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This kid, Yok, is far more fascinating than he has any right to be. He’s sitting nearly entirely at his ease on the table beside Dan’s bed, ankle crossed over his knee, hand gesturing easily as he speaks — despite his handcuffed wrist. His dark hair has fallen into his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Those eyes sparkle with mischief. But they shine with a certain sincerity too, and Dan is a little surprised to find himself readily trusting everything Yok says.
“I like your skill so much,” Yok is saying, looking like the art student he is in his casual clothes, sharing a critique with a fellow artist.
Dan can’t help his probably visible confusion. “My skill?”
Yok nods. “Yes,” he says. “I’ve seen a lot of social satire artwork. But I’m more interested in the quality here.” He meets Dan’s eyes directly, as serious as he was the first time Dan met him in that burning house. Now, as then, Dan finds himself falling into those black eyes, entranced by Yok’s uncomplicated manner, his apparent desire to share himself with Dan.
Dan blinks. Thinking, he lowers himself slowly to the floor beside the bed. He can’t keep back the smile tugging at his lips, but for once he doesn’t feel like he needs to hide it from the person he’s with. “You’re the first to look at the quality of my art rather then the story behind it,” he murmurs.
Yok’s gaze roves over the art Dan has plastered to the walls and windows. “I appreciate your lines. And the beauty you’ve created,” Yok says, still with that frank admiration that shocks Dan so much. Yok turns his eyes back to Dan’s face. “I think they are very honest.”
Dan’s smile grows. He hides behind a little scoff. “I didn’t graduate from the arts,” he admits. “I can’t tell if what you said is good or bad.”
Yok’s reassurance is immediate. “It’s good! Art is art. It has nothing to do with your field of study. Artists who studied art and those who didn’t are both unique.”
Dan has spent weeks wondering about the nature of the guy who’s managed to save his life, hunt down the elusive UNAR, and pick his pocket despite getting socked in the ribs by his target. Now that they’re having a real conversation, Dan finds himself utterly enchanted. Drawn into the web of Yok’s straightforward sincerity. Wondering what else he can do to keep this conversation going.
Yok glances at his handcuffed wrist. He gestures at Dan, raising an eyebrow.
“Will you uncuff me so we can have a proper conversation?”
Dan hesitates. It’s a little like Yok read his mind, and that scares him in a way he’s not quite prepared for.
“I won’t run away,” Yok says, laughter in his tone. “I’m serious.” He rattles the cuff against his wrist. “It hurts.”
He looks so casual, one leg crossed over the other. His artfully torn jeans show glimpses of pale skin. His grin is wide, eyes sparkling.
Dan doesn’t stand a real shot at resisting. He nods a little as he climbs to his feet. “Fine.”
When he bends to unlock the handcuffs, he can feel Yok staring at him, those black eyes boring into Dan’s face so hard that he ends up glancing sideways at him for a moment, a magnet drawn to steel. He looks back to his task just as quickly, a little frisson of excitement pulsing through him.
Yok pulls his hand from the cuff once Dan has freed him and rubs his wrist. After a moment in which Dan tries to calm his thundering heartbeat, Yok points at the wall.
“Can I see your work?”
Yok doesn’t wait for an answer, just gets up and goes to look. Dan follows him, watching as Yok examines his art, crooked fingers hovering over the paintings like they’re something too special to touch. “I looked for you because I wanted to understand you better,” Yok is saying. “I wanted to know what you were thinking.”
Dan stops next to Yok. He looks at his art, trying to see it through Yok’s eyes.
“Ask me,” he says simply.
Yok turns to him. “Why did you become a cop instead of an artist?”
Ah, that. Dan looks down, considering his words. “I’ve enjoyed painting since I was a kid. I just didn’t think I could make a serious living out of it.” He grins. “But guess what? It turns out that NFTs earn me more than being a cop does.”
Yok echoes his grin and shakes his head. He glances around the room. “How did you get in here? Isn’t it guarded by someone?”
“There is one. I spoke with him. He’s an old man. I told him I just wanted to store some things here.”
“And he didn’t get suspicious?”
“I’m a cop around here,” Dan scoffs. “Who could possibly have doubts about me?”
“Wow!” Yok reels back with wide eyes and another grin before suddenly leaning in close to put his mouth next to Dan’s ear. His whispered, “Yes, officer,” is mocking, but it makes Dan’s heart beat faster. When Yok slaps Dan on the back as he brushes by him, Dan has to reel himself back to the present moment.
