Chapter Text
Techno’s been in this same spot before. Waiting in front of a home to meet the people generous enough to have him stay for a while, tense with uncertainty, not knowing what’s in store. Feeling the way his stomach drops when the handle of the front door turns.
Techno’s done it all. Usually, it isn’t this colorful.
Literally. When the door swings open the first thing he notices is the paint. Staining almost every part of the man standing behind it.
He looks to be in his mid thirties, with sandy colored hair and a pleasant smile. He’s also wearing a bucket hat and a smock. The hat is clean, the smock is covered in multicolored flecks.
The man’s hands are green, with orange smudges on his fingertips and pale pink and yellows splotches on his wrists. Even from the doorstep Techno can smell the acrylic.
“Hello, you must be Techno,” the man says, “I’m Phil, you probably know that. I’m glad to have you here, mate,” He’s beaming at Techno and wiping his hands on his pants as he talks, faded denim speckled with every color of the rainbow. The paint smears, and Techno looks up as Phil extends his hand to shake.
Techno reaches out, then pauses. It takes Phil a second before he looks from Techno’s outstretched hand to his own paint covered fingers.
“Oh, I completely forgot,” he says, “I’ve been working on a mural in my office. How about you come in and I’ll wash my hands off.”
Techno takes a second to reply, tucking his hand into his jacket pocket. His gaze lingers on Phil’s clothes and hands. The shades of pink and green remind him of a rose bush, bright and pretty. A younger Techno would have been enchanted, would have reached out and met Phil’s kind smile with curiosity and wonder.
Now, Techno reminds himself to be careful of thorns.
He realizes Phil’s waiting for him to reply. He takes a breath and steels himself.
“Okay,” he says, and Phil’s grin is like the sun.
If Phil’s hands are a rose bush then his house is a overgrown garden. Boxes are stacked in the corners, some pried open and spilling over. Techno counts at least eight house plants in the living room alone, three of which are hanging from the ceiling.
“Sorry, for the mess mate,” Phil says, “I keep meaning to unpack, but I get distracted every time I start putting things away. Reminds me how much I hate moving.” He nudges a worn green footstool with his foot as he walks through the house and sweeps a coffee mug off the kitchen table.
“I’ll give you a real tour in the morning but there’s not much to see so far,” Phil beckons for Techno to follow him into the kitchen.
Techno hoists his duffle bag closer to his chest and steps over a large grey couch pillow to follow after him.
The kitchen isn’t much tidier. More opened boxes are piled on the counters, labeled things like “silverware” and “computer” and one that just says “dirt.” Techno scans the room before his eyes land on the counter by the sink. The area is covered in bottles of paint. Some are full and some are close to empty, teetering on cups with dyed water.
“Are you an artist?” Techno surprises himself when he speaks. Phil turns from the hallway just a few steps ahead, and eyes the sink warily.
“Ah, no, just a hobby. It does get pretty messy though,” he laughs. “You’ll see that I’ll keep working on murals and this house will brighten up a lot. The boxes will be away sometime.”
Techno nods. He doesn’t mind the mess, really. And at least it’s just boxes and paint piled everywhere and not trash. Phil might be a little messy, but at least Techno isn’t living with a slob.
Phil is looking at him, brow furrowed. “Don’t worry, your room is the neatest place I’ve got. Some boxes, but you can unpack them if they bother you. Don’t feel pressure, though.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
Phil nods at that, then gestures for Techno to follow him into the hallway. “Your room is right over here, just watch your step.”
Techno clutches his bag and sticks close behind. It’s a nice house, with ceilings and large windows. The walls are painted a dull cream color, with wooden floors that creak only slightly. It feels empty, uninhabited. Techno doesn’t mind that either. Better a house be not too full then overcrowded.
“And here you are,” Phil says, pulling open a painted white door to show a room that’s small but clean. Techno steps past him and moves to stand in the middle of the room. To his left is a bed with a green and red quilt on it, to his right a wide window that has light streaming into the room. By the door, boxes are stacked and taped in orderly rows.
“It’s not too big and it’s not too personal yet” Phil says from the doorway. “I thought that later we could pick out a color for the wall, and some more furniture if you want. Whatever I can do to make it feel like your room.”
Phil smiles, leaning on the doorway. Techno is struggling, trying to process Phil’s last words. Gently, he sets his bag down on the bedspread. He doesn’t touch the quilt. It looks handmade and to precious to be here in this room.
“Okay, Techno, I’ll leave you to it. Dinner will be in about an hour, I’ll come let you know. Get set up, do what ever you need.”
Techno nods, then clears his throat and says, “Okay. Uh, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, mate. I’ll see you in a bit,” Phil turns to leave, then stops, twisting sound from just outside the room to look at Techno.
“Oh, Techno, what’s your favorite color?”
That’s… not a question he was expecting on his first day. From what he’s seen of Phil though, it probably won’t be to out of the ordinary. But Techno’s not even sure he knows the answer.
