Run away but we’re running in circles

[Julio de la Rosa]

His gaze followed the direction of Angel's pointing finger toward glass doors that led outside. Outside? Oh, the pool. Of course there was a pool. Penthouse. It sounded like such a rich person thing. Pools and penthouses. Painting outside by the pool of the penthouse. He turned his gaze back to Angel, then nodded.

Yes, he wanted to see this place where Angel painted. He stood up with a smile. Why not? Julio thought he could understand the desire to paint outside, with the fresh air and the sun when it was light outside or the moon when it was dark. Julio used to sit on the top of the hospital rooftop when his mother was asleep and... admittedly, he thought about what it would be like to leap off but he stayed his hand because of his mother.

And when she was gone...

He glanced down, at the painting of her angelic face, dancing. Her smile was so genuine when she looked at him and brushed his hair from his eyes. But he had to wonder what she looked like when he wasn't there and she had nothing left to smile for.

[Angel Miguel Albares]

He knew, he knew, he was the worst stereotype of a little rich boy living up here in his high perch above the clouds, in a penthouse suite stocked to the brim with beautiful furniture and outfitted with every amenity. There was even a gym here, although Angel never went near it—and it was obvious from his noodle arms and chicken legs.

But that pool was really quite a marvellous thing. He loved it the second he set eyes on it. It was lit at night and it was an infinity pool; if he got too close to the edge, it felt like he could fall right off. He went close to the edge quite a lot these days, looking down, contemplating...

Maybe he was just waiting for something to give him that one last push. Every day felt like a tug-of-war. Some days he took that extra step forward. Other days he took one back. Forward and back, forward and back, one step forward, two steps back. The meds kept him from swimming right over that edge but... for how long?

The beginning of tonight, when Julio looked at him with distrust in his gaze, was a step forward. But right now when they were smiling and getting up and moving outside to see the sparkling pool, it felt like two steps back. The night air was cool and there was a bit of a breeze stirring his hair when he walked outside. Angel gestured to the glass-domed structure just off to one side of the pool; it glistened as it reflected the lights set all around the balcony. Tonight the pool was backlit in a mysterious purple-blue color, with its surface rippling ever so gently every time the wind passed through.

"You can see all across the city here," he said as he stopped at the small studio space. There were two easels, one long table with his paints in racks, brushes on stands and various bottles. Angel painted standing up so there was no chair near the easels but one was pushed in all the way at the back. He tried sitting; it didn't work and he was too lazy to drag the chair back, so that was its new home.

Aside from the painting equipment, there was also a life-sized Captain America cutout in one corner, several small sketches of random superheroes hanging up along the back wall and one very conspicuous tiered cabinet that held an assortment of figurines.

Do you like it? He went over to grab a figurine of Thor off the shelf and showed it to Julio. "It's signed by the actor Chris Hemsworth. Look!"

[Julio de la Rosa]

Whoa, he wasn't kidding, Angel, when he said that he could see the whole city from this vantage point. It was kind of an exhilarating feeling that was almost like flying. Or being an omnipresent creature, looking over the city like the superheroes Angel so loved. He grinned when he turned to see the cutout of a Captain America nearby. His grin only grew as Angel delightedly showed off his signed Thor figure.

I like it, he signed, and he didn't mean the figure. This is more you. More Angel. The sign for angel as a word was quite a funny one--a bit like chicken wings flapping. He remembered when his mother taught it to him and he laughed silently and she laughed aloud. He was like... four years old.

Looking at the easels and the paint, he cocked his head and then turned back to Angel. Can I try?

[Angel Miguel Albares]

Julio liked it! The way he smiled lit up his whole face and Angel's heart turned over in his chest when their eyes met. He grinned too; he couldn't help it. Joy was infectious coming from Julio. It was so easy to get caught up in those smiles that even the silence between them didn't feel awkward anymore.

But...

"Are you calling me a... chicken?" He didn't recognize 'angel' so it just looked like Julio was flapping his arms in a chicken dance. Which... um. He'd take it? But he was confused. But the first part—about the space being more like him—made him look away, smiling madly. Yeah... his safe space was definitely this studio.

