Figure Model Read online

  Chapter 1

  Getting to class early was of paramount importance, if Hayden Flores had any chance of getting a good easel. Most needed to be tightened, or were covered in grimy charcoal. But a few, at this point in the semester, only showed minor signs of wear and tear. With all the money the school made in tuition, you'd think they could afford some new ones.

  Hayden ignored the dry look from the professor as he dragged a better easel toward the front, just like he ignored the scrape of metal on the floor until he found the proper angle. Other students were shuffling in by then, and Hayden switched out a wobbly stool for a sturdy one before anybody could get upset about it, and finally settled down to unpack his supplies.

  It had been a long time since he had any reason to gawk at the models in Life Drawing (after foundation classes managed to beat all the awkward innocence out of him). Unless it was to flick out the movement in a static gesture or scratch in the darkest shadows in the body’s natural crevices, he stared at his paper, and not at the less-than-perfect specimens often presented to him and the rest of the class. It had been a trial in the beginning, but at some point Hayden realized boobs and dicks weren’t that big a deal. Half the time they were concealed by a carefully placed knee or a shadow anyway.

  He was only vaguely aware of the robed figure, whichever one it happened to be that day, situating himself in front of the class. Hayden had more important things to worry about, at that particular moment. Like getting the hair out of his kneaded eraser.

  The room finally filled up enough for the professor to make some opening remarks about what to work on this week. Negative space and perspective where always big ones, and while the aging instructor blathered on about such things, the model slipped out of his arbitrary garment in Hayden’s peripherals, and dropped into the simple wooden chair provided. At that point, everyone knew to start sketching, whether the professor was talking or not, and Hayden grabbed a chunky piece of worn down charcoal to plot out the lines of a relaxed body.

  It took the first couple flicks of the stub to realize it wasn't some old geezer propped up in front of them them today - as was the norm, for some reason. Hayden had drawn a few younger people in class but never for very long, and never very attractive, since it seemed like the school always had some leathery old guy on speed dial to slouch in the chair at the center of the room. Which was great for learning how to draw wrinkles, but in the beginning, it hadn't been fun to look at.

  Now, Hayden found himself mapping out much stronger curves, less wide, and paler. Curious and quick, he managed a glance at the bored face, even while his hand worked out the broad shoulders in sweeping movements. Handsome, too - it wasn't like he couldn't tell. Only odd because of how rare it was.

  Might as well take advantage of it, figured, tightening his strokes when he knew it would be back to the usual fare by next week. Gradually (or as gradually as one could manage with a ten minute limit on poses), light lines tightened into defined curves of the body, joints and edges, and coils of gold hair lit up by the big bulbous lamps bathing the young model in yellow light.

  It wasn’t long before the model shifted poses completely, and Hayden tore off his used paper to start fresh, per usual. The new angle left little face to be seen, though the artist found himself starting on the slope of a slender jaw before anything else, until he moved on to fill out the rest of the relaxed pose.

  Eventually, maybe two or three more poses in, the professor started making his rounds. The two hours that constituted class usually flew by pretty fast, on a good day, but this was the worst part. Quiet conversation filtered around the room, mostly snide remarks from the instructor that were supposed to be funny and the ensuing polite laughter from his victims. Or, in contrast, minimal praise and murmured thanks. Hayden tried not to pay attention as the professor loomed closer, wishing he'd remembered his Walkman as he blended away the sharp contour lines in a delicate nose with his blackened finger.

  "Portraiture is on Mondays and Wednesdays, Hayden," the professor said over his shoulder suddenly, a wry note to his voice.

  "What?" Hayden asked, ever intelligent. A large, calloused hand pointed at the tones on the paper that made up the model's face under his thick curtain of curls.

  "There's too much going on here, you need to define the body more." The professor waved his hand down the page, at all Hayden's progress - or what he thought it had been, as heat crept up his face. "I'm seeing lines and musculature in real life that you're not putting on the paper."

