before for the first rule. He’s been bitched out at for the second. Those that manage to look past his rules get a night of absolute bliss — he’s rough, demanding, and takes what he wants with a vague regard for the other’s pleasure. Sometimes he likes hurting them. Sometimes he only gets them off, and pays little attention to himself until after they've left. It depends mostly on his mood and how destructive he feels.
His sexual tendencies, much to the dismay of his neighbors, is unquenchable. He brings home men and women more than once during the week — sometimes during different hours of the day.
He discovers himself. He rediscovers himself. Again, and again, and again.
Nixon learns that he prefers his women tied up, gagged, begging to be touched. He learns that he likes his men on their knees, swallowing every inch of him until their eyes sting with tears. He likes spanking, likes choking, likes pulling on hair as he mercilessly takes them from behind. He likes them screaming. He likes being the one in control. He likes testing their limits. He likes testing his limits, seeing how far he’ll go until he snaps.
He tells Deacon he’s boring in bed — soft, gentle, the kind of sex that girls who watch romantic Nicholas Sparks movies fantasize about. He tells Deacon that he can’t imagine getting pleasure out of watching someone cum for the fifth time with a ball gag between their lips or getting joy out of hearing them whimper as he presses too far. He thinks that maybe Deacon suspects that he’s fibbed about it, but he never wants to ask. Nixon prefers being the wholesome boy from California who had a little trouble in his past towards his best friend.
He prefers being the anonymous newcomer to everyone he meets.
Nixon breaks two rules in one night. He wakes with the pressure of a body on top of him, and though panic instantly fills his lungs, he subsides quickly when he feels just how warm the body is. It takes him a moment to gather his composure enough to shimmy out from underneath him, settling against the cold sheets on the empty side of his bed. The boy stirs in his sleep and clutches the empty space where Nixon had once been, his eyebrows creasing together. When his fingers touch a pillow and he pulls it close to him he stills, seemingly satisfied.
The stranger is still in his bed. The stranger ... isn't really a stranger at all.
Aspen sleeps sound in his bed. Aspen? Nixon doesn't know how he knows his name, but he does. Aside from that small, minuscule crush that he had back on him when he was a teenager, he can’t remember a thing about him — and yet Nixon lays there, undressed, next to a boy that he's already drowning in.
The smarter parts of his brain tell him that it’s dangerous to feel this way — that he is naïve in his emotions and foolish to fall so quickly. His heart tells him that Aspen won’t hurt him. He battles with the logic in his brain, but his heart wins out: he's nude, and the male beside him spent the night. He spent the night, meaning he didn’t grab his clothes at the first sound of screaming and sobbing and make a run for it.
Nixon, for the first time in years, slept nightmare-free.
He breathes out a sigh of relief and rolls out of bed despite the ache in his limbs. He needs space to breathe properly. Nixon doesn't know how many positions they tried, or how long they went, but he remembers reaching his climax an absurd amount of times until he was dizzy and screaming. In his untangle from the sheets, he catches hickeys blooming on his chest and nail marks against his hips. Nixon can't imagine what his back and neck must look like.
It's instinct that causes him to tug on a long sleeve and some sweats, thankful for the chill of January that gives him a good excuse to cover his scarred frame. In the haze of just waking, Nixon recalls the slur of Aspen’s speech the night before and walks into his kitchen for Advil and some water. With his feet on the cold tile, he slumps against the counter, head resting against the cool top. With the moment of silence, he allows memories to slow to a pace that he can easily assess.
His phone, bursting with texts and voicemails from his now-ex. The way Aspen had announced himself to the empty apartment, all drunken giggles and stumbling in the dark. Nixon, spending one night letting all of his past vanish before his eyes for a chance to truly be happy.
His hands trembled as he recalled how soft Aspen felt beneath his palms, warm skin thrumming under his heady touch. He'd curved desperately up into Nixon and wrapped his legs around his waist like they were made to fit together like puzzle pieces. Their kiss had been fiery, explosive, but slow and sensual. Their clothes — Aspen’s clothes — falling to the floor in a pile next to his bed shortly after, leaving the both of them exposed.
Flashes of Aspen unknowingly dragging his hand towards Nixon's thighs burst in his mind, his movements stopping as he caught his wrist.
They switched positions again. Nixon pinning Aspen's hands to his sides as his knees spread his legs apart. He didn't need the assurance of restraints or the necessity for ball gags — Aspen trembled under his touch and cried out as Nixon took him in his mouth. He blew him until he came. His tongue delved lower, lower, until his palms pushed Aspen's knees against the bed and his tongue flicked and lapped and fucked between his cheeks. His fingers added to the mix, stretching him out.
He recalls, briefly, reaching for a box of condoms. He recalls, briefly, Aspen saying they weren't needed.
He fucked him — slow, hard, at a tempo that Nixon wasn't used to. It felt right, like every thrust of his hips hit the perfect spot to have Aspen clutching his back, his chest clawed at, fingernails digging into the muscles of his broad shoulders. Every movement took his breath away, caused his mind to short out, had him shaking against him as they reached their climax — together, together, together.
They fell asleep. An hour later, they woke up and did it again. And again, and again, and again.
The rest is still a blur. Nixon blinks the images away with a short breath and straightens, grabbing the water and the pill. By the time he makes it into the bedroom, Aspen is already awake. He doesn’t think he’s been away for more than five minutes. Green eyes rake down what little he can see of Aspen's olive tone, taking in the bruises and the hickeys he left above his waist. His hips, Nixon is sure, are covered in fingerprint markings. He hands him the glass and the pill for the inevitable hangover and sits on the edge of the bed.
