Curative Diversity

A/N: Well, let's hope everything goes well with this fic. I can't promise when I'll update, but I'll try to at least get a chapter up once a month. However, I'll be out of town for the next week, so I can't promise anything.

Curative Diversity

Imp

A warm, glowing background. Gives it a bit of a homely feel, right? Bright, bold strokes of oil over the acrylic. Not the other way around; it didn’t work like that. Acrylic over oil is an absolute disaster. Messy, messy, messy. Would ruin the entire thing. Besides, the style called for something extremely loud or exaggeratedly cold. Nothing in between would work. Now, of course, there was that white corner that was meant to be. Leave it alone. It gives the sense of mystery. Did the artist mean to leave it there, or was it merely a mistake? They would ask. And, yessir, they would ask. No room for doubt in that.

Doubt causes misery which leads to bad work. Bad work is absolutely unacceptable. No, sir, no room for doubt while working a masterpiece. No room at all. Optimism is not necessary, but preferable to most over pessimism. Happy thoughts are happy paintings. A bold caress of the canvas in a dark amethyst. Vice versa, too. A happy painting is a happy thought. But sadness. Sadness was many things. A deeper emotion, one might say. But still, even if the happiness is hollow, a façade is more appreciated than the bearing of a twisted soul.

That was what his predecessor had said, anyway. Whether or not he chose to believe it was another story. A firm stroke of a delicate shade of blue on the canvas. It was his picture on display, wasn’t it? So he should have some input on how it came out. Twisted at the end this time, with a darker shade of green added in.

There. It was an admirable piece, he concluded, raking his eyes over the finished portrait. For the past few weeks (an hour every Tuesday and Thursday, to be precise) he had been working on the assignment. It was simply, really. The only real task was deciding what scene to paint. Marshes aren’t exactly the prettiest type of scenery; making it worth something to look at went unsaid. The person requesting the canvas had to be worth a lot, though, with how much they were willing to pay for it.

He nodded once to himself and, paintbrush dipped in dark brown, added his signature to the right-side bottom. Now it really was finished. A tiny smile worked its way across his brooding face as he took a step back. There was nothing quite like finishing something you had put so much of yourself into. It left one with the sense of loss, however; like there was something more you had to do, something hanging over your shoulder; your conscience whispering that you had better finish this before you really get in trouble.

But now everything was said and done. There was nothing left to accomplish; instead, another blank space waited for the caress of his paintbrush. Yet another customer asking for a little piece of him; the memoir of their precious history waiting to be hung on the wall. He shook his head and removed the paint-heavy apron. It was promptly hung on the back of a plush leather chair. He walked back to the painting for a quick look. Nothing had changed, but he felt slightly better about the outcome, nonetheless.

The man gave one last stroke of his hand over the Cherokee easel before departing to the waiting door. Glancing back, he turned the golden knob and stepped through, using his foot to shut the door. A ‘click’ indicated that the automatic lock had not failed to do its job. Good. His artwork was safe for the night.

He shoved his hands into the font pockets of his Egyptian cotton sweatshirt, turned, and began the walk to his familiar haunt. It was the same routine he took everyday, without fail. It came as no surprise when his name was called out. It would have happened regardless, as he knew most people who inhabited this particular street.

“Vince! Hey, Vincent!”

The man known as Vincent Jude twisted around to see the recognizable face of his publisher, Derek Schrader. The tall, dark haired man’s chest heaved up and down as he caught his breath. A shroud of misty air soon to be evaporated clouded around his mouth as Derek puffed.

“Was there something you wanted?” Vincent asked politely. He was always polite, no matter what. It was an ingrained trait from his youth.

“Yeah, look, man, I was just about to head over to your studio when I saw you heading out,” the raven-haired man began as he regained his composure. “Some friends of mine are getting together, and I thought that, yanno, maybe you wanted to come with us?” He smiled dashingly, as he did every time he asked the same question.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Schrader, but I think I’d like a quiet afternoon. Work just seems to drain me of any energy I might have had,” he declined gently. It seemed as if was an unbreakable routine. Every Friday night, Schrader would ask the same question with little variance, and Vince would politely reject the offer. It was quite sweet of him, but couldn’t he see that Vincent would rather spend time alone with no other company but his cat?

“You’d know to call me Derek by now, I’d think,” he replied with a slight scowl, but grinned to show he didn’t mean anything by it. “I ask you the same thing every Friday, and you always reject me. I might start thinking you don’t like me anymore, Vinny,” Derek said the nick-name with a fondness that couldn’t be faked. It made Vincent that much more ashamed.

“I’m sorry you would think such a thing, but, honestly, Mr. Sch—uh, Derek, I think I’d best be on my way. It’s getting dark, and I’d like to be home before then,” he smiled with regret. It would have been fun to go out, but then were would Benny be? The poor cat wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

Derek sighed and attempted a grin. He couldn’t help but feel disappointment. The blonde always turned him down, but things wouldn’t be the same if he didn’t at least try to get the reclusive man out for once. He eyed the other up and down. It was a shame that the world didn’t get to see just what a fine specimen Vincent was. And, boy, was he fine.

Shaggy dark blonde hair framed his face, the choppy layers softening his sharp features. His pale green iris’ stood out like a rose among daisies. Slender eyebrows rose temptingly over the seductive eyes. Vince’s face was fine-boned and delicate, much like his overall frame. His personality was charming in its own shy, elusive way. However, like any other modest artist, his clothing let something to be desired. The names were always designer, the tags always expensive, but it was as if they were tailored to fit an entirely different person. His garments were at least two sizes too big. Somehow, though, the style fit him. It was purely Vincent, and that was alluring anytime of the day.