  "Right," Hayden mumbled as his professor moved on, willing his charcoal-stained hand to quit shaking in the wake of the (uncommon, but not unusual) critique. Knowing whatever he managed to pull together of this sketch was going to be shit anyway, with the teacher getting him all self-conscious, Hayden was more than relieved when the model finally switched poses again.

  Straightening to relieve the strain in his back, Hayden spared yet another glance up at his subject - only to meet a pair of brown eyes that he hadn’t at all anticipated.

  Hayden made a point of not looking the models in the eye. Maybe they did to, the other way around, so often staring into some imagined point toward the back of the studio. But now he couldn't stop, caught in the soft, deliberate gaze. Maybe that's what he got for always sitting in the front row, and never trying to hide behind a clutter of easels with mediocre sketches and borrowed charcoal - the attention of the nicest looking model he'd seen in a while.

  And he did not want it. Hayden ducked behind his sketchpad to the best of his ability, hunkering low to rip out the top page thirty seconds in to the next pose. Time wasted. But they were almost through. He thought. Hoped. Maybe? Of course his wobbly strokes were just going to make it feel like eternity now.

  All that, and he still found himself peeking every so often, beyond glances at proportions and gesture. The model did not look at him again. In fact, most of the time, his pose had him facing away, head tipped back or forward, eyes closed sometimes. Hayden was free to observe safely - as if he hadn’t been able to all along.

  "Once you're finished this one you can go," the professor said centuries later, and Hayden tore off his final sheet to lay with the rest of the bunch. He signed his best ones and passed them up to the front, full of grey fingerprints and stray black dust. He wiped his hands down his jeans before cleaning up, ever relieved this was his last class of the day, leaving the rest of Thursday afternoon and the weekend on to be occupied however he so pleased. Which usually meant doing homework, or nothing.

  When he looked up again, from his pencil case and portfolio bag half-packed up, the model was gone. And honestly, thank goodness; Hayden hadn’t been this antsy about figure drawing since freshman year.

  He sighed, relieved, and a little annoyed with himself by how taxing this had been toward the end. With any luck, it would be a one time thing - maybe one of the regular models got sick last minute. Or they hadn't, and Hayden would just have to get used to this, like everything else.

  A particular irony was not lost on him, as he finally gathered his things into one bag to hoist over his shoulder, bulky sketchpad and all. That he himself was the one uncomfortable with scrutiny when there was a naked model front and center, letting everyone convey the shape of his body with their eyes and charcoal. Then again, that's why he wasn't doing it. And also because he had to participate in class, rather than be the subject of it.

  Confident he could leave without any homework being assigned in his absence, Hayden made his escape. The small art school, that could barely be called a campus, was situated in the heart of Portland, Maine, and three blocks from the apartment he shared with two and a half roommates-slash-dear friends. Normally, it was three, but with Veronica spending so much time at Ben’s now, having found a boyfriend who
could offer her sweet nothings without stuttering through them all, her bedroom was empty more often than not.

  He lugged his art supplies down the street, up two flights of cramped stairs, and down the narrow hall to the chipped wood door that separated their mess from everyone else’s. Hayden unlocked and turned the knob, finally blessed with the comfort of his own home, however crowded it might be. Dropping his bags against the couch, he promptly threw himself onto the cushions, just for a moment of respite. For now, the apartment was quiet, and his friends could be anywhere, doing anything, and he wouldn't care. No noise from Veronica’s keyboard, Ryan’s camera, or Ryker’s mouth.

  Willing himself to sit upright finally, Hayden shuffled through his portfolio bag to gather the loose drawings from class, so they wouldn’t smudge. Probably wouldn't seal them though, if his professor's remarks were anything to go by. But was a shame to let such a nice portrait go to waste. At least Hayden could let himself be proud of the calculated expression he managed to communicate, if not the figure.

  Snapped out of his reflection by a succinct rap at the front door, Hayden stared silently for a couple seconds, before it became clear that no one else was going to answer it. Sighing, he rose heavily to his feet, crossed the room, and wondered who had forgotten their keys this time.