While Julio went over to the easels, Angel went to replace his precious signed figurine. He liked playing with them too—but he didn't say anything about that because obviously he didn't want to come across like a child. Of course you can! Enthusiastically he grabbed a pre-stretched canvas and set it up on the easel.

"What do you want to paint?" Angel pulled a rack of brushes over so that Julio had easier access. "You can even do... Bob Ross style paintings if you want." Assuming Julio knew who Bob Ross was... but the man was something of a national treasure.

[Julio de la Rosa]

Again, silent laughter in tandem with the word angel in spanish sign language. It really did look chicken-ish. He shook his head and signed it again and pointed at Angel but he was pretty sure he was only confusing the poor guy more. Names in sign language were given by others. Julio's name signed was... embarrassingly, because it was given to him by his mother, the sign for sunshine only instead of starting with the letter S, it started with J for Julio.

But before he could explain it--he was still fumbling with getting his phone back out--the topic had moved to the painting and Angel seemed more than thrilled with the idea of Julio trying his hand at painting.

You. He wanted to paint Angel. It would probably look terrible; Julio didn't know anything about painting beyond finger-painting when he was a child in primary school. The last time he painted anything, he was probably eight or nine years old. Looking at the daunting white canvas, he didn't even know where to begin.

[Angel Miguel Albares]

"..."

Julio wanted to draw a chicken?

Seriously he didn't know what that would look like and he never once imagined Julio wanted to paint him. As a subject, Angel wasn't anyone's first choice--not even himself. Especially not himself. He had tried to paint himself multiple times, since it was easiest to sit in front of a mirror instead of hiring a model or staying in one place staring creepily at people. But the pieces were... grotesque. Twisted. The colors ran into each other, creating a heinous nightmarish blend. It was all dark, all tormented.

"Wouldn't you rather draw something like... a duck? Or a swan? Instead of a chicken?"

[Julio de la Rosa]

Huh? What was that look on Angel's face? Why was his face making that face? Did he not like the idea of him painting him? But then it all made sense and dawned on him when Angel oh-so-gently tried to persuade him to draw something else, instead of a chicken. Julio laughed so hard this time that tears formed in the corners of his eyes as he doubled over.

He shook his head and signed no a couple of times but he couldn't seem to gather his composure. Every time he looked back up at Angel and his adorably confused expression, he ended up in a new fresh hell of silent laughter.

No, no. This time, he pointed directly at Angel before making the sign for angel.

[Angel Miguel Albares]

Wha? Julio found something incredibly hilarious about drawing chickens and Angel was so baffled that he didn't know what to do with himself. He stood there looking confused. Staring. And every time Julio looked at him, he burst out laughing again, which started to disturb Angel because that was not the behavior of a normal man.

"Me?" Julio pointed right at him. Earlier he signed 'you' but Angel's brain was still on chicken so he assumed it was a chicken that Julio had his heart set on. Now... his heart was set on... "Me?"

He leaned back in his surprise, almost taking a stumbling step backwards. Like that finger directed at him was a gun. "Why?" The smile on his face was disbelieving, incredulous. No one in their right mind wanted to paint him. Every painting was personal, anyway, and Julio... Maybe he just wanted to paint people. In general. And Angel was here.

"I don't mind but..." Maybe it was just because he was here, and convenient.

[Julio de la Rosa]

Yes. You.

Once the hilarity of chicken Angel had subsided, he took in a deep breath and finally got a hold of his phone. Poor, poor Angel. He still looked utterly confused, now more by the fact that Julio was pointing to him. He seemed more incredulous about that than the chicken debacle.

"That sign is angel, not chicken. I'm sorry. My mama thought it was very funny when I was young. It must have brought back old memories." He grinned as he showed that part to Angel, lightly reaching out to touch his wrist. It was nothing against Angel. It was just... an old, happy memory.

Then looking down, he began typing up more: "Why you? I like you. Does it bother you?" He turned the phone back to Angel, a little nervously this time.

[Angel Miguel Albares]

Oh! Ohh! It meant angel, not chicken! Well one could see how Angel had gotten that mixed up, what with the chicken wings and all. He laughed now too, relieved that Julio hadn't gone out of his mind. Angel would have had to run for it if he thought Julio went crazy all of a sudden and lock him out on the balcony.