“If you want to avoid me so badly, then I guess I’ll go.” Derek stooped down and fleetingly brushed his lips across the other man’s cheek. He turned back the way he had come and waved as he disappeared into the shadows.

Vincent was left with a soft pink blush on his features, staring in wonder after the man he called boss. A small smile flickered across his face as he, too, once again began to walk. His destination was not home, however. In a course of seconds, he had changed his mind. Vince was going to have fun tonight, if not just with Derek and his crowd. No, the two’s definition of ‘fun’ was entirely too different.

The blonde was heading to the local college library to catch up on some reading. Boring? To most, yes; but to Vince, it was an evening well spent.

Benny would be alright alone for a few more hours.

Vincent strolled along the sidewalk in relative peace. The crowd was thinning out as the evening become more and more apparent. Not even those most dedicated to their education bothered to hang around the library on Friday nights. Unless, of course, they were people such as him.

The young blonde trotted up the steps with a slight bounce; it came with having lived in a two-story house since he was a kid. Most of the time he took the steps two at a time. It was easier, and it got him to the top faster than walking up them would. He ran a slender hand through his shaggy hair before gently pulling open the library doors.

The inside was nice and neat. Everything was in perfect geometric shape. The rows of books were dizzyingly alike. Vincent was glad for the precision, but sometimes it felt like entering an entirely different world. The library was an old and archaic one; something you’d expect to find in magazines and old Victorian-styled communities.

It was one of his homes, though. Of course, his beloved art studio always came first. But there was always something alluring in traveling down the paths of great author’s minds. Writing was something he was never good at. Speaking his feelings was hard enough on its own, but writing them down for the word to see? It simply wasn’t done.

Painting was an escape. An emotional outlet, if you would. It wasn’t really his own thoughts that he published, dear goodness, no; it was other people’s wishes that he merely allowed to come to life. His own personal paintings never saw the light of day. No, they were locked down in chains and padlock. Nothing would get to those.

Looking down the aisles of books, he sighed slightly. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to come. There were so many books to chose from, each their own unique universe. Vince shrugged off the idea of leaving hastily. He was determined to do something for himself.

Walking casually towards the front desk, he observed the map of the library for a second. It dictated where each section of literary works lay. He, of course, headed off to fantasy. Nothing was more interesting than something coming form a person creative enough to envision an entirely new, never-before-seen world.

The green-eyed man plucked the first book he saw from the shelf and walked down to the nearest table. Another person was there, though. He looked around and was surprised that there actually were a few more people milling about. Surprising, he thought, but not wholly unappreciated.

A small smile flitted across his face as he looked back to the other person at the table. He was an interesting character. He reminded him of his brother’s friends. Vincent allowed his eyes to rake across the other for a second.

The man’s dark hair hung in shaggy waves down to the nape of his neck. Wayward strands of bangs framed his handsome face. It was hard to tell just what color his eyes were, but Vincent knew that whatever they were, it would only add to the unusual appearance of him.

While he was without a doubt an attractive man, Vincent dismissed him as being anything close to relationship material.

“I hope you don’t mind me sitting here?” he asked, polite as ever.

The man looked up and stared in Vincent’s direction for a moment. On second thought, the man really was very pleasing to the eye. It was then that the blonde noticed something he previously hadn’t been aware of. He had assumed the man was writing in a notebook of some sort, but it appeared as if he was, in all actuality, blind. He refrained from gasping as the dark-haired man paused from running his fingers across the Braille pages.

“Be my guest,” the milky-eyed man replied, unconcerned of the fact that his private table would be intruded upon.

Vincent smiled weakly in return, before remembering that the other couldn’t exactly see it.

“Thanks, umm, I mean, I would hate to disturb you,” he managed to get out. Inwardly he cursed about his shyness. It was natural, but at the moment he wished that for once he didn’t stutter over every little thing he was trying to say while in the presence of a good-looking guy.

“I wouldn’t have agreed if I thought that you would,” the man clipped. His tone was slightly less than welcoming, but at least there hadn’t been any comment on Vince’s lack of eloquence.

The blonde blushed slightly and decided that now would be a good time to shut up. His mouth, however, seemed to think otherwise.

“I’m Vincent, by the way. And, um, thank you, again.” The second the words poured out of his mouth, the young man was mortified. As if he hadn’t sounded like a complete fool in the first place!

The man paused, however, and smiled slightly, as if amused.

“Morgan Grey,” he, now dubbed Morgan, promptly returned. His light frown returned once more suddenly. “Do mind if I ask you what time it is?”

Vincent fumbled over his words before checking his watch. He lifted his right arm and pushed back the sleeve of his coat. An emerald encrusted wrist-watch peaked out as he glanced at the face and dropped his hand once more.

“I believe it’s just half past five.”

Morgan nodded to himself and packed up his book. He stood up and turned towards Vincent. He smiled briefly, lighting up his face. Vince gulped. He was even more unwittingly seductive when he tried.

“Thank you, Vincent. I’ll be seeing you,” he drawled out, and for some reason, Vincent believed him. Morgan grabbed his cane and made his way out of the library. Vince watched him as he left, entranced by the way he moved. Morgan was graceful, even if he couldn’t see.

The blonde heard a thunk as the long past forgotten book slid from his hands. He smiled sheepishly as he noticed that throughout the entire short-lived conversation, he had never actually sat down. Picking up the book from the floor—he still hadn’t even checked the title—Vince made his own way up to the checkout counter.

It would be nice to have a reminder of the sexy dark-haired man, even if Vince subconsciously knew that Morgan would keep good on his word. There was little doubt that he would be seeing the strange man again.