Chapter Text
It slips again. Falls right between his fingers and onto the ground with a painfully wet sound. Fins flopping, mouth gaping, body desperately trying to throw itself back to safety. Again, on repeat, Markus tries to pick it up and return it to its aquarium. Again, on repeat, it slips out of his grasp. It’s in pain, it’s suffering, and no matter how Markus tries, he can’t return it to safety—
—blue, yellow, red, yellow, red, blue. The light alternates in no particular order, illuminating an oversized ‘O’ on the gigantic ‘DetrOit’ sign outside the bar. The music inside is so loud that it can be heard right down to the lyrics all the way from the line outside. Markus is tired. He doesn’t want to be here. He has class at eight-thirty in the morning—
—it’s crumbling. Growing more and more injured with each pathetic fall it makes onto the carpeted ground beneath it. Markus paces the room in a panic, hands on his face and head and then sides. A sharp inhale, a shaky exhale. He doesn’t want to damage it anymore, but if it doesn’t get back to the water, it’ll die. But why won’t his hands work? Why can’t he just—
—“ID, please.”
“…Sorry, I spaced out. What was that?”
“I need to see your ID, Sir.”
Markus clears his throat. “Right, sorry.” He digs into his pocket and fishes his license out of his wallet, passing it to the bouncer, who spends a few seconds scrutinizing it underneath a bright light. Eventually, he gives it back and then holds out a hand.
“The cover’s fifteen dollars.”
“Yeah, okay, of course—"
—Markus attempts a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm his taut nerves. He can hear the fish glubbing hopelessly for air on the carpet, smell the scent of impending death. He reaches for his phone to call his father, but it slips from his grip and shatters to pieces as it hits the ground, too. Why? What’s going on? At this rate, the fish is going to die—
— “Are you okay?”
Markus blinks, and for good reason. Now that his head is back in focus, he almost can’t see straight around the lights flickering around him from all over. The club his friends have taken him to is extremely heavy on the oscillating lights and strobe flashes. Markus has to take a few solid seconds to find the source of the voice that had pulled him out of his trance.
He doesn’t recognize this guy, but he does note that the flashing lights all seem to swirl around in his eyes and mingle there. Markus has paid enough attention to light sources and shadows and highlights during his many art studies that he can tell even in the confusing array of different colors surrounding them that this person’s eyes are brown. The color of honey-tea. His face is pale, almost ghostly in complexion, and he has the tiniest smattering of dark moles peppered on his neck and around his cheekbones and eyes. His hair hangs down over his forehead in soft, wispy tufts, colored the most gentle shade of brown. The lights don’t stand a chance against those strands.
“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” The person asks, gesturing around him.
Markus nods hastily. “Almost too much, honestly.” He reaches up to scrub at his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m not sure my head can take it.”
“Wait—” The guy’s eyes snap wide open. “You’re not going to start seizing on me or something, are you?”
Markus scoffs, and he suddenly realizes he’s smiling. “No, nothing like that. I’m just…a little overstimulated.” He laughs. “How did you get epilepsy out of that? I only said I had a headache.”
“You’d be surprised. I watched a man drop to the floor last week and start twisting around like he was possessed.”
Markus orders a drink for both of them. “That’s insane. Hope the guy’s okay.”
“Me too. Haven’t seen him since.” Brown Eyes smiles, and it looks almost serene despite what they’ve been talking about. “You don’t come here often, do you?”
“More like never.”
“I’m Connor,” the brown-eyed man introduces, extending a hand out. “Connor Stern.”
Markus smiles and shakes the proffered hand. “Markus Manfred.”
--- --- --- --- ---
“Markus Manfred, I swear to fucking God!”
North’s voice is always fierce, but this particular morning, it feels like nails on a chalkboard. Each and every syllable grates its way down Markus’ spine like it’s made of the sharp barbs on a cactus. But Markus knows why she’s in here. She’s waking him up because he’s likely gone and overslept. Considering last night, he doesn’t doubt it. He sits up in his bed and looks about the room. Blinding light decorates his bedroom in bright stripes, one of those stripes cascading right across his face. He raises a hand to shield his eyes from the offending glow.
