Rough Canvas (Nature of Desire 6)

There was no one to really talk to about it, who wanted to talk about the minutiae involved in creation that was so amazing and miraculous - to the artist alone.

Aside from the acclaim, the layers of experimentation and skill Josh had honed were as obvious as a perfectly cut diamond. Thomas stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a true creator, what he'd always called his favorite artists in his mind. There were things in Josh's work that no one but an artist could understand how miraculous they were to render.

Standing here talking about it was the most fantastic fucking charge, and Thomas knew no matter where he went with his art, to whatever showings or fame, this was what it was about for him. This moment with another creator who understood the singular intensity to bring to life that which burned inside of him, from whatever source it came.

Though Marcus wasn't an artist, he knew Marcus felt it in a different yet similar way. One of the many things Thomas knew that drew them together.

Lauren leaned against Marcus' shoulder as he propped himself in the doorframe, the two of them watching. "They don't even know what a miracle they are, do they?" she said softly.

"No. " Marcus found he had to clear his throat to say the words, watching the focus of Thomas' dark eyes, the quick smiles and frowns, lines between his eyes. Even the way his body was aligned with Josh's at the easel. "It wouldn't matter if they did. It would just puzzle them. That's why Josh is where he's at and Thomas is going to be right there with him, if he'll let himself. I suspect there were people who stood like this watching Michelangelo or Matisse. It's like. . . "

He shook his head at himself, a light smile crossing his face. "Like watching God at work in His studio. "

It was a sacred, spiritual gift to watch him work, to be part of the inspiration that made Thomas the creator he was. Marcus realized he wanted to come home every day to this, wanted to know Thomas would be part of his life. The part of his life that would keep everything else in balance.

Shadows gripped him at the thought. If Thomas changed his mind once Marcus got his grief and emotional shit under control, if he tried to withdraw again. . . Marcus knew he didn't have the energy left to fight him. After all the harrowing years when he never let himself entertain the notion, even in his darkest moments, Marcus now knew he would have a compelling reason to take his own life.

He should hate Thomas for doing that to him. For dredging up all the loneliness and rage of his past with the comparison of all it could be now. The hope or promise of an unconditional love from someone who accepted and wanted Marcus for all he was.

But of course that wasn't the way it worked. Marcus just wanted and loved him all the more.

Feeling Lauren's shrewd eyes on him, he dropped his hand and gave her ass a hard squeeze in the short skirt she was wearing.

"Marcus Stanton. " She hissed, elbowed him in the ribs hard enough to make him wince, as he wasn't fully healed from the diner incident. Her exclamation drew the artists out of their absorption. They turned with matching looks, twin deer caught in headlights.

"Just checking out your wife's ass," Marcus explained. "It's as firm as ever. "

"It's actually a bit softer," Josh responded. "I like it that way. "

"I hate you both," Lauren announced. Thomas smothered a smile when she sent him a searing look. "Way too much testosterone in this house. Don't any of you doubt for a moment I can take all of you down. Even you. " She shot a narrow glance up at Marcus.

"Sounds like something I'd like to see. After dinner. " Josh grinned. "Is dinner ready?"

* * * * *

Ice not only broken but completely dissolved in the warmth of newly discovered friendship, dinner was an animated discussion of food, art, politics, television and even some about D/s clubs the three had visited in Europe or that Thomas and Marcus had visited together.

Thomas found Lauren and Josh were more like him, keeping their play intimate and preferring one another, using the clubs primarily as stimulating viewing entertainment. They didn't linger long on the topic, and he couldn't deny that he was glad, because when Marcus had been at clubs, that meant he'd picked up one or more partners, even if it was just for a night.

After dinner, he and Lauren cleared the dishes while Josh and Marcus went to the living area to discuss the show, prepare drinks. After a few minutes, however, Thomas noted Marcus wandered out to the balcony, excusing himself and encouraging Josh to check out his music selection while he lit a cigarette.

"Is he okay, Thomas?" Lauren asked softly, helping him rinse the bowls. "Really?"

"Yeah," Thomas nodded. Josh was following his own gaze, studying Marcus, his brow creased in similar concern. "He will be. A lot of stuff's broken loose in the past few days. Old wounds. He's messed up now, but he's trusting us enough to let it show.

That's good. It's good you came. I think he trusts you two more than anyone. "

"Not more than you. You sound sure he's going to be okay because you're going to make sure of it. " She met his surprised look with a smile. "You really have come home to stay. Does he realize that?"

Thomas lifted a shoulder, embarrassed by the praise but also disturbed by the question. "I hope so. I'm going to have to prove it to him. It's probably not going to be in a way he'll like. "

"And that's why you want us here. You think he's pretty fragile right now. " She moved closer, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him at the sink. She smelled good, a light powder, feminine aroma that made him miss Les, his mother.

Thomas glanced back at the balcony. Last night, Marcus had had a nightmare. A bad one where he woke soaked in sweat, trembling. To soothe him, Thomas had eased him back to the mattress, held him tightly. Laid a light kiss on his face, his neck, then shifted and spread them over his whole body until Marcus was trembling for other reasons.

It was a different, more erotic version of what his mother had done for him as a boy. If he had a nightmare, and they'd been few, she'd sit on his bed and kiss his face, his belly, blowing on it to tickle him, the soles of his feet, his hands. His chest, over his heart, sometimes laying her head on it to listen to it thump. She'd said that everywhere she'd placed a kiss, the fear would run away. Until it would give up and

run away entirely.