  Instead of anything like that, he found Peter Jackson on the other side of the door, of all people. He had gone all summer without breathing a single word to any of them - but they didn't have a landline at their busted old apartment, so no wonder.

  "Hey Hayden!" he chirped, brandishing a stack of comics before Hayden could offer a return greeting. "You left these at my house, I thought I'd bring them back."

  Blinking, Hayden accepted the stack, trying to remember the last time he had even been on the street where Peter lived in their hometown. "Back in middle school?" he asked, flipping an issue of X-Men over to find his initials printed in marker on the barcode.

  "I know, sorry it took so long. Can I come in? It was a long walk."

  "Sure," Hayden said confidently enough, even though Peter was already slipping past with zero hesitation. His usual antics, but it was a little weird that he was here now, given that they were already a couple weeks into the new semester. You’d think he would have shown up at the end of August.

  "Do you want something to drink?"

  "So long as it's not spoiled," Peter replied, running his hand along the counter that separated the front entryway from the kitchen. He hummed a pleased noise when his fingers came away dust-free.

  Peter meandered around, scrutinizing the space like he owned it, while Hayden hunkered down in front of the fridge, looking for something (that their persnickety friend would find) tolerable. He thought maybe he should just settle on water, so long as the filter decided to work that day.

  Hayden’s efforts stalled as the plastic shelves in the refrigerator began to jingle, heralding a great clatter down the stairs. He turned over his shoulder to find Ryker lurching through the den faster than Hayden he ever saw him move in his life, using the railing at the foot of the stairs leading to the attic space like a whip, to swing himself around the sharp corner that carried him from the far side of the den all the way to the kitchen counter. Hayden watched Ryker scoop Peter up, shameless and unhesitant as he hoisted him into the air, spinning them both around in a dramatic display that served as a pretty solid culmination of all his pining over the last few months.

  "Pete!" Ryker all but shouted, ragdolling the flailing brunette a second longer before dropping Peter back down to the floor, where he had full control over all his limbs.

  "Don't do that!" he yelled, all of a sudden vibrant and sparky and loud - his usual self. "And I know it's been a while so I'll let it go this time but you know I don't like it when you call me that!"

  Ryker grinned from ear to ear, and Hayden noticed for the first time that he’d come down in only his glasses and pajama bottoms. Which meant the Loudmouth had been sleeping, up until about thirty seconds ago.

  "Whatsamatta, Peter Bear, didn't you miss me? Did your mom tell you I called? If she did, my feelings might be hurt. Almost three months. You don't write, you don't call. How am I s’pose to go on?" Gripping the short brunette by the shoulders, Ryker drew closer with every word, only to begin shifting down Peter’s body instead, until he was thumping to his knees. Chin to tummy, his arms wrapped securely around the narrow waist.

  "I missed you," he added, voice a little softer but smile no less excited.

  "That's nice of you," Peter answered, sounding absent. Didn’t take a genius to figure out he was absolutely preoccupied now, though, no matter how he affected his voice.

  "I'm gonna go hang out in my room," Hayden mumbled, when he stood at the fridge long enough to realize he had been squished out of the interaction entirely. Which was probably better, since he couldn't find anything to drink anyway, and he had a seven-page paper due next week.

  "Bye, Hayden," was all Peter offered as the artist made his way to gather his things and make himself scarce, careful not to intrude upon the bubble Ryker and Peter had created around themselves.

  "Hi," Ryker called after him, as if having noticed Hayden for the first time. Which he probably had. Hayden took no offense, offering a smile and a wave as he disappeared down the hallway adjacent to the den.

  By room, Hayden of course meant the mattress and dresser he had managed to cram next to the window at the end of the hall, mostly concealed by the green curtain he had pinned to either wall as a makeshift door. When they had all moved in here, Ryker wasn’t around, Hayden was still dating Veronica, and rooming arrangements had not been a foreseeable issue. But then everything that could have possibly happened to make it an issue happened.