It takes Aspen a good minute to come to his senses. Nixon flushes instinctively with the way that Aspen stares at him — it’s almost like he’s seeing him for the first time, like it’s been seventy years since they’ve been apart, or odder, like he’s seen a ghost. His lips part and Nixon thinks he’s going to say something before they close gently again, hands curled into fists rubbing at his eyes. When he settles again, the sheets bunch around his waist and he sits up, back leaning against the wall. His eyes haven’t left Nixon’s tall frame.
Aspen’s staring at the way he's clothed. Nixon wonders if he'll question why when they’ve seen all of each other already, but his companion keeps his mouth shut and takes the pain reliever instead. It's a welcomed comfort that automatically eases what little apprehensions Nixon had. He didn’t know how he’d be able to explain his scars.
Nixon looks down at his tattooed knuckles, a fit of nerves threatening to overtake him. He hadn’t thought about what he’d say to Aspen once he was awake, so he tries the easiest route. “How did you sleep?” It breaks the gentle silence in the room, and he finds a smile appear on his lips as he asks.
Aspen sets the finished glass on the table next to him and mirrors the look on Nixon’s face, his smile bright. His fingers twitch as if he aches to be pressed against him again in the most innocent of ways. He continues to look at him like he discovered an angel. It’s only after a prolonged moment of eyeing each other that he breaks his gaze and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “I… Perfect, honestly.” There’s a hint of relief hidden somewhere in his groggy accent. Nixon wonders if Aspen’s sleep schedule has been the same as his — practically nonexistent. “How about you?"
Something tells him that asking about others isn’t a thing Aspen does unless it directly benefits him. Nixon eases down until he's laying in similar fashion, back pressed against his wall while his long legs stretch out before him. His companion is miniature compared to him. A lazy smile accompanies his features as he faces him. “The best I've ever slept.” It's nothing but the absolute truth, and it shows with the happy sparkle in Nixon's eyes.
“Yeah,” Aspen muses, his eyebrows lifting in agreement. “Me, too.”
Aspen takes in the dark red of Nixon's long sleeve, eyes how it fits him snug in all the right places, and opens his mouth to comment on the varying sizes of hickeys on his neck — and then the annoying buzz of Nixon's phone stops him dead in his tracks.
Christ. He almost forgot. A dark expression passes over Nixon as he rolls his eyes and reaches across Aspen's lap to retrieve the fucking thing from the ground. If he thought the amount of calls he’d received before he fell asleep were bad, they were nothing compared to the amount he had now. Frustrated, he settles halfway on Aspen's legs, stomach pressing against the other’s thighs. He feels the familiar weight of hands on the dimples of his back a second later and silently reminds himself to relax.
“Is everything okay?” Aspen asks. He hears it from behind a film, Aspen's voice muffled as he unlocks the device and scrolls through messages — both from Emilie and from Deacon. Deacon is being his usual self, at least, asking if they can see a movie later or try out the new frozen yogurt place that just opened by his apartment. Emilie, however...
“Fuck.” The red notification screams 13 at him from the phone app. Nixon sits up with his eyebrows squished together, an even more annoyed look clouding his eyes. So much for relaxing. He embraces the touch Aspen sends to his shoulders, but presses his phone to his ear with urgency, listening to bits and pieces of the voicemails she’d left.
“—God, you’re such a fucking asshole, Nixon. I can’t believe—” Delete. ”—Are you really ignoring me right now? I know you’re awake. Stop being so fucking childish—“ Delete. “—Sebastian isn’t even real—" He winces at the easy way she says his name, and hits the delete button faster. “—Listen, I’m- I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Can we talk? Please?—” Hell fucking no. Delete. “—I’m coming back; I’ll be at yours in three hours—”
Shit. What? That has Nixon’s attention. He checks the date and time from the last voicemail received and curses again. “You’re fucking kidding me.” Clicking his phone locked, Nixon runs a hand through his hair and bites on his bottom lip, eyes dancing between Aspen and his phone.
Part of him wants to confess everything to Aspen, like somehow it’ll magically fix all of it. His brain tells him that it's a foolish idea and that Aspen is only a one-night-stand, yet the way they look at each other makes him feel differently. The way they fucked each other makes him feel differently. They weren’t just desperate to get off, they made love. It was passionate in ways that Nixon himself can't even describe.
Maybe he’s lost his mind. It’s the only explanation. Love at first sight — fate — are social constructs created to make young children feel special. It's based off of lies. It doesn't exist. It's illogical.
Logic can’t explain the way he feels entirely safe in the presence of a male he barely knows.
Nixon shakes his head and removes himself from the bed, hoping that a bit of space will clear his mind. “My ex is on her way over,” he tumbles out, heat quickly finding his cheeks. He hates that he has to start off their morning like that. He hates the idea of unintentionally hurting Aspen despite how insane the idea is. They just met, so how could he hurt him? He shakes his head again. “I… I broke up with her last night."
Aspen's expression is unreadable. Automatically Nixon wants to know what he's thinking about the situation. Is that... sadness? He doesn’t linger, entirely too focused on the fact that he's going to get chewed out by a girl who's almost as bad as the ex who abducted him.
“I see.”