Yok has crossed the room to look at the rest of Dan’s art. “Ask me questions,” he says. “You brought me here. I guess you’re interested in me somehow.” He sits on the edge of Dan’s desk, looking up at him, his smile inviting, interestingly playful.
Dan follows him. He’s smiling too, but his words are serious. “I want to know why you and your pals chose to do that.” He remembers Tawi’s burning house, flames in the forest, smoke Dan couldn’t cough out of his lungs for days. “Do you think it will work?”
Yok sighs. Maybe he’s disappointed that Dan broke the flirtatious mood. But Dan needs answers too.
“And what you’ve been doing,” Yok says instead of answering, “does it work?” His dark eyes search Dan’s face.
Dan bites his lip and can’t quite meet Yok’s penetrating gaze. He mentally flips through his artwork — ‘unusually clever graffiti’ the papers call it even when they’re pretending to talk about his true intent — and has to admit that it hasn’t gotten him much of anywhere. Not in any way that truly matters.
Yok goes on. “We chose our own way because those guys thought our voices were quiet. They’re so silent that no matter how loud we shouted, they wouldn’t hear us.” He gets abruptly to his feet, the intensity of his convictions making Dan shuffle half a step back. Yok’s face blazes up at him. “That’s why we had to create our own voices.”
Dan tries to be gentle. “Do you realize what you’re doing is also wrong? Just like those people.”
“I do,” Yok says, quieter now, but no less intense for it. “I have always realized it. I’ve never considered myself a hero who fights for justice. I just feel like I need to do something to make them see that what they do exploits others.”
Dan’s smile is creeping inexorably back across his face. “That means you’ve been willing to be arrested from the start, right?”
Yok takes a step closer and holds his hands out, palms up. The backs of his fingers brush against Dan’s chest. “Arrest me if you want,” he challenges. “I’m up for it. Do it.”
This kid truly is fascinating. Dan wraps his fingers around Yok’s wrists, lowering his hands. He glances up at Yok from beneath his eyelashes, a little unsure, but unwilling to run anymore. “What if I don’t?” he asks softly. “Can I take it as a favor?”
Yok is apparently not the sort to give quarter. “Are you sure it’s a favor?” He searches Dan’s face again, but he seems to like what he sees this time because he smiles a moment later and says, “I see it as a quid pro quo.” He pulls his wrists out of Dan’s hands, and smacks Dan in the bicep with a fist as he brushes past him once more.
Dan turns to watch as Yok flops down on his bed with a sigh, stretching his arms out. He sits up again almost immediately, but that moment of Yok stretched out across his bed makes the blood pound in Dan’s ears.
“Let’s make a deal,” Yok says, dragging Dan’s attention back from the brink of something unexpected. “I won’t say anything about you and you won’t say anything about me.” Mischief sparks in his eyes. “As a matter of fact, you painted me without asking for my consent.”
Dan smiles helplessly. No one was more surprised than he was to find Yok in one of his recent paintings. He’d been thinking about the night of the fire while he worked, thinking about Tawi and how he’d largely gotten away with public sympathy on his side yet again — or so he thought. The longer he stood there, working spray cans and paint brushes, sweat dripping down his back, the more his thoughts strayed to a pair of shining black eyes. Someone who saw him and recognized him, the real him. The next thing he knew, there was a familiar kid with a blazing torch in his outstretched hand on the wall in front of him.
“I guess I got busted,” he murmurs.
Yok tips his head onto his shoulder, a grin splitting his face.
“Of course you can paint me,” he says airily, giving Dan the permission as though he’s a prince bestowing a royal title.
Dan doesn’t even pretend he isn’t flirting back. “Let’s call it even then.” He smiles.
Yok tips his head the other way, suddenly looking serious again. Dan watches him glance over to the desk and then back to Dan. He gets to his feet.
“Come here,” Yok demands. He seizes Dan by the wrist and starts dragging him over to the desk, pushing him down to sit before Dan can say anything. “Sit down and don’t move,” Yok says, less forceful now, something distant and thoughtful in his tone. He shuffles backward and then crouches down. He looks steadily at Dan, but Dan is under the impression that he’s only being half-seen. Yok snatches up a nearby pencil and holds it up in front of his eyes, measuring in the air and muttering to himself.
“What are you doing?” Dan asks, half-laughing, almost delirious with the absurdity of everything that’s happened to him since this vigilante art student came into his life
“You painted me,” Yok says, entirely sincere again. “Now it’s my turn to draw you.”
And Dan finds himself falling back into those black eyes, too entranced to speak.