“You’re late for class. Come on. I’ll have you know I’m not afraid to shove your clothes on for you.”
“No, of course you’re not,” Markus responds around a sigh, moving to push himself to the edge of his bed. His head is pounding. “Jesus…how drunk did I get last night?”
“You got pretty hammered.” North laughs and tosses a shirt his way. Despite his impaired physical state, he has the reflex to catch the article in his fingers, as well as the pants and socks she casts in his direction seconds after. “You didn’t have much to drink, though. You’re a real lightweight, Markus.”
North knows Markus too well. She’d warned him earlier that night to be careful of how much he drank, mostly because she knows he doesn’t spend much of his time partying. Going to clubs and dancing until he can’t walk aren’t usually on his list of things to do on the weekend. But because North, Simon, and Josh seemed to think he needed a night out, he’d gone.
He can’t remember much, though. He vaguely recalls a pair of big brown eyes and the hissing of the cold Detroit wind against his face, the sound of soft laughter and the brush of hands sliding into coat pockets. A light dusting of snow. Beyond that, though, it’s all hazy, and Markus’ head hurts too badly for him to bother trying to remember anything else.
Besides, he’s got to get to class. He dresses quickly and heads to the restroom to brush his teeth. North stops in the doorway, an elbow braced against the doorframe. “I left aspirin and water on the kitchen counter. Eat a banana or something too, okay?”
“Yes, Mom,” Markus teases around a mouthful of toothpaste suds. He watches North’s gaze drop downward in the mirror. She worries at her lower lip a little, and then looks back up to meet his eyes.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Hungover,” Markus replies as he spits into the sink.
“No, I mean…you know…”
Of course Markus knows. The whole reason he was dragged out last night was because his friends had suspected he wasn’t adjusting to the loss of his father well. And to tell the truth, Markus hasn’t been. Death happens, though, and Carl sure as hell wouldn’t want him dwelling on it, so he’s doing his best.
He and all his friends know, however, that he won’t be back on his feet until he can figure out how to paint again. He hasn’t finished a single piece since his father’s passing, and sometimes, he’s not so sure he’ll ever be able to.
“I’m fine, North.” Markus sighs and wipes his mouth with a towel, before he turns and leans back against the sink. “This kind of thing takes time.”
“I know,” North says, raising a hand to scrub nervously at the side of her neck. “But your degree depends on this, Markus. It’s been three months.”
“It takes years for most people,” Markus comments.
“Most people aren’t studying for the very thing they’ve forgotten how to do.” North sounds firm, and Markus balks a little in response. “Maybe you’d do better by taking a break for a semester or two.”
“You know I can’t do that.” Markus glares down at the palm of his left hand. “The longer I put it off, the more rusty I get. I’ll have to relearn everything.”
“You might have to do that anyway, Markus.” North crosses her arms and props herself up against the doorframe. “In fact, maybe that’s what you need to do. Maybe it’s time to start from square one.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Suddenly, Markus feels anxious. He knows his tone is suddenly sharper, and he almost instantly feels guilty for it. North is just looking out for him. Like Simon and Josh, she’s worried. He’s taken Carl’s death far harder than he could’ve ever hoped to be prepared for. And he had known for years about his father’s illness. “That’s like asking me to start school all over again.”
North sighs. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just…”
“I know,” Markus reaches out and gives her shoulder a squeeze. “And I thank you for it. But I’ll get there, okay? Just bear with me. Please.”
There’s a long pause, before North nods in response. “Okay, yeah. You need to get to class, anyway.”
“I do.” Markus laughs breathily as North shifts out of his way, making his way into the kitchen. “I’m almost never late, though. Maybe I’ll get a one-time pardon.”
“Not likely,” North retorts, arms still crossed, as she follows Markus and moves to stand in front of the bar that separates the kitchen and living room. “Steward’s infamous for being a stickler for the rules.”
Markus shrugs and downs the pills North left for him. She’s always been there for him. They’ve known one another ever since Markus moved to Detroit in first grade. She was the first one to welcome him with open arms, and when they met Josh and Simon in third grade, they all became inseparable. Team Jericho, as Simon had called it at such a young age. The determined and fiery North, the passionate and headstrong Markus, wise and loyal Simon, and intelligent and compassionate Josh. They’ve been together for everything ever since.