It’s all Aspen says. Nixon makes a pained expression and runs his hand over his sharp features, hot breath coming slow from between his still-swollen lips. “I don't want you to leave.” He blurts out, and for a second he thinks Aspen will laugh at him. When it doesn’t come, his shoulders ease. He feels obligated to explain.
He takes a seat on his bed again, unsure of what to do.
“I just—” God, how does he even start? He doesn't know. Nixon continues anyways. "She treats me like shit, and I finally got sick of it and told her to fuck off. She must be on her way to try and fix whatever ‘I’ did wrong." Aspen’s expression remains neutral, but he thinks he sees a flicker of flame beneath his dark eyes. Anger? At... what? Him? The situation? He blubbers past his overthinking mind. “I… I don’t want you to leave because she’s not staying.”
The look Aspen gives him isn’t exactly pity, or anything that Nixon can really describe, but he feels it in waves regardless. His hands fly together nervously, blunt fingernails scratching at wrists that are permanently etched with scars. Nixon frowns. Nothing irritates him more than the absurd amount of scars on his body. They’re embarrassing. He doesn't feel like a survivor.
Aspen shakes his head the same way that Deacon does whenever Emilie is brought up. Maybe Nixon should’ve listened to his friends years ago. It seems his relationships never pan out the way he wants them to. "How long have you two…?” He asks.
Nixon tears his gaze away from the sleeves of his shirt. How long…? Oh. He’s asking about his relationship, if it could’ve even been called that. Fighting daily isn’t a relationship. At this point, his track record is so sketchy that he can’t even say that he’s been in a true relationship. How pathetic. Nixon reaches up to scratch at his neck. “A year. Maybe a little more than a year. I know it was a good eight months after I moved here from Cali.” Nixon laughs, dry, and any sense of self-confidence that he'd gathered during the years crumbles. “God, I’m fucking stupid.”
It breaks something inside of him.
It breaks something inside of Aspen.
The smaller of the two is quick to push himself towards the edge of the bed. “No,” he says, his tone strong, sure of himself. Nixon trembles at the sound and allows Aspen to take his hand, lacing their fingers together. The expression in Aspen's gaze is unwavering and determined, and with gentle fingers he turns Nixon's chin towards him. “You are not stupid, and whoever put that idea in your head must not know you at all. Stupidity is the last thing I would use to describe you.” He cups Nixon's cheek, thumb rubbing gently across the pink skin. “Don't let anyone tell you that you are less than extraordinary.”
Nixon’s breath shallows, and he closes his eyes, afraid that he's falling too fast for him. He’s heard the speech a thousand times before but none were able to hold the same level of certainty that Aspen did. With Aspen, he believes it. With Aspen, he makes the others pale in comparison. How can you fall for someone that you just met? Stupid. It’s the kind of thoughts that landed him in England for his teenage years. If it’s illogical, then why does it feel right?
The idea of fate pops in his mind again. Nixon stumbles over it this time. It does not exist in his world, yet that doesn't stop him from thinking that there's no other explanation for the way he feels. Fate is foreign, but Aspen feels like home. It's confusing. He shoves the idea away once again. It does not exist. He’ll keep telling himself that until he believes it.
Aspen’s thumb continues to brush gently across the apple of his cheek, coaxing his fears and apprehensions away with the smallest of movements. Without hesitation he leans up, their lips finding each other. Nixon makes a noise like surprise in the back of his throat, rigid for only a small fraction before he presses back, mirroring the slow and sensual way his partner kisses him. When Aspen pulls back, Nixon’s tongue licks at his bottom lip to chase the taste of him, already wanting more.
“You’re overthinking,” Aspen says, cupping the taller’s jaw. “It’s okay.”
It’s okay. Nixon drowns in the dark comforts of Aspen's gaze, his body alight with feelings that he can only barely grasp. Nothing can describe the way his soul sighs in relief. It’s been so long since he’s felt pure happiness in this form that he almost forgot what it feels like.
Nixon nods, and then nods again. He isn’t sure of what to say, but he never truly does whenever he has these kinds of conversations. Something about the way Aspen looks at him tells him that it’s perfectly acceptable to not give anything back, to not talk in-depth about why he’s overthinking and why his chest felt tight. It’s silent understanding that grips him more than any other time he’s been like this. Understanding. It’s not a thing that others can say they relate to, but Aspen does.
It makes Nixon wonder, but he refuses to pry.
“How are you so warm all the time?” He mumbles out instead, the heat from Aspen’s palm soothing against his cheek. Even through the thin material of his clothes he can feel how hot Aspen is. He hadn’t meant to ask, but the question came tumbling out anyways. His cheeks pinken.
Aspen’s lips quirk in a barely-hidden smile, but his dark blues shine so bright that he doesn’t need to. “How are you so cold all the time?” Childish, but it works as laughter bubbles from Nixon’s lips. The sound is beautiful, and though it doesn’t twinkle like church bells, Aspen still feels it in his soul when he sees the bright, dimpled smile on his lover’s face. He laces their fingers together, eager as he feels Nixon squeeze back.
He answers the question after a moment, letting the happiness surround them. “I don’t know,” he says. Nixon focuses on their skin touching as a reminder that things will be okay. “Maybe it’s genetic. I’ve always been like this.”
Nixon hums in contemplation but has nothing to add back. He can’t argue with genetics. “I like it,” he replies, dimples poking out of the corners of his cheeks again. He’s blushing. Nixon can’t even remember the last time he blushed overjoyously. His eyes fall to the naked frame of his companion and then towards the doorway that separates his room from the living room. “Do you want to borrow something of mine? I’d really… I’d really like if you could stay for breakfast.”
