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  Dammit, that was good measure. Peter hesitated in silence, unsure of how to respond, maintaining his deadpan expression through the entirety of Ryker's dramatic display - tried to anyway, caught with his chin against his chest to keep the slightest twinge of a smile hidden as Ryker groaned and drawled. The dumbass had better count himself lucky that he was funny. Sometimes.

  He couldn't really expect a young adult with little to no degree to start on the better side of the job market, now could he? Peter could only thank God for his own work study position and his mom's donation of a couple hundred dollars every month, otherwise he'd probably be working at the same place as Ryker - wherever that was, that served tacos and paid their employees dirt.

  "You never mentioned an expiration, honeydew," Ryker complained lightly, when it was quiet for too long, shifting his weight closer again and sliding his fingers down the length of Peter's arms, almost managing to take his hands. "You want me to turn the charm back on? I don't mind seducing you again."

  "It's not about the charm," Peter stated pointedly, staring Ryker down from under his brow as he let his arms move to accommodate the antsy touching. "It's not even about the pay, really. I don't know why I asked that."

  Before he could get caught backtracking, Peter spun out of Ryker's grip, launching himself far enough across the den uninhibited to scurry up the worn steps he'd used at least a hundred times from April to May last semester.

  "Look at this! That sock hasn't moved a single inch since I last saw you," Peter accused as Ryker came up behind him, pointing with enthusiasm.

  Having come in to the arrangement he had with his band of roommates a little late to the game, Ryker occupied the small, open attic space at the top of the apartment, usually dusty and eternally sweltering. Even then, it was leagues better than trying to make do in the dormitory Peter shared with a roommate whose track and field shit was always airing out. Even if the place was just as untidy as Peter had left it, littered with dirty laundry, the occasional fast food bag, and the lingering stench of weed that Ryker claimed he was so good at concealing.

  "I'm almost a hundred percent sure that's a different sock," the Ryker argued lamely. “I only have so many socks.”

  "Well then your aim is fucking impeccable," Peter muttered dryly, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. It didn't matter anyway, Ryker's room was still a mess. And honestly, Peter wasn't asking for a lot - hell, he was willing to do a ton of shit for Ryker without even the benefit of a door offering security. Even Hayden's pathetic little Wizard of Oz curtain would have been better.

  Ryker loomed in his peripherals, but Peter held his ground, expression pointed. It was pretty easy when Ryker’s attention span was so lacking. But sometimes that backfired him, and as Ryker appeared to ignore the entire issue in favor of smiling, Peter wondered if maybe that was going to happen again.

  Which wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

  "Sure wanted an excuse to get up here, huh?" Ryker teased quietly, his smirk smug and a little lecherous as he strode slowly forward, visibly careful on the admittedly cluttered floor. It took only a few strides for him to make Peter backup, butt hitting the far wall. He put his hand up over one narrow shoulder and started to lean down, somehow capable of making his eyes turn to molten chocolate in the seconds it took to corner Peter. Now that was the worst thing in the world, maybe.

  "You gonna kiss me, or do I really have to do laundry first?"

  "Are you offering?" he asked bluntly, taken a bit with both possibilities. He had adequately distracted Ryker, what more could he ask for? Actually, probably a kiss (he’d gone all summer without), but that was easily attained.

  Peter reached forward before Ryker could answer, abandoning the stubborn square of his arms over his chest to draw Ryker forward by the neck, and slot their mouths together quickly. Long awaited after some summer not-so-lovin'.

  Ryker gasped, spine bowing to accommodate the drag forward while his elbow caved, crashing his lips against Peter's. A moment later, he was sweeping his tongue between parting teeth, and Peter was more than pleased that Ryker didn’t taste horrendous as the taller pinned him against the wall.

  Nothing with Ryker was ever boring. Everything boiled down to hasty kisses and groping, nothing below NC-17, but that's what not being young was for anyway. There was just enough thrill between licking up past Ryker's teeth and grabbing at his body to keep Peter from thinking too hard.

