Work Text:
The palette lies empty of color, patiently waiting to be festooned with its glorious array of hues. Frank's memory supplies the smell of fresh paint and hot Chai simmering on his small stove in his old apartment. He'd foolishly picked it for its north-facing windows, which let in the best light, rather than for its neighborhood. Some of his best memories are intertwined with that apartment, where paintings were started, kisses were shared, and friends were made. It all comes rushing back to him as he looks at that blank palette.
"Bill… how did you know?"
The man in question shifts his hands from his hips to his back pockets, his eyes cut across the small room of art supplies he's assembled before them. "Saw you looking at the easel in the Donahue house a couple of days ago."
"But I was just looking at it, it doesn't mean I wanted to use it. How did you know?"
Bill shrugs, "I know want when I see it."
Fondness sweeps through him, watching this man who portrays himself so gruffly to the outside world express a feeling so soft. He wonders again how long Bill has been alone. Bill told him about what happened to the other residents of the town, and he's seen the evidence of FEDRA's shortcuts himself on his way from Baltimore to here. But he hasn't spoken of what his life was like before all that.
They're still new to whatever this is, feeling each other out on what to share and what to keep to themselves about their old lives. However, Bill's words have led Frank to believe he's been alone for much longer than that.
"Bill, thank you," he says as he moves to stand in front of him, trying to catch his eyes, but Bill only holds his gaze for a moment before looking away. Reaching around Bill's body, he grabs hold of his wrists and pulls his hands from his pockets. "Seriously, Bill, thank you." Gently, he wraps them around his own body and presses them to his back. When he's sure Bill won't release his hold, Frank lets go and wraps his own arms around Bill's shoulders and lets his hands hang limply. Forced into close proximity, Bill's eyes finally come back to his and hold there, soft and vulnerable.
"It's not a big deal." He scoffs and awkwardly holds himself in Frank's arms.
"It's a big deal to me," Frank says and plays with the hair at the back of Bill's neck, carefully twirling his fingers through the silky strands. He lets his body loosen and is pleased when Bill responds in kind, his shoulders coming down and fingers resting more softly on Frank's back.
The moment lingers as the late-afternoon sun streams through the windows, dust motes dancing among the rays of light. Bill doesn't look away like he's want to do on other occasions like this; instead, his gaze lingers on Frank's face, and a flash of emotion, tender and new, flickers in his eyes. He doesn't shy away from it. Instead, he brings a hand up and lays it on Frank's cheek, holding him carefully with his callus-roughened fingers. His eyes flicker to Frank's lips, his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and he leans forward, initiating a kiss.
Frank finds himself struck motionless for a few seconds as Bill's mouth moves over his hesitant and careful. It's not that Bill hasn't kissed him before, because he has. It's not even that he hasn't initiated before, either, because he's done that as well. It's just never been like this before; it's never been so gentle, so soft.
In the heat of the moment, Bill has taken kisses, needy and fierce, carefully, oh so carefully, but always hurried and desperate. This is wholly different; here, he's leading with feeling, not need or want, and it feels loving.
Bill pulls back trepidation written on his face when Frank doesn't respond. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't…" He starts, fingers pulling away.
Reaching up quickly, Frank holds Bill's hand to his cheek and stalls his words, "No, no. You're fine. I was just surprised." Laughing lightly, he kisses the tips of Bill's fingers, "You've never done that before."
"Yes, I have." Bill gruffs.
"No, no, you haven't. Not like that."
Bill searches Frank's face, his icy blue eyes assessing him. "You alright with it?"
"I am."
Bolstered, Bill leans in to take Frank's lips again, and this time Frank responds accordingly.
Canvases stand devoid of paint, piled in the corner of the room, light and shadow shift across their surfaces as the sun lazily travels across the sky.
As Bill lowers him into the waiting embrace of the small couch pushed against the wall, Frank can't suppress a fleeting thought that the north-facing windows of this room are absolutely perfect for painting.