Aspen’s eyes dance like he’s been waiting all morning to hear his offer. “On one condition,” he barters. He doesn’t miss the way that Nixon’s muscles tense momentarily, so he keeps his voice light. He hurries, desperate to make that fight or flight mode ease from his partner’s bones. “I know you just got out of something, so if you want to say no, I understand.”
Nixon bites on his bottom lip but nods and urges him to continue.
“Go on a date with me.” Blunt and to the point. Nixon’s heart damn near bursts out of his chest as an involuntary grin overtakes his face. The light blush on his cheeks multiplies tenfold before Aspen can even continue. “It doesn’t have to be now, but… Let me take you out to dinner. We can see a movie or walk around Central Park or look around the MOMA. Whatever you want. All I’m asking for is a night of your attention.”
Nixon tries to say that he already has it, but the words get caught in his throat. All he can manage is a soft yes before he blushes again. “When are you free?” He asks, just in case his agreement wasn’t heard.
Aspen’s own smile appears, one dimple peeking out at Nixon. It’s the damn cutest thing he thinks he’s ever seen. “For you? I’m always available.” It’s completely and utterly cheesy, but every line from their lips comes naturally.
Nixon giggles before standing, taking Aspen with him. “C’mon, let’s find you something to get into.” He’s almost reluctant to let go of his hand, half-terrified that if he does, Aspen will vanish from thin air. He sees the same questioning gaze in the other’s eyes, but can’t imagine why he’d be feeling the same way.
Nixon releases first and holds his breath. He’s relieved when Aspen still stands there, and exhales as he turns to procure another pair of sweats and an old black graphic tee. He’s shy as he hands them over and rocks on his feet.
Aspen’s nose wrinkles as he eyes the sweats before handing them back to Nixon. “The shirt’s big enough to cover everything,” he says softly. Nixon mumbles an oh and shoves the sweats back in their original place, returning with a pair of boxer briefs that can be slipped on underneath the shirt. Aspen inspects the tee with a curious gaze before attempting to look at the tag in the back. All that comes up is an XL — no brand, no name, nothing else. “This is amazing.” He seems in disbelief before he slips it over his head.
It falls down to his knees. Aspen was right, there wasn’t a need for anything but a pair of briefs underneath. Nixon tugs on the fabric gently, his index and thumb pinching an image of a male with a decomposing skull. Pops of red appear throughout the design. Nixon smiles, fond. “Thank you,” he replies back, and then realizes how odd it must sound. He explains quickly. “I designed it.”
Aspen grins. “I hope you realize you’re not getting it back now.”
“Okay.” Nixon shrugs, amusement lacing through his tone. “I have more, anyways.”
Aspen touches the design before he plays with the hem. Nixon notices a plethora of hickeys on his thighs and feels his cheeks burn again. God only knows if he makes one comment he’ll end right back where they started, so he bites on his bottom lip and decides to save them for another day.
Like expected, Emilie comes over. Before she even steps foot in the door she’s begging for Nixon to take her back, to listen to her, as apologies spew from her mouth. Nixon tries to ignore the knowledge that Aspen watches with a piece of bacon in hand. Emilie doesn’t notice. By the time the waterworks start, Nixon’s already past the point of caring.
He tells her to leave. She refuses. He tells her again. She pushes him, and only then catches Aspen in Nixon’s shirt, on Nixon’s bar stool, thighs and neck covered in hickeys. She looks at Nixon, who doesn’t look any better, and wonders how she could’ve looked past them. She screams at him, pushes him more, yells that he’s a cheater and a liar and he disgusts her. Nixon takes it all with a stoic expression, but he flinches every time her fist connects with his chest.
It takes another minute for her to leave.
He flinches again when the door slams shut.
Aspen is off the bar stool in a second. Anger lingers in the depths of his gaze but concern takes hold as he looks up at Nixon, searching for anything that’ll make it better. Nixon wants to tell him that he already makes it better just by being there, but the words don’t come. Bacon pops in the background. He remembers that he’s making them breakfast and then, after that, soon, they’ll be going on a date.
It pulls him to the surface. Nixon smiles, a bit forced for Aspen’s sake, and ducks into the kitchen before it can be commented on. He checks on the bacon and adds more to the plate before cracking eggs open one by one. Scrambled, Aspen had said. I like them scrambled. He whisks them together in a bowl.
Just like that, he’s relaxed again. Nixon studies his companion with a gentle expression that isn’t forced. Butterflies dance in his belly. “I like art,” he says softly. “I haven’t been to the Met before.”
Aspen perks up. “We’ll go to the Met, then.” — Pause. — “How do you feel about Italian?”
Mmm. Nixon subconsciously licks his lips. “I love Italian.”
At that, Aspen practically shines. A giddy expression appears on his features, trying to fight a smile that refuses to leave. Nixon thinks he hears him say something in Italian, but he doesn’t understand. “I know the perfect place. It’s been around for years. It’s the best Italian food you’ll find anywhere — aside from mine.”
He makes Nixon blush again. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact location of his accent, but Italian makes sense. It explains the color of his skin tone and the way he holds himself. “Italian and the Met. This sounds like a fantastic night already.” He busies himself with the eggs, but it’s merely an excuse to get his cheeks to stop hurting. He’s smiling so much.
“It’s going to be the best night,” Aspen assures him. His voice is fond. “I promise you.”
