You're reeling by the time you leave the exhibition. Too many people have been milling about, too many people you actively had to ignore if you didn't want to break out in an anxiety attack, but the paintings made it bearable, they sucked you in, made you forget about everything but your own obvious lack of skill, and your determination to improve because really, how dare you come here to inspect the genius of Magritte when your own work is dull, two-dimensional and disregards the great power of great titles? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, and you are, and you vow to improve. It's all you can do.
Kavinsky, of course, is another thing you can't forget or ignore, even if you wanted to. You wonder if there's anything that could ever drown out his presence. He's always burning in the back of your mind because you simply cannot shut him out, it's impossible. Not that you care to, especially on occasions like today when he's so gloriously alive and infected with inspiration, poring over Magritte's Condition humaine, his cutouts, even the works from his période vache, like his soul is catching fire and you're blessed enough to witness it.
He's never more beautiful like this, your mad artist boyfriend, and that light-headed feeling that steals your breath is relief because you know that for the time being you don't have to worry about his safety. Sure, he might forget about food in his frenzy to create something but he's safely out of despair's dark reach for now. That's got to count for something.
You shouldn't be surprised when he drags you into the men's room, although somehow you are. You would have expected him to rush straight for an art supply store to get a new notebook and an assortment of pencils to capture his ideas with. The notebook he's been carrying has seen better days, tattered and stained as it is. You have been picking up loose pages after him, trying to decipher his atrocious handwriting.
"Fuck," he hisses into your ear, because "this shit" turns him on too much.
You ought to complain when you find your cheek pressed against the cubicle wall. Everything is so clean and scrubbed and bright that you cannot shut out your surroundings like you could in a seedy little bar with broken lights and people too fucked up to care, yourself included. You're not fucked up right now, not enough anyway, but never fear, you will be, once he's through with you.
Shit. This wasn't how you've imagined your day, but you also don't find it in you to push him away.
"Must we really?" you protest weakly, because Kavinsky's hands on your hips are stealing all your self-respect. "I mean, here?"
"Tell me to stop if you don't want to," he teases, "but I can't promise I will."
His name is a curse on your lips as he undoes your fly, and you with it. He frees your erection and you cannot help grinding against his. Practiced motions are hard to suppress and you want him inside you so badly, it's embarrassing, but you also know security would be upon you in a second if he attempted that with like zero time to prep because God forbid, you'd be shouting the fucking roof down on your heads. You're both thrilled and worried when he spits into his palm, and you try to brace yourself even if you're tense like a goddamn press board.
"Shh, relax, babe," his voice runs honey-smooth down your back and your legs start trembling, anticipation and dread winding you so tight you're not sure you can take it. "I'm not going to hurt you."
His palm cups your nose and mouth just in time before he thrusts between your legs. The surprise alone would have forced a yelp from your throat and likely cut your little bathroom tryst short if his fingers hadn't dampened it.
"I wish I could paint you like this, all frightened and aroused. It's adorable."
Your answer is nothing more than a moan strangled before it can become the merest of sounds, because you don't dare respond in any way that's not a roll of your hips or a pleading backward gaze.
He twists your head back and presses his mouth against where yours would be if his fingers weren't still clamping it shut. His grin is as sharp as his breath in your ear when his fingers join yours on your cock and you let him control the pace, just like that, without him even asking you to.
He ruts against you and you feel so used, and it's so, so fucking good that you might cry, except you can't, you can't give yourselves away because that would be a disappointing ending to a perfect day and you just cannot do that to him. So you ruin your own orgasm and jam your forehead against the cubicle wall as you ooze uselessly over his fingers.
With a throaty laugh, he yanks you around, crushes your back against the wall and himself against you as he forces his tongue into your mouth and makes you swallow his groans as he comes, hitting your stomach and your junk and dribbling down your thighs.
You feel dirty, like a dishrag, but also elated, because that grin brightening his face is both so smug and so childishly innocent you'd forgive him even if he robbed your mother or slept with your sister.
He kisses you until he catches his breath and it's a miracle your knees are still supporting you, because you just want to melt in his arms and forget where you are.
"You know what," he says finally, still touching you greedily as if to make you come from just that, "let's get some supplies and set up in a hotel somewhere. I've got some ideas and I want to try out and I don't think you'll mind if I try them out on you first."
You don't know whether to nod or shake your head, so you just collapse on the toilet seat when he steps out of the cubicle after checking no one else is in the bathroom. You'll need another moment to catch your breath and screw your spinning head on right.
It's a lost cause, you know, because K will just turn it again and you're powerless to stop it.
Not that you'd really want to. K with an overabundance of inspiration is the best K, and you'll do whatever it takes to keep him in this state for as long as you can. It's a fickle one, more fleeting than morning dew, but catering to its whims is entirely worth it. Just seeing K enjoy something that's not drug-based or drug-fueled is a novelty even if you've witnessed it before; it feels like it's been ages ago, prehistoric almost, to the point where you've almost given up on seeing it resurface ever again.
But K is full of surprises, and you might argue that inspiration is a drug too, so maybe it's not that different from his usual way of coping with... well, everything. Still, you'll embrace whatever will let you sleep easier at night, knowing you don't have to fear waking up to the bled-out shell of the one you love more than anything in the world. That's got to be worth something.
So you allow yourself a few moments to catch your breath, grinning stupidly from ear to ear, and not worrying if he might have run into traffic in the meantime.
You meet him in the lobby, by the museum store, flipping through the pages of a guide to the exhibition, and his grin is boyish and bright when he sees you, and your heart fucking gives out because you simply cannot handle – this, him, everything. It's just so much, so overwhelming, the fluttering in your chest, your stomach, your veins, that you have to hold on to him tightly, elbow hooked around his arm, as if you're afraid he might slip away any second and leave you here to deal with your embarrassment all by yourself.
But he doesn't slip away, he doesn't leave; he drags you to the nearest art supply store and lets you choose the materials he's going to use for his next project, whatever that might turn out to be. You make sure to stock up on canvases, or else the hotel sheets or even your own naked body might end up as one. It's happened. It wasn't great. (You're ticklish as fuck, and nearly died of desperate laughter. K did, as well.) Such a messy affair.
Still, you make sure to stock up on edible paints as well, because K runs out of canvases quicker than you sneeze and if his words from earlier are any indication, he might ignore them altogether, favoring your skin instead.
You wouldn't even mind. In fact, you're looking forward to it.