So undoubtedly, Markus appreciates everything she and Josh and Simon have done for him. He finishes off the water in his glass and places it in the sink. “He’ll have to get over it today. Thanks for the medicine. Lock up on your way out, okay?”
“As if you have to tell me,” North says with a laugh, before she closes the door behind Markus. He and all three of his friends share an apartment not far from campus. Sure, Markus could afford a house under his late father’s dime, but he refuses to rely on Carl’s money for the rest of his life. He’s got a small emergency fund set up just in case, and Carl insisted upon paying for his schooling (another reason he won’t just take a break), but beyond that, he’s got to learn to walk on his own two feet. That’s one of the biggest lessons his father taught him.
Besides, Leo’s eating up enough of the money with his own bad habits. Markus checks in on his brother every now and then, but most times, Leo is off doing his own thing. Carl’s death has made him even harder to track down, too, and even though Markus and Leo have their tensions, he worries about his brother regularly.
That’s a part of what makes it a little harder to get up in the mornings and go to class. Markus can’t go to Carl for advice about a particularly hard assignment, or about Leo. He can’t visit with him about his latest project, or about the goings-on at school. About North’s new girlfriend or the gaudy-ass bar he attended last night with all its bright lights and pretty brown-eyed boys.
It’s not going to get easier for a very long time.
Halfway through Steward’s lecture, it starts to rain. Markus turns his gaze out to the window, watching the water rolling down the glass in streaks. He thinks about how that would look on a canvas. Wonders if he could capture the crispness of the glass against the fluidity of the water. The gray of the sky outside in contrast to the denseness of the trees surrounding the sidewalks. He wants to try and create it.
Little bursts of inspiration like this come and go frequently. One day, it was the sight of yellowed textbook pages in an open book with a pen laid across the spine. Many times, it’s been the sounds of emotion coming from the chattering students in the classroom, or the mindless drone of the professor toward the end of a particularly long lecture.
And Markus tries every single time. He feels empowered and excited at first, and his pace quickens as he walks briskly toward the art room. He’s always a little giddy as he places the canvas on top of the easel and turns his attention toward all the messy brushes and paint cans scattered about the tables in the art room.
And then it never fails. He hits a wall. What color is the right color? What color would Carl have suggested? Is he going at this from the right angle? Should he have shifted his mind’s eye up and to the left a bit? Why isn’t it coming out right? Why can’t Markus do it without Carl encouraging him from nearby?
Today follows the same pattern. Markus suffers his way through the rest of a Western Art lecture (one he normally rather enjoys, but Steward’s droning is too much for his aching skull today), and when it’s finally over, he jogs out of class and straight for the art building. He revels in the dry smell of the old building as he shoves the double doors open and follows the path he’s so familiar with. One, two, three doors, and then a right into the fourth door. Paint fumes, soap, and the scent of old drywall fill his nostrils. He smiles and strides straight for an easel, placing a big square canvas on it. He spends some time mixing colors, and then turns his focus to the canvas.
And as per the usual pattern, that’s where it all goes awry. Should he start with the shape of the window and the world around it? Should he paint the trees and sidewalks outside first and then layer on the window and the rain? Or should he start with the rain first? Should he focus solely on the rain? Which part should overshadow the other? What’s the most important aspect to the image? What does Markus want to convey?
But that’s the thing. He doesn’t want to convey anything. He wants to paint. He just wants to be able to put something on a canvas again. He wants to see his art come to life the way it used to. Painting has never been this difficult for him. Sure, it’s always been a challenge, but the fun was always in learning new things. But if he can’t so much as throw one brush stroke onto a canvas, what is he even doing? Why does he bother?
God, Carl would be disappointed.
“Damn it…” Markus places the palette back onto the table and lets the brush fall from his fingers. It clinks and bounces on the ground, and Markus thinks that maybe he can draw it too, but then he realizes he can’t, because he can’t even get the bristles of his brush to meet the surface he’s trying to paint on.