CHARACTERS: Nixon Henderson and Aspen Blake; and a brief cameo of Deacon Blue
LOCATION: Manhattan, New York
WARNINGS: Lots and lots and lots of fluff and soul-crushing adorableness
WORD COUNT: 4,457 words
It had taken months.
However long, Nixon wasn’t sure, but it’d been months. Day after day, Nixon would drag his ass out of bed and press a kiss to Aspen’s sleeping frame, snap a photo on his phone and set it as his background, and head out for the gym. It was empty at three in the morning, so Nixon thrived — he enjoyed the comforts of knowing he could struggle without others watching him. When he came back from the gym he showered, dressed in casual clothing, and slipped noiselessly from his shared apartment.
That was where the lines blurred for the unmeasurable amount of days — on most days, Nixon was in the office, managing the business Aspen had purchased for him as a birthday present and on others, he stole Deacon and escaped to an empty warehouse on the outskirts of Manhattan. Once Aspen installed cameras in his building out of safety for his boyfriend, the sneaking out grew trickier, but Nixon had been planning this since December. A few cameras weren’t going to change his mind.
Really, despite the few road blocks, everything was perfect. It was exactly what Nixon had wanted. So far, everything had gone according to plan.
It might’ve taken months, but Nixon is finally where he wants to be. His spirits feel different, lifted, and the spark in his eyes that only used to appear once in a blue moon now burns bright on a daily basis. He buzzes with excitement. There’s nothing that’s going to get in the way of ruining his day.
It starts a little different than normal. Nixon and Aspen’s morning routine blends seamlessly together. It’s one of the rare days that Aspen wakes early, though Nixon is far from complaining. They kiss as they shower together. Nixon dresses for work before he helps Aspen with his tie. He has some important meeting today, and while Nixon would love to join him and be his personal guidance, he’s got his own stuff to worry about at the shop that he can’t sweep under the rug. He presses a kiss to Aspen’s lips for good luck, pats his ass for even more, and heads out the door with a cheerful I love you.
It should be another day at work. At least, half of it is. He spends four hours tattooing a client, a couple odd thirty minutes piercing some eager teenagers, and another sorting files in his office. When he’s finished with that, he gathers his stuff and slips sunglasses on his head. He sends Deacon a smile as he lingers around the receptionist desk, gaze alive as he watches him doodle on a piece of paper. If he wasn’t the boss of him, Deacon probably would’ve been yelled at by now.
“How are you feeling?” Deacon asks, looking up from the paper. Nixon doesn’t need to ask that he’s drawing Sasha, his Russian rocker boyfriend. Since Nixon introduced them, they’ve been all over each other in the softest of ways. He thinks it’s adorable — and honestly, refreshing — that Deacon has placed his affections on someone other than him.
The last thing he wants is for Aspen to attack Deacon over a few flirty (and totally unreciprocated) comments. He’s done so for less.
Deacon asks again and this time he gives his friend a raise of his brows. Nixon shifts on his feet. It’s not common for him to be nervous in public like this. He rubs the back of his neck as he tries to think of a good answer to Deacon’s question. Anxious doesn’t quite best describe how he feels, so he settles with a shrug of his shoulders and hums out instead.
“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I… I hope it goes well. I mean, I know it’s going to be great, but I’m still… nervous. What if something goes wrong?”
“It’s going to be fine, Nix. You’ve prepped for months. You don’t have anything to be nervous for. How many times have we gone over it?” Too many times. Deacon smiles. They both know the answer to that. He checks the clock before he looks up at Nixon and nods his head towards the door. “It’s 12:30. You don’t want to be late.”
Nixon continues to rock on his feet despite the well-wishes. He needs to get home so he can change. “Yeah… Yeah, I know. Thanks, Blue-Skadoo.” They share a knowing look before Nixon announces his absence for the rest of the day to his employees. His walk towards his apartment is a quiet, contemplative one.
It nears four o'clock when Aspen twists the knob to their apartment. Nixon runs his fingers through his dry hair and shakes off the weird feeling of wearing a shower cap. He stands with a towel around his waist, and Aspen catches him as he walks into their bedroom, fingers quick to loosen the buttons on his shirt.
“Hey,” Nix greets, feeling his heart jump in his throat. Aspen has an incredible power to render him weak in a matter of seconds, and it never fails no matter how often they’re around each other. His boyfriend’s gaze lingers on the trail of hair that disappears beneath the towel, his defined abs, the v-line that he loves to compliment. When Aspen snaps his gaze back up, Nixon blushes.
“You’re home early.” Nix doesn’t have time to smile back with a ’no hello?’ because Aspen presses against him, suit and all, and nuzzles their noses together. While Aspen smells like cologne, Nixon smells like cinnamon. Aspen’s scent is familiar, warm, and Nixon kisses him softly, one peck to his lips and next to his nose. Aspen looks at him, concerned. “Did something happen at work?”
He’s referring to two things — the shower and leaving early. It’s been a long while since Nixon’s taken a compulsive shower to scrub himself raw of any negative feelings, but he doesn’t doubt that Aspen’s mind jumps to that conclusion. They showered that morning, and it’s only one o’clock. Nixon shakes his head. He doesn’t need Aspen to worry about him more than he already does, even if there’s nothing really wrong.
“I took a half day today. Is that okay, Mr. Blake?” His stomach flutters as he teases him, pressing a kiss to Aspen’s lips. Every time Aspen smiles, his knees grow weak. It’s a smile just for him. Nixon pushes on and nudges their noses together, playful. “I am the boss, after all.”
