Title: "The Masters"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: QAF-US
Rating/Classification: PG-13, slash, J/E, angst, ficlet.
Disclaimer: CowLip!! Moo!
Summary: Answer to QAF Improv #12. Must use: rapt - crimson - despair - headlights - dragonfly. Twinks in love...all happiness, right? Not quite...
Note: I wrote this in about ten minutes when I realized it was the last day of the challenge, lol.
Dedication: For Gayla...*g*

He stares, rapt, utterly fascinated. The lashes of his black-smoke eyes are like individual hairs on a paintbrush and you feel like his canvas as he strokes his gaze, lovingly, over your face, your body.

You stumble when you looks at you this way. Fall back a half-step, tangle in the bedsheets that are strewn on the floor. And he flinches, as if he knows he didn't draw the expression on your face...the flash-pan panic of a deer in headlights...but he did put it there.

He flinches, but he doesn't say anything...doesn't put words to your visible despair...doesn't put a *name* to it.

The name neither of you dare say in the heat-cold dampness of his apartment.

Sometimes, when he pulls you close and whispers gorgeous things in your ear, he reminds you that you're the artist, you're the one with the power to capture, to paint. He's simply a fiddler...plucking at strings and getting lucky when music springs forth. But you know he's not "simply" anything. He plucks at your heartstrings with the finesse of a master player.

"You're my Stradivarius, Justin," he murmurs, reverently, against your belly. "I love you."

For some reason, it sounds more like "damn you" and you know exactly why.

If he had the ability, Ethan would color your relationship crimson. Hot. Bright. Passionate. Everything you'd ever dreamed of as a kid jerking off in your room while your mother whistled showtunes, unawares, in the kitchen downstairs. He says all the right things at exactly the right time.

And he feels everything you wanted someone else to feel.

When you make love, he beats against you soft and fast like dragonfly wings and you laugh and you cry and you hold on because it's beautiful. Because it's fleeting.

He stares at you, rapt, fascinated...for memory.

Because he knows you'll forget.

Even if you don't want to, you'll forget.

You're the artist, you're the one with the power to capture, to paint. He's simply a fiddler...plucking at strings and getting lucky when music springs forth.

He'll never be Brian Kinney.

"I love you, too," you murmur against his thigh.

For some reason, it sounds more like "damn you" and you know exactly why.

--end--

June 21, 2002.



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