So he grabs a pencil. Attempts a sketch. He’ll create the lines, right? Give himself an image to refer to as he paints. He can erase his mistakes and slowly decide what to do with it. He can do this, damn it. He can do this.
But no matter what he does, the lines don’t look right. The rainwater is too jagged, the trees too hazy. The window doesn’t look like a window at all. The sidewalks don’t make sense. The image in Markus’ head has gotten so twisted out of line that he can’t even picture the scene he had so admired back during his lecture.
Thunder roars, and his pencil drops. Markus bends down to pick it up, and as the power in the art room goes out, the pencil slips from his fingers again. The lead breaks and Markus freezes.
It’s growing more broken. The more he moves to pick it up, the more he damages it. Why can’t Markus pick it up? Why can’t he save it? Why can’t he fix what’s been broken, or at the very least, pick up the pieces?
In the darkness of the art room, Markus raises both hands to either side of his head and doubles over. He rests his forehead on the concrete and bites back a scream. He’s so frustrated and defeated. He’s never felt this weak before. Why can’t he move on? Why didn’t anyone tell him that losing someone was this damned challenging? What is he supposed to do? How does he get out of this?
“Markus!”
Simon’s voice reaches Markus’ ears, but he doesn’t move. Lightning flashes, and he wonders if maybe he could attempt to sketch lightning. His lines had been looking pretty jagged, after all. Like lightning.
But his head is still pounding from the hangover. He doesn’t want to try again. Not right now. He’s so drained all of a sudden.
“Markus…Jesus, this again?” He feels the warmth of Simon’s hand on his shoulder and moves to sit upright. Even in the darkness of the art room, he can see the marks his pencil has made on the canvas. His attempted sketch. The smudged lines created by the eraser. “Can’t you take it easy for a few weeks or something?”
Markus doesn’t bother mentioning how much his and Josh’s suggestions often clash with North’s, because he knows his friends are only looking out for him. In the end, they all want him to stop trying so hard to force himself into something that obviously causes him a great deal of stress. He can’t stop, but that isn’t the point.
“I’m backsliding,” Markus responds, shaking his head. “I’ll lose everything if I stop.”
“That’s ridiculous, Markus.” Simon helps him to his feet. “You just lost your dad. You’re allowed to be uninspired for a while, alright?”
Markus feels a little dizzy. Perhaps throwing himself onto the ground like he had wasn’t the right way to go about dealing with his issues, because now, he feels queasy. He hadn’t eaten anything like North had suggested, and now the emptiness of his stomach and the hangover still nagging at his system are coming back with a vengeance.
Simon notices, too. “…You look like you’re about to throw up everywhere. Let’s get you home.”
“I’m fine,” Markus protests, waving a hand as he moves to grab for his bookbag, but his stomach turns violently and he instead bolts for the restroom.
At the very least, his body waited long enough for the aspirin to kick in and for him to get through class. But now that he’s just finished upending his stomach into the sink, he really does want to take Simon’s advice and get home. He washes his mouth out and then emerges from the bathroom, where Simon is still waiting for him. Those blue eyes are wide with concern, and when they lock onto Markus’ mismatched ones, his brow furrows down into a frown.
“You don’t look so good, Markus.”
“Yeah, I know,” Markus waves him off. “That going home thing. Let’s do that.”
--- --- --- --- ---
As it turns out, the thing that had Markus sick to his stomach in the art room wasn’t just the nasty combination of a hangover and stress. By some twist of fate, he’s contracted a relentless stomach flu that’s had him quarantined away in his bedroom for three days now. But he’s recovering quickly. At the very least, he can actually keep food down. North, Simon, and Josh take turns passing crackers and soups and Gatorade through a barely opened door with masks on their faces. Today, it’s Josh’s turn.
“I’m not throwing up anymore,” Markus answers exasperatedly as Josh holds a can of Lysol up into the air after passing a bottle of blue Gatorade through the crack in the door. He jumps back just in time to avoid the spray of the offending disinfectant, and then narrows blue and green eyes at his friend. “Seriously, I’m probably not even contagious anymore. Can I please come out?”
