Give Me Love (A Picasso Perfect Short)

This is a very, very, very rough cut of a maybe full-length. For now, it's a one-shot: Writing about a character, place or thing that has been done on a spur of the moment of a fandom or orginal peice. Usually is to short for a short story consisting of only one chapter. 

So, for those of you who come to my blog, enjoy. 

It was freezing once morning came around causing me to dig myself deeper into the futon. The sun was glaring in through the lack-of-curtain windows of the tiny studio apartment, enveloping the single room in an incandescent light.

Was it morning already? Throwing the blankets off me, I groaned and lazily got out of bed (read: I dragged myself out of the bed, and pulled my body off until my legs fell to the floor with a thud). The floor was chilly on my legs as I crawled towards the curtain wall separating the bedroom from the living room. The curtain blocking the living room and bedroom was just sheer enough to see a figure walking across the living room and into the kitchen.

Clad in only boy shorts and large flannel, I crawled into the living room observing the sight before me. Blankets were folded neatly on the couch and clothes were strewn across the floor. Realizing that I had to clean almost put a damper on my day. Almost.

Brad, dressed in only basketball shorts, was cooking in the space of the small kitchen, singing completely out of tune to Adele. And if you stared hard enough, it was obvious he was also rocking his hips to song but very slighty.

“We could have had it all.” He took a breath, flipping whatever he was cooking in the frying pan. “Rolling in the deeeeeeeep.”

A giggle escaped from my lips before I could stop it. Clamping my mouth shut from laughing even more, Brad whipped his head around trying to spot me. I sat behind the island, careful not to move the stools.

“Lennon, I know you’re up.” His voice was raspy, sleep still evident in his speech.

With that, I got up from the floor and smirked at the shirtless boy in front of me, crossing my arms. “I sometimes wonder why I let you stay here when I know you’re gonna try and deafen me with your horrid singing.”

He gasped, playfully throwing the spatula in his hand on the counter. “My singing is not horrid,” Brad denied, turning around to avoid me. I laughed at his childish antics and walked around the island, standing next to him. The spatula was returned to his hand and he continued to fry up eggs and bacon.

It smelled delicious and my stomach grumbled just as I sniffed it. Brad laughed as he bumped my hip with mine “Hungry?”

His question was rhetorical but I nodded my head vigorously, nonetheless. “Maybe this is why I keep you around. I need someone to feed me every once in a while,” I joked as I went to sit on one of the stools.

He shook his head, a disapproving sigh eliciting from his lips. I stared down at my hands before he had the chance to catch my eyes. I knew what was coming and frankly, it bugged me.

“Lennon, you know I worry about you, right?” Nodding, I kept my head low, finding interest in my fingers. It was the same thing I heard just last week. Sure, I hardly ate but it was never on purpose. Whenever I got so into a painting, I just forgot about everything around me, including food. And since I was always buying art supplies, I never had enough money to go out and buy groceries. It wasn’t the smartest choice I’ve ever made, but who ever said I made smart choices to being with?

Before Brad had the chance to lecture me of my eating habits, thought, I quickly questioned him, “Have you talked to your dad, lately?” He knew what I was doing but he didn’t press on. He simply shrugged and ignored my own question.

This was where Brad and I were the same. Him with his daddy issues and me with my mom issues. The difference, though, was that Brad’s dad was trying to reconcile with him, he was just being a daft idiot. My mom on the other hand still hadn’t contacted me since she found out I dropped out of school and moved to London. It was a mutual decision where we both never contacted each other. She didn’t want to be associated with a daughter who “threw her life down the drain just so she could doodle on canvases her whole life.” It didn’t faze me, though, because that was just the type of woman Leticia Annandale was and I learned that in the early stages of my childhood. Though it made me quite blissful to know that she wasn’t always a condescending and arrogant lady.

The clatter of a plate being set down broke me from my reverie and I graciously smiled at Brad. “Thank you, Brad,” I mumbled, shoveling forkfuls of egg into mouth.

His face contorted into disgust as I devoured my breakfast but then he laughed and patted my shoulder, digging into his plate. It was quiet for a few minutes, the clattering of our utensils filling in the silence. There wasn’t anything else left to be said, at least not anything worth spilling. From what I’ve learned about Brad is that he keeps to himself, or just about the more personal things. I, on the other hand, would rather keep quiet. I was afraid of what might come out of my mouth when I was around him.

“So, any plans today?” I tried asking as I put my now empty plate in the sink. Brad was deep in thought, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide open. He was staring at my walls, walls covered with every painting and drawing I’ve done. It was a mess with different colored paper, and different colors on said paper.

“Brad?”

Brad whipped his head toward me, a sheepish smile gracing his face as he realized he was caught snooping. “Yeah, sorry, what?”

“Do you have any plans today?” I asked again, leaning against the island, opposite of him. Brad stared down at his food, his too long hair falling against his face. He shook his head, his hair never staying flat.