It gets a laugh out of Aspen. The sound fills Nixon and encases him in warmth. “No, I’m the boss of you and everyone else in this state. You have it switched.”
“I think…” Nixon hums, contemplative. “I think you like me being the boss of you. Sometimes, at least… Right?”
He watches Aspen’s gaze dance over love marks along his chest, his arms, his abs. He might not be into PDA, but he makes up for that fact in private, when he makes it his mission to leave as many coverable marks on Nixon as possible. They share a smile as Nixon feels a touch against his cheek. Nixon leans against the softness of Aspen’s palm and closes his eyes until he feels a pair of lips against his neck.
The hard part is that he wants to give in. He wants to more than anything, but he steps back and shakes his head. No. It’s a word that Nixon has a hard time saying to him. The pout on Aspen’s lips makes it that much harder.
“I want to take you somewhere.“ Nixon explains softly, cupping Aspen’s cheeks in both hands. He loves how warm his boyfriend is. Even if he complains about it all the time, he wouldn’t wish for him to drop to a normal temperature. Through all the complaints, the pushing, the whining during the middle of the summer, Aspen wouldn’t be Aspen without his heat. And, secretly, Nixon loves the heat.
Despite the explanation, Aspen pushes. His fingers toy with the towel around Nixon’s waist, and it takes all of his willpower not to react, not to press Aspen into the wall behind them and take him hard, deep, until Aspen’s screaming. Nixon blows out a shallow breath as he listens to the tease of Aspen’s tone. “You can take me on the bed… In the kitchen… In the living room… On our dining table… Right up against this wall…”
His fingers dip lower. Nixon closes his eyes and rolls his head back, hands on Aspen’s wrists to stop him. He releases his hold when Aspen focuses his full attention back up to his eyes and not the areas of his body covered by the towel. “As much as I would love to,” he sighs, a strain to his voice. “We can’t be late. Not this time.”
There’s confusion in Aspen’s gaze. Nixon smiles and presses a kiss to his lips. “Help me pick out a shirt.” It’s a distraction, and one that he knows will win Aspen over. He nips at Aspen’s bottom lip, gaze hungry but controlled. It’s a surprise that his voice is steady, but it needs to be. If he lets Aspen know he’d fuck him right then and there, they’ll never arrive to where they need to be. “I’ll make you a deal. After tonight, I’ll fuck you for as long as you want, anywhere you want, however you want. I’ll suck your thighs for hours if you want me to. Sound good, baby?”
Hook, line, and sinker. Aspen parts his lips in desire, and he nods, sucking in a sharp breath. Before he can say anything more, Nixon detaches from Aspen’s warmth and moves to their closet, pulling out two pressed shirts.
"Which one?” He asks, gentle smile on his lips. Between a red button up and black, Nixon knows which one he’ll undoubtedly pick.
Aspen doesn’t give it a second thought. “Red.”
It symbolizes so much between them. Nixon nods, acts like he was perplexed about the choice, before he puts the black shirt back where it belongs. As Nixon pulls on briefs and a pair of slacks, Aspen leans against the wall, watching him.
“Where are we going?” He asks. Nixon shakes his head yet again. He thinks the amount of times Aspen is being told no will infuriate him, but all Aspen does is huff and pout. Nixon grins to himself. That wouldn’t happen with others. If anyone else told Aspen no, he’d have their head on a stake. He pouts further. “Why can’t you tell me?”
Nixon smiles knowingly, all too aware that Aspen hates being out of the loop, especially when it comes to him. “Top secret,” Nixon tells him while he reaches for the shirt. He slips it on easily and works on the buttons. Aspen’s pout slips as he watches him. “Any information I say could jeopardize everything, so it’s sealed tight for now.”
He knows the wheels are turning in Aspen’s head, and as much as he wants to spill about what he’s been working on for the past four months, he can’t bring himself to say it. Showing Aspen would be better, so when he’s dressed, he motions for the bathroom and points to his hair, unkempt and curly and a downright disaster. Shower caps are not his friend.
“You’re styling it?” Aspen asks as he’s handed a gel container. He hums in deep contemplation before he dips his fingers in. He works on Nixon’s hair with skilled precision, having done it a thousand times on his own hair. Nixon, on the other hand, never gels his hair. “It must be important.” He really has no idea. Aspen admires his handiwork through the mirror as he washes his hands when he’s done, and glances briefly down at his suit. “Should I change, too?”
Nixon shakes his head. “You’re perfect.” He presses a kiss of thanks to Aspen’s temple. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
It doesn’t take long. Aspen sits in the passenger seat of a dark sports car, anxiously looking out of the windows as if the place will pop up out of nowhere. Nixon can tell he doesn’t want to appear so, but the sparks that emit from his fingers are a dead giveaway. Nixon places a hand on Aspen’s thigh after he shifts. The car surges forward at the shift change, engine rumbling like a beast around them.
People stare. It’s not the first time they’ve gawked at the expensive all-black automobile, but it’s the first time that Nixon actually cares. He doesn’t want anything fucking up this day.
They’re smack in the heart of Manhattan, celebrities mingling around shops worth more than people’s yearly income, clutching designer purses and wearing designer heels. After ten more minutes, Nixon pulls into an off-street and greets the valet as he puts the car into park. Both doors are opened, Nixon steps out without struggle, and hands the keys off without a worry. He catches Aspen watching. He must not know what to think of anything — or maybe he’s sizing up the valet driver who whistles in admiration for both the car and the owner.