“Do I want your death? No way in hell,” Josh retorts plainly, sounding not unlike how North had sounded yesterday. It’s all starting to run together at this point. “Give it a few more hours, Markus. I’ll bring you a sandwich and if you’re not barfing that up, we know you’re getting better.”
“I know I’m getting better,” Markus groans in protest. “Guys, I’m itching to see more than my television screen. This has got to be illegal somehow.”
From his bedroom door, the living room is visible. North and Simon are gathered around a laptop screen together. The latter turns his head to regard Markus over the couch.
“A few more hours, Markus,” Simon answers. “That’s all we ask. Take a nap or something.”
“I’m not lying down right after eating a sandwich.”
The door shuts in his face there, and Markus sighs deeply. Sometimes, he thinks his friends are too good to him. He knows they mean well by keeping him on lockdown like this, but god if he’s not restless. He just wants to get out and do something. Even going to that obnoxious bar with the glaring sign outside would be a pleasant change from Friends reruns and his third straight The Evil Within playthrough. Markus is normally a very patient man, but right now, he feels as if he’s coming right out of his skin.
Irritated, he takes a shower and then plops down into his chair and puts on 72 Most Dangerous Places to Live while he waits for his aforementioned ‘few hours’ to pass by.
No offense, Netflix—your show is interesting and all, but Markus can’t really focus right now. He finds himself looking at just about anything other than the television screen. He scans the ceiling and the window, the carpet, the bed he has yet to make. He should probably wash those sheets. In fact, he’ll do just that once he’s set free from his damned room. His desk is a mess, too. God, he supposes he could have been doing a lot while he was all-but grounded here.
Markus pushes himself up from his chair and walks over to his desk. The dark-cherry-finished surface is littered with notebook scraps, textbooks, a calculator, several pencils, and even a couple of paintbrushes. Markus’ phone sits on the corner, and he unconsciously moves it away from the edge. He gathers up the sheets of paper and straightens them out, placing them in one of the textbooks and closing it around them. The pencils are placed in a cup at the back of the desk. Markus opens the drawer to put away the calculator, and then he spots another book.
An old sketchbook. Really old, as in from his childhood. Markus still remembers the pictures inside. Doodles he and his friends drew during recreation hours in school. Little block people with big spiral fingers and scribbles for hair. Markus remembers them fondly, just like he had when he’d pulled the notebook out of storage after his father had passed.
He takes a seat in his chair, sketchbook in hand, and allows himself to get lost in the images. He smiles at the crudely-made doodle Simon drew of North and Josh in a fist fight. It’s mostly scribbles that someone who hadn’t witnessed the drawing taking place wouldn’t be able to discern, but Markus sees exactly what Simon was trying to convey.
He’s so engrossed in brushing his fingers over the colored-pencil drawings and remembering the days the images were drawn that he doesn’t realize how much time has passed. The door swings open violently, and Markus jumps. He gapes up at a nervous-looking North.
“Shit, I’m so sorry!” She squeals, extending a plate out to him. “I forgot your sandwich hours ago! You can come out now!”
Markus can’t even bring himself to be irritated, mostly because he’s found something to do to keep himself occupied during the course of his isolation time, but hearing that he gets to see the living room again, he’s at his feet in seconds. He places the sketchbook on the desk on the way out and snatches the plate from North.
He’s halfway through a bite of a turkey sandwich with lettuce and cheese when Simon pops up from the couch. “Welcome back to the world of the living.” He ignores the way Markus rolls his eyes. “By the way, I think we may have found a way to help you get back into the swing of painting again.”
Markus cocks an eyebrow. He’s not sure what anyone could do to fix that particular problem, but he waits for Simon to explain, munching away at his sandwich.
“You need a muse.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know,” Josh agrees from the other end of the couch, sucking on a bottle of orange juice, “a muse. Someone or something that provides you with inspiration.”
“We know you usually go by something in your surroundings, but maybe that’s the problem,” Simon adds. “I think you should try referencing human models.”
“…I’ve done that before, guys.” Markus sighs. “We’ve had human models in some of my classes.”