“I’m actually still tired, I think I’m going to try and sleep off the hangover.” Brad got up from the stool and walked back towards my make-shift bedroom. I nodded in response which was futile considering he was gone already and picked up his barely touched plate. With a feeling of disappointment, I put the dishes in the sink, not wanting to do anything anymore.

I was disappointed because I knew something was wrong with Brad, and I wanted to be the one that he opened up to.

*****

It was midday when I finally set up the blank canvas and palette of different colored oils. I hadn’t painted in a while because lack of inspiration but here was hoping that setting up my work space would get me somewhere. Brad was behind the curtain, inside my room, taking a nap, saying something along the lines of ‘needing my beauty sleep’. That princess.

Rolling the sleeves up of the flannel, I grabbed a paint brush from a container and sat on a stool. And once I did, my mind went blank. Nothing. My head used to be filled with thoughts and memories and jumbled messes but every time I tried to put any of that onto the canvas, nothing ever came out.

For the past month, my inspiration was lacking. I used to be able to get by with a small painting every twice a week and selling them to a corner antique shop just down the road, but now I wanted to expand my horizons. I wanted to be known as something. I wanted to be known.

Groaning in realization that I would not get anything done, I slumped my shoulders in a huff.  Frustration and anxiety rushed through my veins and it wasn’t going away. A problem I always had was putting myself under too much pressure and expecting too much from myself. And I felt that problem very much.

In frustration, I threw the brush across the room, not caring where it landed, and hearing a loud oomph followed by a clang. My whipped to the left as I saw Brad shuffling across the floor, a hand on his forehead. I bit my lip to keep myself from laughing as he got closer, holding the paint brush in his other hand.

“You dropped something,” he stated, handing me the brush as he moaned about the stinging pain on his forehead. “That really hurt, woman.”

Setting himself down on the couch, I just shrugged and continued to stare at the blank canvas. I dragged the clean brush across the canvas, hoping to elicit any type of image into my mind, but I still got nothing.

“Are you having trouble, Lemon?” I rolled my eyes at the childish nickname but mumbled a ‘yes’ nonetheless.

“I’ve just been having trouble trying come up with something to paint,” I complained as I stepped off the stool. Brad looked at me in bewilderment but I couldn’t stare back long enough. Instead, my eyes trailed down his bare torso, taking in every tattoo, muscle, and freckle. He was not a little boy anymore and the boy – no, man – in front of me made my stomach twist in knots.

He cocked his head to the side, his green eyes glimmering with mischief. “Are you okay?” My eyes snapped to his face, knowing I had been caught checking him out.

I sighed and stepped back to the stool, not wanting to be anywhere near Brad at this time. He made everything that much harder in my life. The way his lips were naturally pink, the strong, defined jaw line, the dimples, his curly, windswept hair that was now slicked back because it was too long and his eyes. His shining, emerald eyes that held every emotion possible but made it entirely impossible to decipher what he was feeling. Brad Williams was beautiful and complicated and perfect. And that scared me because never in my life have I ever thought that way about someone.

“Paint me life one of your French girls.” It was so abrupt and there was a hint of playfulness in his voice.

I did a double take as I heard that line, nearly choking on air as I looked over the canvas. Brad was now laying on the couch, thankfully still fully clothed, with his head resting on his hand, being propped by the couch. No words came out of my mouth as it opened and closed. A smirked graced his lips as his tongued gently guided over them, evidently wetting them.

“Don’t be so daft,” I scoffed, and rolled my eyes, trying not to seem affected by the way his deep voice grew a few octaves higher. I also tried not to notice the way his stomach was contracted, showing off his sculpted abs and I almost wanted to jump off a building.

Why did I have this beautiful creature in my house, when I knew I couldn’t handle him? This was just too much

All Brad could do was laugh as he sat up, and when he did I couldn’t help but gasp in surprise.

“Stay there!” I yelled, not wanting to lose the perfect moment of lighting.

Brad was confused but didn’t say anything. The way he was posed, when compared to the lighting of the sun coming in from the window almost made him picture perfect. Wait, he was already picture perfect. I just hoped my painting could do him justice.

“I was only kidding,” Brad started but was cut off when I held up a finger.

His lips were parted as he looked off the side, his emerald eyes almost glittering in the sunlight. His dark hair was a couple shades lighter as the sun reflected off of him from behind. His arm rested against the back of the couch as a leg was curled under him. It really was the perfect representation and the inspiration and motivation to paint came almost immediately.

My hand moved on its own accord as I mixed different shades and tones to get the colors of his skin right. I felt the brush glide on the canvas, the smoothness of the n giving me a feeling of reassurance.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but from the corner of my eye Brad kept twiddling his thumbs, moving his legs and running his hands through his hair.