Then he remembers dyed hair and frosting, and answers with a steadier voice then he would have thought he was capable of.
“Pink.”
Phil’s smile is softer, gentler around the edges. He gives Techno a thumbs up, then shuts the door with a click. Techno can hear the house creak quietly as Phil walks away.
He goes to sit on the bed, pulling his bag towards him. The quilt rumples and Techno pauses. It’s a large quilt, folded several times and still hanging off the sides of his twin bed. It’s sown with red and green squares, with multiple fabrics of different shades and patterns. Definitely handmade, sewn with a gold-yellow thread in uneven, lopsided stitches.
Techno’s not sure what to do with it. It doesn’t feel right to have it. He decides to leave it at the foot of the bed and sits at the head, pulling his legs up to his chest.
Techno’s eyes droop. In past houses he’s stayed up the whole first night, trying to make sure nobody pokes around in his stuff. But in this house, Techno doubts that you could make it five feet without something tripping on a box or plant.
And he’s really, really tired. So much has happened, and he doesn’t know what to make of any of it. The paint, the room, even Phil himself is too much to wrap his head around right now.
He dreams of roses and pink stained fingers.
When he wakes up the room is dark and unfamiliar. Techno’s eyes are blurry and in the low light it takes him a second to realize the shape of the boxes across the room. The house now smells of pasta and his stomach growls.
He slides off of the bed and trails down the hallway towards the light in the kitchen. A sliver of light from a few doors down the hallway catches his eye, and he stalls.
It sounds like someone is working in the room, glass clinks and he can hear a person, probably Phil, shuffling around. The closer Techno creeps, the stronger the smell of paint becomes.
Techno stops right outside the door. It’s open just a crack, letting bright light cut into the hallway. Something’s playing on the radio, disembodied voices droning too low for Techno to pick out the words that they are saying.
Techno is so lost in the moment, the buzz in his ears and the smell of acrylics that he doesn’t notice the door opening. Suddenly, Phil is right in front of him.
“Shit, sorry, did I wake you up?”
Techno’s voice is gone again. “No, you didn’t,” he croaks.
“Alright. You can come in if you want Techno, it’s just my office.” Phil steps to the side, letting Techno in through the open door.
Phil’s office is...unusual. It has the makings of what Techno would call a typical office, a desk, cabinet, and chair. Except that those things are shoves against the side wall, and newspaper is covering the floor, and paint bottles and brushes and pallets cover the other half of the room. He hears a click and the radio shuts off. Phil footsteps sound behind him, then pause as Techno finally turns and spots the mural.
Techno’s breath stops. It’s the most colorful work of art he’s ever seen. Purples, pinks, oranges, and reds swirl and blend in dizzying motion.
In the center, a bird, with puffed up tawny feathers painted with hints of blue and green. It’s single red eye is staring a hole right through Techno, like it can tell everything he’s ever dreamed. It’s beak, thick with paint, is slightly opened like it’s calling out and oh, the bird is chained. Delicate gold chains tie it down, keeping the bird still against a background of burning skies.
“It’s not much, yet,” Phil says, and Techno’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.
“It’s really cool. Really, uh, conceptual.”
Phil laughs, a tired chuckle. “Oh, that’s new.” He reaches out as if to stroke the bird's feathers, but instead lets his hand fall in a fist at his side.
Techno can’t look away. The bird stares right back at him, red eye unblinking.
“It’s beautiful,” he says. Phil’s smile is soft again, crinkling his eyes.
“Thanks, mate.”
Phil takes a deep breath, then asks, “If it’s alright with you, I’d love your help painting some space in the house. Here in the office maybe, or upstairs, or even your room, if you wanted. It’s a tradition, kind of, to work on something with the kids I foster.”
Techno can’t think. Phil wants him to... paint on the walls? What?
“Again, there’s no pressure, just something I like to do.”
“I- can we talk about it in the morning?”
“Of course.”
Suddenly, Phil shouts. “Oh my god, dinner! Shit, I forgot you haven’t eaten yet! I’ve left your food in the fridge, I’ll show you where to heat it up.”
He turns on his heel and walks hurriedly down the hall. Techno takes one more second to look at the mural, the gold paint holding the bird down to earth.
Techno’s own chains aren’t gold. They're flesh and sinew, rooting him to nothing but himself. Not delicate or beautiful, just a bloody reminder of what he’ll have to cut through to fly free.
Techno looks away from the bird with a strange pit in his stomach.
He heads down to the kitchen and finds Phil rummaging through another box before presenting Techno with a large glass and a napkin. A pink plate with delicious looking pasta and sauce piled on sits on the counter. Phil shows him how to use the microwave and the moon shines high through a window filled with herbs.
They can’t find a chair. Phil apologizes several times and Techno's unbothered. He eats on a toaster box with a cow print fork.
It’s curious and wild and a little bit odd. Techno thinks it's alright.
The house still smells like paint in the morning.