  They finally broke for air only a moment, Peter huffing in breaths to recuperate, while Ryker involved his hands, sliding up Peter's sides while he smiled down, laughing, and sounding relieved. If Peter had as much shame as Loudmouth White did, he might have done the same.

  "See?" Ryker prodded in a smug tone, knee bending to slip between Peter's thighs until he came up against the wall, grinding them together without an ounce of regret. Peter, for all he was worth, spread to rut against Ryker’s leg.

  "I knew you missed me."

  "Well I mean," Peter murmured, shrugging while he could still speak soundly, despite the state of his jeans - that being them still snug around his hips while his dick got reacclimated. "When the options are so limited..."

  And damn it was true, no matter how lame it was of him to answer that way.

  Deciding that there was too much talking and not enough kissing, Peter dragged Ryker back down again, laving into his mouth with the first bump of lips, sliding up the soft material across his thigh to bump their pelvises, pleased that his own state was mirrored in fleece pajama pants. A clinging grip around Ryker's neck prevented any more annoying pauses. Three months had been long enough.

  Chapter 3

  It took only two individual and yet identical occurrences for something new to become familiar. Not quite routine, but far from that high alert, ears ringing sensation that often accompanied entirely new things. Despite being a new location, this was still a classroom, still full of easels and seats, chalkboard on wheels relegated to the corner. This time the blazing lights had been replaced with a single blinding spot light that cast the solitary chair at the front of the room in sharp relief.

  The professor wasn't in sight right when he arrived, but there wasn't really time to panic or wonder if he had gotten the time wrong before the man came strolling in, right after him - just distracted enough not to acknowledge Wyatt’s presence until he was well on his way to the back room to change anyway. Then, a wave of his hand was enough to keep him from following.

  A two hour class meant twelve ten minute poses, at worst, and with only a chair at his disposal so far, Wyatt couldn't pretend that wouldn't be a little annoying. Especially without anything between him and the glossy wood (but this is why he always brought sanitizer). At least this tiny art school offered a chair at onset at all. He wasn’t sure his knees had recovered yet.

  By the time Wyatt emerged in his robe, hair loose from his kippah and skin pebbling in the slightly chilled air, a few students had arrived, already getting themselves settled. Figuring new poses might be preferred over a repeat performance, he stretched a bit, trying to decide on a set just to avoid being caught without any ideas later.

  Wyatt checked the clock just in time for the professor to call everyone together. Shrugging out of his robe was a little more pomp and circumstance than the students or instructor might be used to, but hell if he was just going to drop his pants in front of the room, like the few older models he’d spoken to on occasion.

  He set the garment aside to get into position, sitting, settled comfortably with his ankles crossed, hands holding them together for his balance. So long as it was still ten minute poses, there was no concern over his circulation, though Wyatt tipped one knee higher than the other to keep the weight off his tail bone.

  As the calm cacophony of the tired afternoon class ebbed over him - full of half-lidded eyes, steaming paper cups, and paint or charcoal stained pants - Wyatt found himself wishing this sort of thing could be more long term guaranteed.

  Even the recreational center
was out of contract. Being sure he could pay his own rent doing just this as far forward as next week would have been nice - maybe not full time.

  But maybe he was the spoiled dumbass who expected more concrete arrangements from a job that consisted of posing nude in front of young adults.

  It was also entirely possible that he only hoped this job would extend past next week because of the glimpse he had caught of auburn hair and wide green eyes, half hidden once again behind the angle of an easel. Preoccupation with an aspiring artist in passing was hardly a good use of his conscience energy, but then, Wyatt wasn't exactly doing anything more useful otherwise. This was little more than quiet time for him and an otherwise often restless mind.

  Fixation on a nice (stunned) face was far from exhausting and yet managed not to be tedious. If the early bird didn’t want the attention, he ought to make sure he wasn’t the first and only student in the room the day Wyatt started, or sit so close to the front. First impressions, and all that.