“I’m almost done,” I assured him, my eyes flickering to his for only a second before returning back to the now colored canvas. The background was a huge contrast to his light skin and all that was left to paint were his eyes. His bright, emerald eyes that beautifully glowed with happiness.

A few small, gentle strokes later, I set the brush down not entirely sure about the finished work.

“I’m finished?” It was more of a question as I observed the painting, trying to see it in a different point of view. Brad jumped up from the couch with such speed, untangling his limbs and almost tripping over his feet. He stretched before taking quick steps towards me. He stood behind me, his face next to mine, his hands placed on shoulders.

It was quiet for a few seconds, Brad’s even breathing calming my beating heart. I kept my eyes on the painting, too scared to look at him, for fear of finding out what he really thought.

“It’s amazing,” he finally breathed out, standing up straight, his arms falling at his sides. ”Just, absolutely amazing.”

I peered up at him, my eyes shining over with relief just as I saw his flood with, was it admiration? It was when he looked down at me, that I lost my breath, teeth nibbling the inside of cheek, my heart picking up speed. The rate my feelings had grown for the boy standing in front of me made me anxious.

Anxious in the same way a little girl is when she gets her first crush. The same butterflies, the same confusion and the same giddiness. And when his eyes skimmed down my face, across my nose and to my lips, my heart nearly jumped out of its confinements.

And when I saw him lean ever so slightly, head barely moving but moving nonetheless, I jumped out of my seat and ducked under him.

“It’s really quiet in here, isn't it?” I said, the words slurring with the speed of my voice. Brad hummed in responses, and I didn't want to face him. Walking towards the speaker, and connecting my music player to it, I pressed shuffle, keeping my back towards Brad.

The slow, melodious harmony of Ed Sheeran’s Give Me Love started playing, the tune echoing through the small apartment. Wrapping my arms around my torso and smiling in content, my heart slowed to a steady rhythm. It was a peaceful moment, where I forgot about everything just as soon as the song came on, but that’s why they call it a moment.

Brad’s hand gripped my shoulder, waking me from my thoughtless mind, as he pulled me to him.

“Dance with me,” he whispered, his husky and sensual voice creating a rife of chills to erupt. Turning, I looked up at him, his eyes shining even brighter than how they were in the sun. His lower lip was tucked into his teeth, his dimples on full display. All I could do was nod, every syllable, phrase and word gone from my vocabulary.

Brad led me to the middle of the living room, away from the canvas and speakers and into the only spot on the floor that was illuminated by the sunlight casted from the window. His left arm curled around my waist while his right arms held up my left. With a gentle, yet timid touch, I placed my right hand on his shoulder, his bare shoulder, and gulped. My eyes wandered everywhere but his, scared of what come out of my mouth.

It was all too much, both of us in an intimate position, clad in barely anything, swaying back and forth. My eyes then stayed trained on Brad’s collared bones, taking a new interested on the pair of swallows adorned on his skin. I took deep breaths, closing my eyes in the process, trying once again to calm my beating heart.

“Look at me,” Brad said, his voice hoarse. He took my chin in his rather large hand before lifting my head up. My eyes snapped open and once again, I was taken aback at the beautifulness of his eyes. He looked into my eyes, and then down to my lips. My body was reacting to him and he was barely touching me. The ache in my chest, the slow turning of my stomach, the shaking hands. It was all too much.

“Fuck it,” I said, after minutes of quiet, and without another thought, I leaned up, gently placing my lips on his own plump ones. If Brad hesitated, he quickly masked it, wrapping both arms around my waist, pressing his body against mine. Our lips moved in sync, while my hands slid up his shoulders and into his hair.

After all this time, after all the thinking and wondering, here I was, finally kissing the one person I've wanted for a long time.

We had long stopped swaying to the music, but it was still playing in the background. The beat, in a way, guiding Brad’s movements. His lips parted, tongue ever so lightly, gliding against my lower lip, a whine escaping the back of my throat. Brad’s hand slid down my waist and to my thigh, the touch sending shivers throughout my body. He wrapped my leg around his waist, causing me to wrap the other around him. He leaned back, gasping for breath before peppering kisses along my jaw and neck. His lips grazed my earlobe, a moan making its way out of my lips. I gripped onto his hair as Brad walked us backwards and onto the worn out couch in my apartment. I laid below him, legs still wrapped around his waist, our bodies flushed together.

His lips connected back to mine, and for a second, my heart fluttered, excitement and relief coursing throughout my body. His tongue pushed past my lips, mine not bothering to fight back. I gasped for breath as we parted, his stare burning into my face, deep in thought before lighting up once again. He was breathing hard, lips red and swollen much like mine.

The consequences we could be facing flew out of my mind. The aftermath was something I wasn’t even going to consider. At this moment, I had Brad in my arms and vice versa. I’d deal with the consequence of my actions later.

And as we reconnected once again, lips on lips, hot breaths and roaming hands, I knew that whatever happened afterwards would be worth it.

Or so I hoped.