Sketch
Sketch
Sydney Alexis
His side of the bed had long since grown cold by the time you register from his absence.
Your body takes note, and, slowly, you're roused from your dreams. Turning sleep heavy eyes towards an unfamiliar light, you see him bathed in the white-blue glow of the monitor. Mouth tight in a firm line, he struggles to guide the stylus across the screen.
You smile to yourself slightly as you remember he called it an electronic color box not a few hours before.
Slipping from the sheets, you edge toward him with due care; he's jumpy as shit these days.
The moment you see the image on the screen, your breath catches. The lines are a little crude and the shading is not up to par, but you can't help but think it's the best work he's ever done...
°°°°°°°
You knew he'd waking up eventually; he's a freakishly light sleeper, but you were hoping to finish before then.
The electronic version of Brian is rudimentary, unbalanced, and out of proportion. It's also the first piece you've actually came close to finishing since the bashing; every other sketch fell victim to muscle spasms and your short temper.
As the real life Brian moves towards you, he intentionally makes noise so he doesn't startle you. It's a habit he picked up before the bashing when you'd sit on his sofa and sketch for hours. Something he did because you'd get so sucked into what you were working on that you wouldn't hear your name when called and you'd jump and squeak--fucking squeak--when he'd touch you.
The hand that wraps around the base of your neck is comforting. The intake of air as he sees your work is unexpected.
"It's beautiful," he whispers, warm breath tickling the hair around your ears.
You roll your eyes, but smile anyway.
The One With the Crayon
Sydney Alexis
It happens over the stupidest of things.
One minute, you're standing in your kitchen sifting through the take out menus, and the next you're standing stalk still holding a chunky brown crayon in your hand. Your son's crayon. The one you'd torn the loft apart looking for the day before he left. The one he had to have to finish his stick figure of you.
Justin, ever the voice of reason, had let Gus use one of his pastels.
The next day, you stood on the Muncher's driveway in the the too cold, too bleak day and watched the SUV that held one of your best friends and the little boy you loved more than yourself disappear into the distance.
Lindsay had made all the right noises about them being only a few hours away by plane and car, but you knew...you fucking well knew that between Gus starting school, his moms starting their new jobs, and you running your business those visits would be far and few between.
Gus would grow taller and smarter than you ever thought possible, but you knew you wouldn't be there to see it happen. You absently wonder if he'll even remember you in a year or two, or if you'd just become the tall man that smells like smoke and expensive aftershave that always brought new toys.
The crayon in your hand is suddenly blurry. A long moment passes before you realize you're crying. Dropping the crayon onto the counter like it's poison, your eyes lock on the picture your son drew you. Three little stick figures...three stick figures standing beside a lollipop tree. Gus had told you it was from the day you and Justin had taken him to the park. In scrawled, sometimes backwards letters, he'd written 'my daddies.'
Lindz and Mel had promised you from the start you could be as involved in his life as you wanted to be. As you watched their car disappear from your sight that day, you couldn't help but think they took that right away from you.
Sydney Alexis
His side of the bed had long since grown cold by the time you register from his absence.
Your body takes note, and, slowly, you're roused from your dreams. Turning sleep heavy eyes towards an unfamiliar light, you see him bathed in the white-blue glow of the monitor. Mouth tight in a firm line, he struggles to guide the stylus across the screen.
You smile to yourself slightly as you remember he called it an electronic color box not a few hours before.
Slipping from the sheets, you edge toward him with due care; he's jumpy as shit these days.
The moment you see the image on the screen, your breath catches. The lines are a little crude and the shading is not up to par, but you can't help but think it's the best work he's ever done...
°°°°°°°
You knew he'd waking up eventually; he's a freakishly light sleeper, but you were hoping to finish before then.
The electronic version of Brian is rudimentary, unbalanced, and out of proportion. It's also the first piece you've actually came close to finishing since the bashing; every other sketch fell victim to muscle spasms and your short temper.
As the real life Brian moves towards you, he intentionally makes noise so he doesn't startle you. It's a habit he picked up before the bashing when you'd sit on his sofa and sketch for hours. Something he did because you'd get so sucked into what you were working on that you wouldn't hear your name when called and you'd jump and squeak--fucking squeak--when he'd touch you.
The hand that wraps around the base of your neck is comforting. The intake of air as he sees your work is unexpected.
"It's beautiful," he whispers, warm breath tickling the hair around your ears.
You roll your eyes, but smile anyway.
The One With the Crayon
Sydney Alexis
It happens over the stupidest of things.
One minute, you're standing in your kitchen sifting through the take out menus, and the next you're standing stalk still holding a chunky brown crayon in your hand. Your son's crayon. The one you'd torn the loft apart looking for the day before he left. The one he had to have to finish his stick figure of you.
Justin, ever the voice of reason, had let Gus use one of his pastels.
The next day, you stood on the Muncher's driveway in the the too cold, too bleak day and watched the SUV that held one of your best friends and the little boy you loved more than yourself disappear into the distance.
Lindsay had made all the right noises about them being only a few hours away by plane and car, but you knew...you fucking well knew that between Gus starting school, his moms starting their new jobs, and you running your business those visits would be far and few between.
Gus would grow taller and smarter than you ever thought possible, but you knew you wouldn't be there to see it happen. You absently wonder if he'll even remember you in a year or two, or if you'd just become the tall man that smells like smoke and expensive aftershave that always brought new toys.
The crayon in your hand is suddenly blurry. A long moment passes before you realize you're crying. Dropping the crayon onto the counter like it's poison, your eyes lock on the picture your son drew you. Three little stick figures...three stick figures standing beside a lollipop tree. Gus had told you it was from the day you and Justin had taken him to the park. In scrawled, sometimes backwards letters, he'd written 'my daddies.'
Lindz and Mel had promised you from the start you could be as involved in his life as you wanted to be. As you watched their car disappear from your sight that day, you couldn't help but think they took that right away from you.