  Maybe that preoccupation was why it was easy to shift through a half dozen poses without thinking much at all - stirred only by the professors gestures and the ticking clock. Every rasping, dwindling scrape of the charcoal destroyed the potential for silence, and Wyatt almost wished for some background music. Even the off brand classical that so many professors lauded themselves for remaining true to would probably be preferable. Maybe this instructor might benefit from the suggestion.

  Just when he thought he'd finally tuned it all out, between even breaths and the occasional ache around the eight minute mark, the professor called the attention of his class. A departure from the standard he had set last Thursday.

  "Let’s take a quick break. Use the bathroom if you have to," he announced casually. Wyatt lifted his brows, wondering if there was something different about this week's class - maybe Tuesdays were longer than Thursday? But he was still only 'booked' for the two hour block. So, who knew. It was just as likely that the professor had to use the bathroom himself. Regardless, the dirty blond stood to pull on his robe for a few minutes, wondering if he could ask for some heat to be turned on, or up.

  Half the students took full advantage of the offer, vanishing through the exit like the room was on fire. A notable non-absence had the dirty blond mocking himself for various reasons, when it appeared the early bird artist had stayed to refine some of his work. None of those reasons stopped Wyatt, though, from using the excuse of stretching his legs with a stroll around the classroom to stroll up behind the the auburn brunette.

  A fat page of charcoal sketches in varied stages of development was not an uncommon sight in this practice, but Wyatt somehow found himself surprised by the content. He remembered the too-loud, put-upon criticism from last class, and even though he didn’t care or know shit about art, he could tell the artist put a bit more effort into the appearance of his face than anything else. If he had taken measures to counteract that, Wyatt was the last person on earth who might be able to tell.

  "Wow," he murmured, a little bit in awe of the cluster of shadowed drawings - not quite distracted enough to avoid a swell of guilt (and amusement) as the artist startled in response.

  Seeming almost confused as to whether he was truly being addressed or not, he glanced around at the handful of students remaining. Maybe Wyatt could just play it off like he was looking around at everyone’s, like the instructor enjoyed doing, even if that was the exact sort of thing he detested from his own professors.

  "Thanks," the artist said, almost a question - granted, wow wasn’t all that revealing. He wore headphones, one pushed off his ear, and Wyatt had the gall to be flattered when the whole headset came off to rest on narrow shoulders, giving the illusion of undivided attention.

  "Everyone's drawing the same thing though so..." The artist shrugged. Either feigning modesty, or an outlier from the other artists Wyatt had happened to speak to. "They all look like that."

  Wyatt wished he had something better resembling an understanding of even one basic art precept, if only for the sole purpose of filling a potentially awkward silence right this moment, long enough to respond and escape without looking an absolute fool.

  "Well," he murmured, desperate for a witty remark to offer. "I look like that."

  Useful.

  "Besides, basic calculus says each of these angles is at least minutely different." What exactly was he arguing? Wyatt felt like every thought he had ever produced had suddenly fled, leaving him a flopping fish on the peer. Forget art, he was in desperate need of a single intelligent thought.

  "Anyway, nice job," he said, and turned away before he could do any further damage to his so recently soaring ego.

  Just self conscious enough, warm in the cheeks but not entirely pink, Wyatt found himself making a show of looking over a few other drawings (all at abandoned stations - there was no reason to subject himself to further interactions) before returning to his chair. Five minutes was apparently all they were allowed, as students trickled back in, reclaiming seats and materials. That was reason enough to get back to (this excuse for) work, sinking once more into the distraction of middle space and aimless contemplation.

  If only he could shake the feeling of green eyes on him - a ridiculous thing to be thinking about. The damn art student was basically required, just like the rest of them. So how come every time he opened his eyes it was to find wide green already staring directly back?

  Portraiture was on Mondays and Wednesdays.