  Ryker moved in, Hayden and Veronica broke up, and Hayden was too proud to accept either Ryan or Ryker’s offers to share their rooms (or in Ryker’s case, tiny attic space). If that was supposed to change soon, Hayden didn’t know, but he was perfectly fine with the setup he had created for himself. The window offered terrific light for his art, but it was a pretty awful wakeup call when the sun came up in the morning.

  Peter and Ryker were out of sight, out of mind by the time Hayden made it behind his curtain, sliding a headset over his ears to drown out whatever noise might bother him without the barrier of four walls and a door around him. The model from class refused to return his gaze, from the sketches laying on top of his portfolio bag. Before Hayden could personify the stiff drawings more than he already had, he stuffed them away, and turned his attention toward tasks more important, if less intriguing.

  Chapter 2

  "...So what have you been up to?" Peter asked after Hayden excused himself, conversationally enough. Despite the odd position that consisted of Ryker’s body wrapped around the lower half of his own. Odd, but hey, not that terrible.

  "Succeeding at life, obviously," Ryker answered, beaming at Peter from behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He rubbed his face against his cotton polo shirt before finally shuffling back to his feet - using the shorter brunette as a brace all the way up. Peter nearly toppled them both over trying to remain steady under the surprising weight of those big hands.

  "I got a hot new uniform, collared shirt and all. Even has my name on it - well, on the sticker they laminated that's pinned on, but that totally counts. And I bought my own milk this week. So, congratulations, your boyfriend is a hot sometimes hundred-aire with a new bumper!"

  Thick brows arched, and Peter tried not to startle at the B-word in the face of Ryker’s apparent success - if you could call a minimum-wage job, which was what Peter was imagining, success. It was still better than how he had left the stupid idiot idealist anyway. Thinking he could pay for food and shelter with a wink and a smile and a bum off his cigarette.

  It crossed Peter's mind that Ryker might be lying, but that seemed even less likely than him getting himself together in three months to find a job. Which really sucked, because Peter wasn't sure he had come here with in
tentions to get serious . Even if that was exactly what he had promised before he left for summer break.

  They had only known each other a few weeks in late April and early May and had been sleeping together two or three times out of the week when Ryker asked him to go steady, but with summer approaching and his mother’s iron tight authority about to slip over him once again, Peter couldn’t very well say yes. She had no idea what went on while he was at school, far from her and their bumfuck town, and there was no way he could pull it off from home, especially not with the would-be boyfriend two hours away in Portland.

  That still left the next semester open, of course, and since Ryker had been rather lacking in the career department, Peter had promised a committed relationship if he could secure those things by the time he returned to school in the fall. The only problem was, Peter didn’t really expect Ryker to get his act together so fast.

  "Umm," Peter drawled out in a high tone, stalling as he reached around himself to free Ryker's groping arms from around him. That was enough nuzzling for the moment.

  "I don't remember you asking if we could go steady, Ryker," Peter said - realizing that was a bit unfair, and a lie, so he rephrased. "Those offers don't last more than like, a month. Don't be entitled. Besides, what kind of job are we talking about here? How much do you make? Technically strippers have uniforms too you know, they just wind up taking them off."

  "Aw, Peter, are you saying you wouldn't like me anymore if I was a stripper?" Ryker lifted his hands clutch his own bare chest, huffing out a devastated gasp. "How will our relationship ever survive?" Pressing the back of his hand to his forehead, Ryker threw his whole head back dramatically, mouth open and eyes closed, only to snap back a moment later.

  "Good thing I make tacos for a living, I guess. Four twenty five an hour! Not to mention, I’m taking a couple classes at the community college, just for good measure.” Putting on an old-time Southern accent, Ryker slapped his hands on Peter’s shoulders, suddenly grave. “Look here, you gonna have yourself an educated, working man, and we gonna make your Papa proud."