North takes a seat in an armchair near the couch, throwing her legs over one of the arms. She waves a hand, dismissing Markus’ words as if they’re bothersome gnats. “No, not like that. You need someone you can draw in any environment. They can come here, pose however you want, and you can just…do your thing.”
“And you get to look at a naked person as often as you want.” Simon shrugs.
“They don’t have to be naked to model, though,” Josh clarifies. “I swear to god, Markus, if I walk in to some guy’s junk blocking the view of the TV—”
“—okay, first of all,” Markus interrupts, tossing the rest of his sandwich in the trash, “why would I want the TV in whatever I’m painting? Second, I never agreed to any of this.”
“You don’t have to.” North smirks from nearby. “We already paid them, and they’re coming over first thing tomorrow morning. You don’t have to worry about us being around for most of the day since we’ve all got class, so you can have them pose wherever without getting in our way.”
“You’re paying them?” Markus slaps a hand over the front of his face and groans in defeat. “Now, I don’t have a choice.” He can’t help but feel like this situation isn’t going to go much more smoothly than all his attempts to paint in the art building on campus, but if his friends actually shelled out cash for this, he can’t go back on it. He’s got to at least try. God forbid it turn out to be another failed attempt…
“Precisely,” Simon replies, smiling at Markus over the couch. “Just give it a shot. For us, okay?”
“You already know I’m going to, seeing as you paid a person without telling me.”
--- --- --- --- ---
Setting up for this person’s arrival almost feels like getting ready for a date. Markus isn’t sure what he’s supposed to wear, or if he should have the apartment cleaned up properly. Should he wait to dig out his art supplies so this person’s impression of his home isn’t totally awful? Should he make them something to eat? Should he go out and get drinks? What the hell does he do?
Markus is up way too early that morning. He’s cleaning around North and Simon and Josh, who are all getting ready for their lectures for the morning, and he continues to clean well into all of them leaving. Once he’s satisfied, he hops into the shower, and then places an order for breakfast to be delivered. He settles on a black and green hoodie and a pair of gray jeans to wear. If this person is coming over and they’re not leaving the apartment, Markus surely doesn’t have to dress up too extravagantly, right?
He’s not sure exactly what time his apparent muse is supposed to arrive, but he guesses he’s ready for it now. Literally the only clue he’d been given was that the person would be there in the morning.
It’s pushing almost noon, though, and the person hasn’t arrived yet. The delivered breakfast is cold on the counter now, and Markus has already swept right on past being irritated and gone straight to angry. If North, Simon, and Josh actually paid for this person’s help, they had better not stand him up. How would he explain that to his friends?
However, you hire some strange guy to come over and pose as someone’s art model, and of course that strange guy is gonna take the cash and run. Who wants to sit still in a likely uncomfortable position, potentially naked, for an unnamed amount of hours, anyway?
But still. It’s not right to just…flake out like that.
Markus stuffs the cold breakfast into the fridge and instead pours himself a soda, plopping down onto the couch and turning on the television. He turns on Bob Ross, and just as he’s getting comfortable, his doorbell rings.
Finally.
Getting to his feet, Markus storms to the door. He’s got quite the string of irritated words on the tip of his tongue, from demanding some of the pay his friends shelled out back to the classic ‘I hope you’ve got an explanation for this’, but he stops dead in his tracks when he opens the door.
“Sorry I’m late—I’m not familiar with this area, and my phone’s not getting any…signal...”
The cool Detroit winter breeze. The obnoxious light from the club’s sign. Loud music. Big brown eyes that take on all the light’s colors and make them their own. A soft smile, a breathy laugh. Hands tucked into the pockets of a long coat. Boots strolling down the sidewalk, crunching in the thin layer of snow. Three shots of vodka apiece. Soft hands with long, delicate fingers.
“…Markus Manfred.”
Markus quite honestly never thought he’d see this person again. But here said person is, standing right in front of him. His cheeks are flushed from the cold air outside, making it obvious that he really had been searching for a while. His big brown eyes are wide and seem to swallow Markus whole. He’s got a paper clutched in his hands, but those hands drop to his sides and instead, he stares, lips hanging open, waiting for a response.
Markus clears his throat and gapes down at him. “Connor Stern. Come in.”