  Before his pulse could become problematic, given his current state, the second hour ended sooner than later, with a short dismissal from the professor. Wyatt slipped back into his robe in slow and finite movements, clinging to the serenity that always resulted from this. If modelling put him on edge this much then he wouldn’t have done it in the first place.

  "Do you do this a lot?"

  Tying the belt around his waist, Wyatt had his attention yanked to the side by movement in the corner of his eye, and turned just in time to meet green eyes again, this time much closer than a minute ago. Apparently he had invited interaction. Whether that was smart or not at the moment, he couldn’t tell.

  "Relatively," Wyatt answered wryly, feeling a bit more comfortable than he had stood over the artist’s easel. Then, after a beat: "Do you?" He gestured vaguely toward the pencil case clasped in the artist’s hand. Maybe he was narcissistic, but Wyatt definitely found himself wondering about the state and locations of those smudged charcoal renditions of his very self. No doubt tucked away in that big plastic bag.

  The early bird glanced down at the smudged gray fingers clutched around his pencil box and shrugged. "Every Tuesday and Thursday," he answered. "And when I feel like it, I guess.” He looked up at Wyatt again, but his gaze drifted toward another corner of the room, and the dirty blond wondered what could possibly keep the artist from holding eye contact (maybe it was the flimsy robe separating him from full frontal nudity).

  "Sorry to bother you. You probably wanna get out of here," the artist added, chuckling a little. Wyatt was more pleased than he would like to admit by the manifestation of a smile, however small.

  "You're not," he murmured a little too quickly, a shrug lifting his shoulder as he glanced away, eyes darting around the half circle of easels. With everyone hurrying to leave the room anyway, it was probably wiser to sit and wait. Even if he could have done that just as easily in the privacy of the back room, dressed.

  "Not often anyone wants to talk to the naked body they just finished staring at," Wyatt added, amused enough by the thought to have the corner of his mouth curling. He wondered if he should mention that he was more often than not glad about that fact.

  Hopefully nobody would take the green eyed artist’s lead as permission. There weren't many in here with whom Wyatt could imagine tolerating a conversation.

  Green eyes, early bird. Maybe he should just introduce himself and hope the bloom-mouthed artist would return the courtesy. Then Wyatt could at least put a single proper noun to the face. Then aga
in, there were more direct routes.

  "What's your name?" he asked, casually enough (he hoped).

  "I'm Hayden," the artist answered with surprising clarity, chin tipped up a moment like he might be considering something. A handshake? Wyatt hoped not. "And you? You don't go to school here, do you?"

  "No, I don't," Wyatt answered simply, already turning Hayden over in his mind with all those memory methods he used to retain professors and his father's friends names. As if he could forget this one.

  It crossed his mind that, though not directly asked, it was an obvious follow up to name his actual school, but there was a bubble in place here that threatened to pop if he offered too much real world information.

  However, his name had been asked directly, and by his own fault really. Besides, it wasn't very fun to be referred to as 'hey you'.

  "I'm Wyatt," he offered in response, gaze flicking down for any sign that he was expected to shake hands this time - but by whatever grace of circumstance or reasoning, Hayden didn't appear to need one.

  The artist nodded instead, but resorted to glancing around again. Wyatt could only wonder what it might feel like to maintain that gaze for a proper amount of time. Wyatt wasn't quite curious enough to know where exactly Hayden was looking - not while that pointed, warm spotlight was casting flecks of gold between crystalline blades of grass in clear irises. Evidence enough that he was being utterly ridiculous, Wyatt thought, just dryly enough to qualify as self-admonishing.

  Still, it crossed his mind that he wasn't being totally ridiculous, since Hayden was here, talking to him, interested in something other than imitating his appearance in layers of charcoal.

  "I don't know how you do it," Hayden said eventually, laughing short and light as his eyes flicked around. "Naked and everyone's looking at you. It's like a bad dream. I could never."

  Following, finally, the anxious glance around the room, Wyatt took note of the more noticeable gaps - with more than half the students entirely departed now, their easels abandoned.