But there was that light again in Julio's eyes when he talked about his mother. The way he smiled made Angel feel slightly envious. Sad. Wistful. But mostly sad because Julio was alone now and all he had of his mother were memories. Good ones, though. Look how strong he was, how brave, to be able to laugh and remember her in all of those funny, endearing moments.

Angel looked down at the phone again and his heart caught in his throat. I like you, it said, plain as day. Not that way though, right? Surely not that way. Angel reached over to touch his wrist, like he'd touched Angel's wrist earlier, and he smiled. "It doesn't bother me." Julio couldn't like him that way but it was still... nice to be liked in any capacity.

Okay, he signed and then turned to drag the chair over so he could sit in it. "Do you want me to get it started for you, or do you want to paint on your own?" He could sketch out an outline for Julio and Julio could fill it in, but Angel often thought learning by doing was the most effective way.

[Julio de la Rosa]

A funny little warmth filled him when Angel touched his wrist. It had been a long time since Julio made any kind of meaningful connections with other people. Those he worked with were close as friends could be. Maybe some were even like brothers, especially those that had worked before him and acted as mentors for him.

But it wasn't quite the same as this. His smile was small but it was warm as he nodded slightly. Good. It didn't bother Angel. And he didn't know where to start with the paint but he wanted to try it on his own so he shook his head when Angel offered to help.

Just sit, he signed. And I will paint!

Choosing where to start turned out to be the hardest part. What color, what brush? But eventually he made his choices and he started to work sincerely. His style was not a thing like Angel's--at all. His strokes were painfully amateurish but he thought he was capturing the essence of Angel. Like his drawing, his painting was sort... of round. It was not a portrait or realistic likeness, even with Angel sitting right there.

He painted a paintbrush into Angel's hand and added little angel wings, making them short and stubby and a little like chicken wings. Although he drew Angel with a little smile, somehow, his eyes still came out looking a little sad. It hadn't been his intention; but it was what he saw when he looked at Angel so it must have come out in the artwork.

[Angel Miguel Albares]

All right, Julio was going to do this himself! Good. Maybe he had skills that Angel didn't know of. Back at his apartment he sort of drew a little cartoon version of himself that was pretty cute; perhaps he was a bit of an artist at heart, too. So he sat there quietly, feeling self-conscious since no one really ever offered to paint him. It was usually the other way around, if he had to be honest.

He felt squirmy every time Julio looked his way. Was that natural? Did models who posed for paintings feel the same way? It wasn't all over, either, just... in his chest. His heart was restless; it couldn't decide if it wanted to beat fast or if it wanted to beat at all. Angel tried focusing on the Captain America cutout in the corner but his gaze refused to stay there.

It was a good chance to study Julio, though. He memorized Julio, the shape of his profile, every feature on his face. He was so handsome. Something about him made people take notice and it wasn't just his good looks. His personality shone through, too, in the flick of his gaze, the quirk of his lips when he smiled, the seriousness of his expression as he concentrated. Angel already envisioned him being the subject of his next painting. Or maybe... a sculpture? A bust? Would that be creepy? (Not if he didn't show Julio...)

Eventually when curiosity got the better of him, Angel peeked around the side of the canvas to try and look at what Julio had done. It was his turn now for his eyes to light up and for him to laugh. Not because it was a bad painting but because in a kind of weird way, it was him. There was a likeness there that couldn't be missed.

"I like this." He stood up and walked around to get a better look. The little paintbrush, the fat angel wings, the shy smile, that was him. Angel slipped a hand over Julio's shoulder without realizing that he was doing it, like an encouraging gesture or an affectionate one. "I like it a lot!"

It had his eyes, too. Sad eyes. Was that what Julio saw? He even managed to translate that onto canvas somehow so it must have been obvious. Angel's smile faded a little as he leaned closer to both Julio and the painting, really studying it this time. All the colors—the mop of blue on top of his head—were not colors he usually chose for his own self portraits. "It's... very optimistic," he commented thoughtfully. The colors weren't blinding but they were somewhat vibrant. Optimistic, like... Julio picked out the good parts of him instead of seeing the darkness inside.