Nixon shakes his head, and distracts Aspen from beating the guy to a bloody pulp. They walk side by side to the back of a building. Nixon produces a key and pushes the door open like he’s done it a million times, and ignores the fact that he has.
It’s perfect.
Aspen follows him inside, and now that they’re alone, he laces their fingers together. “What’s with the key?” He nods his head towards Nixon’s front pocket as he slips the key inside. Before Nixon can get a word in, Aspen’s expression darkens. “Don’t tell me it’s top secret. This isn’t Area 51.”
He must be dying to know. Nixon smiles sweetly and pulls him close. For all you know, it could be, he wants to say, but he holds his tongue. The assumption of a fancy dinner date is clearly out the window, as their footsteps echo in the white hallway. “Be patient,” he tells Aspen. It’s hypocritical, seeing as how Nixon can barely wait for anything. He squeezes their clasped hands like it’ll appease the growing curiosity Aspen harbors. “It’ll be worth it.”
Aspen wants to ask ’will it?’ but must think twice about his words because he stays quiet. They linger by a door, Nixon’s hand on the knob. “Close your eyes.” His command is gentle. Aspen keeps his eyes open.
“Did you take me to some crazy sex dungeon?“ The question comes out calm, but Nixon can tell he’s a flurry of emotions — nervous, excited, curious. He is, too. Nixon rocks on his heels, but just barely, and catches himself before he can give away the intensity of his nerves. It doesn’t matter, really. Aspen can hear how hard his heart is beating.
No wonder he thinks it’s a sex dungeon.
"No,” Nixon laughs. He can’t tell if Aspen is disappointed or relieved. He tries again. “Close your eyes, baby.”
Aspen does as he’s told. With their hands still laced, Nixon pushes open the door and steps into the brightly lit room. They’re standing in the middle of what Nixon thinks is his biggest accomplishment. He lets go of Aspen’s hand and can measure the heavy rise and fall of his chest as anticipation prickles at his skin.
Nixon wipes a sweaty palm at his slacks, and tells Aspen to open his eyes. And then he watches the awe that fills Aspen’s face as he takes everything in.
It’s bright from the floor to ceiling windows stationed in the front, and natural sunlight pours through the tinted glass. It’s spacious. They’re stationed in an open concept room, with walls that separate the other smaller “rooms” from each other. Sleek, black tile is underneath their feet, and it shines as speckles of silver catch the sunlight. The place is beautiful yet simple, and exactly what Nixon wanted.
That isn’t what Aspen stares at.
His eyes glue to the perfectly aligned artwork along the walls, and then to the black plaques directly below them. There’s at least six paintings in this small room, and more in the others. Some are bright, some are dark, and some are an array of colors that don’t quite resemble anything at all. Aspen turns towards Nixon as he realizes the connecting factor.
“You painted these?”
It hangs in the air, thick but full of pride. Nixon shuffles nervously on his feet. He can’t stop a blush that creeps on his cheeks, his neck, and he bites on his bottom lip before he gestures to one of the plaques. He doesn’t need to answer Aspen’s question. They both know he did. “Read them.”
Aspen does. He steps to the nearest one and reluctantly tears his gaze from the piece above it. A cityscape with bright colors covers the canvas. Aspen reads it aloud, accent clinging to his tongue. “Los Angeles; 2011.” He looks at the next one. The Big Ben stares at him, bursts of red leaping from the painting. He sucks in a breath. “London; 2010.”
Nixon can’t find his voice until Aspen turns back towards him, nothing but pride on his beautiful features. He thinks he’s going to pass out from how nervous he is. “They’re paintings of my past,” he explains and points to a few of them. They travel into one of the other rooms. Some of the paintings are darker in here. “Of places I’ve been or wanted to be. People I’ve met in passing or people I love. Small things that caught my eye back when I was still a teenager.”
It feels like a lifetime ago. Aspen laces his fingers with his and waits for Nixon to fully come back to reality before he says, “This is your gallery.”
He nods. “In a few hours, this place is going to be packed with potential buyers for all of these. When we went to California, I asked my mom if she could ship some of the paintings I’d done in high school.” Aspen’s lips part in a second realization. “She kept some of them from me after I came back, scared I would destroy them. The others were put in storage. I used to hate that she hid them, but now I’m glad she did. I would’ve burned them if I’d known where they were.”
It’s hard enough admitting that on his own, let alone to the man next to him. After he came back to the States, painting didn’t exist to him. Any time he picked up a paintbrush, he’d have panic attacks. He couldn’t even fingerpaint. The canvases for those few years were destroyed each and every time, ashamed at his lack of ability to conquer his biggest nightmare. Getting rid of these paintings is like a new start for him. With all traces of his teenage life gone, Nixon can focus completely on the future.
Aspen can’t contain his smile. His eyes shine as he pulls Nixon down for a kiss. “I’m so proud of you.” He repeats it, again and again, until Nixon feels like he’s floating.
He remembers why he brought Aspen to his gallery early. Detangling himself from his boyfriend, Nixon clasps onto his hand and strokes his cheek with his other. “There’s something else.”
“More?” His tone easily tells him that he’s excited. Aspen looks around them. They’ve seen all there is to see, and his brows squish in confusion at Nixon’s statement. “Where?”
Nixon thinks his legs are going to turn to jelly as he nods again. The butterflies in his stomach are killing him, and a positive anxiety floods his chest as he leads Aspen away from the front of the gallery. He pauses at another door. Aspen stares at it, still confused. “We just came this way.”
Nixon laughs, and produces another key. “Not this way,” he says, like his hand doesn’t shake as he twists the knob and guides Aspen inside.
He flicks on a light, and stays pinned to his spot as Aspen gasps, putting a hand to his mouth. All around them are more paintings, but they’re different than the others. These have been painted recently. Without black plaques underneath them, it’s up to the onlooker’s imagination to describe what it is. For Aspen, he doesn’t need any of them.
“Nixon.” His voice is shaky — thick.
Nixon wonders if he’ll pass out first, or if Aspen will. The anxiety in his chest explodes as Aspen takes a step further into the room, dress shoes pressing against rose petals on the tile. Neither pay attention to it, too focused on the artwork in front of them.
He doesn’t need to look at his paintings to have them etched into his brain, photographic memory or not. Hyperrealistic is his specialty, and he’s made it his mission to pour detail into each and every one of them. They don’t look like paintings; they look like photographs.
Five giant canvases demand the most attention.
Between the larger canvases, sprinkles of smaller ones are spaced chronologically from the five. They capture flashes of images, of random cityscapes and unfocused faces and random objects that, otherwise, would hold no meaning to anyone else. To Aspen, they mean everything. A red string further ties all of them together, weaving over and circling and pinning to the larger pieces, starting from the first oversized canvas. From the last painting, the string continues off in a straight line until it disappears, no paintings attached to it.
Aspen turns towards the first painting.
A beach is the main image — beautiful, soft hues of blue and green, white, speckles of brown in the sand. The sun sets and showcases an incredible sunset of purples and pinks and reds. Below the sky a couple sit, blanket wrapped securely around them as they stare up at the sunset. They’re cuddled together. The smaller’s tones are darker, a great contrast to the one who holds him. The words France; 1932 are written in the sand.
Aspen looks at the second, but Nixon can’t catch his expression.
A black and white portrait, but not quite. Amidst couples who celebrate in elegant dresses and pinstriped suits, the couple at the center stand in screaming color. Her dress is emerald, pearls tight along her neckline. Blonde hair weaves to make an elaborate updo, held together by more pearls. Holding her close is a male, and even though his face is obscured as he kisses her, it’s easy to tell who the face belongs to. His hair is styled impeccably, and the suit he has on outdoes the rest of the men in the room with them. A soft glow of gold shines from their embrace. The banner along the staircase reads New York; 1955.
Nixon watches with a tight breath as Aspen moves to the third.
This painting is a little different than the others, but it’s still just as impressive. Two men hold each other in a tight embrace, red shining from the one on the left and blue shining from the one on the right. While they’re human, they’re also something a little bigger than that — the respective Virgo and Aquarius signs are displayed through their clothing, their skin, their accessories. Where the blue and red meet, purple bursts. A newspaper clutched in the Virgo’s hand is weathered and crumpled, like it’d been opened hundreds of times. The headline screams California; 1963.
The fourth.
His personal favorite. Nixon tries not to think of all the times he had to work and re-work on it as Aspen finally drops his hand from next to his mouth and wipes it on his slacks.
It’s the simplest painting in the room, but the one with most detail. A boy with dark blue eyes and raven-colored hair smiles with pink on his cheeks. He’s covered head to toe in black clothing, clunky boots on his feet. The little skin that is shown details tattoos along his neck and knuckles. The red string connecting the pictures together wraps around his pinky and ties with another tattooed pinky. The taller boy shows a similar smile and similar cheeks, only he has dimples and he doesn’t have tattoos on his face. They simply hold hands and bask in each other’s company. New York; 2016.
Nixon trembles as he studies the way Aspen’s gaze flickers from the fourth painting to the fifth. The last big canvas is faceless in black and white. A couple stands with arms around each other. The red string is wrapped heavily around them, acting like it holds them together. Around their bodies is a silk banner that they each hold up. ‘Forever yours’ in Italian is written in script on the banner, splatters of red dashed across the material of the canvas. The red is the only pop of color in the entire painting, but it stands out sharp against the crisp white and harsh black. No date or location is anywhere on the painting.
Nixon knows because he watches as Aspen searches for it.
His hands shake as his boyfriend admires the paintings in front of him again. A comfortable silence stretches and encases them in the moment. He sucks in a shaky, inaudible breath.
Nixon pulls the black box from his back pocket. He falls, slow, to one knee.
Aspen turns with tears in his eyes. His face grows red when he finds Nixon on his knee.
Nixon has the box open and ready for him. Aspen lets out a choked noise as he stares at the ring. Black. Smooth. Incredibly simple. Compared to the rest of Aspen’s gold jewelry, this ring will stand out the most.
“Aspen Blake…” Nixon swallows a lump in his throat. His voice chokes up as tears swim in his own eyes. He’s unable to look away from Aspen, even as they both tremble for the best yet to come. Aspen appears ready to scream yes! with the vigor of a thousand burning suns, but he stands immobile, speechless, blue eyes wide and shining with all the love and trust anyone could ever carry. Nixon feels his heart leap as he looks up at the love of his life. Without Aspen, Nixon doesn’t want to know where he’d be. Without Aspen, his life would be dull. Without Aspen, he’d never feel complete. Without Aspen, he wouldn’t find home. Nixon smiles and gazes up at the man who makes it easier to breathe and easier to live. Aspen is, undoubtedly, the love of his life and the man of his dreams. “Aspen Blake, will you marry me?”