[Julio de la Rosa]

Oh, he was laughing. Julio was somewhat self-conscious. His work was nothing at all like that gorgeous painting Angel had done of Julio's mother. It had a definite cartoonish style to it; not intentional, it was just how his drawings came out and it seemed to translate into paint, too. Natural, he thought. But not as good as Angel in any capacity.

But it was a good-natured laugh, not a mean one and he smiled as Angel said that he liked it. That was... good. Somehow, he hadn't realized how important it was for him to like it. After all, the subject was Angel. If he didn't like it... it almost felt like Julio didn't get it right.

His smile only grew as Angel placed a companionable hand on his shoulder and they both stood there, taking in the painting together. Already Julio could see places where he made mistakes but paint wasn't an easy medium for him. The gist of what he saw was there. It was very clearly Angel, he thought. Down to the expression to the bright hair and the pose. Like he was trying to be smaller than he was. But the paintbrush gave him a kind of confidence, too.

Maybe I'm optimistic, he signed, smiling. They were close right now. Close enough that if Julio wanted to, he could have leaned in and... nuzzled Angel. Or kissed him. He didn't, though. He only cupped his cheek, thumb gently caressing his face. ...and leaving a little streak of blue paint where it had accidentally gotten on the side of his hand. His eyes widened for a second and then he took his hand back, signing, Sorry!

[Angel Miguel Albares]

More than anything, Julio was an excellent study of character. He got the essence of who Angel was; that was something all artists struggled with, to imprint the soul of their subject onto their works of art. But this skill wasn't one that could be taught. It came from within and certain people were born with it. Julio could learn how to blend colors and how to judge proportions; he couldn't learn how to express the subject's sadness and pain in such a sensitive way, not if he practiced for a hundred years.

Angel brushed his free hand over the side of the canvas, liking the painting more and more the longer he studied it. It was such an intimate glimpse into Julio's thoughts. Into the way he truly saw Angel, which couldn't be expressed in so many words. He saw into the heart of Angel's sadness but the optimistic parts showed, too. His paintbrush was his sword—he used it to speak when words failed. His wings were cute, funny, things that Angel could never be accused of. But there were cute moments, funny moments, between them.

Then—as he was so absorbed in the painting—a sudden touch startled him. He reached up to brush off Julio's hand on reflex alone and thankfully he didn't get a chance to. It might have sent the wrong message again. Julio pulled his own hand down and Angel felt something thick against his cheek. He touched his face and his fingertips came away blue.

It's okay! He laughed again as he noticed more splotches of paint along Julio's hands and arms. Oops! Painting did get messy! Angel glanced around for the paint thinner to take off the smudges, but his eyes caught on the glimmer of the pool and a surge of boldness caused him to turn to Julio. "I know where you can wash that off. Come on."

He walked out of the studio, right up to the heated pool, and dove in—clothes on and everything.

[Julio de la Rosa]

Oh? Somewhere to wash off the paint? Julio liked where this was going. To be honest, the moment he glimpsed that magical pool, he wanted to leap right into it. The evening air was just right for a dip in a pool and Julio was fond of water, too. He understood immediately why this place was Angel's special place. The city and the pool and the area where he kept his beloved heroes and his paint and canvases...

As soon as he stepped into that studio, Julio felt it, too. Like it was a magical place. It touched the soul. And it was a far cry from the pristine white decor of the inside of that penthouse.

Julio couldn't help grinning as Angel leapt right into his pool without preamble. But Julio, who didn't want to have to change into stripping clothes in his duffel bag, was definitely not hopping in there fully clothed. Expertly, with the grace of a stripper that had been in the business for half a decade, Julio removed most of his clothes. His shirt, his jeans. (Strippers did not strip in jeans, however.) He was down to his skivvies before he joined Angel in the pool.

And he dove right in, water up over his head. Underwater, everything was slow and quiet. When he came up for air, his hair was sopping wet, the bun he'd tied it up into loose at the back of his head. He wiped his face before treading water in place.

The water was warmer than he had expected it to be. He pointed to Angel's cheek, where the paint had mostly washed away but there was still a tiny smudge of it clinging on.