In Bright Color
Warddidn’tresumecleaningthe house that day. He was haunted by the memory of a werewolf’s golden eyes. When he picked himself up from the floor, the first thing he did was to make a beeline for the closet where he’d stashed his paints and canvases.
After his breakup with Peter, he’d been completely unable to paint. Nothing that came out seemed right, and painting, like most art, couldn’t be forced. He had hoped that coming here would give his muse a nudge, but of course, he had not expected it to happen so soon.
In a near-haze, Ward found everything he needed and set to work. He mixed paints with the ease of practice, all the while envisioning the sight of the big black wolf. His hand seemed to work on its own, the flow of inspiration so natural it almost hurt.
Painting again was like taking a deep breath after drowning in a bog of fetid water—or better yet, like soaring through the clouds and landing on a mountain top. That was probably more accurate, since Ward couldn’t pull himself away from his work for God only knew how long. It wasn’t always easy. He was impossibly frustrated that he just couldn’t seem to find the right shade for Mathias’s eyes. He ended up painting three different wolves, in different positions, with different gold eyes. And when he finally had the shade he thought was most accurate, he had to paint Mathias the man.
It was strange, but Ward couldn’t quite describe or even remember the moment Mathias had shifted. Well, he remembered it—but he couldn’t pinpoint how it had happened, because it had been so quick not even Ward’s eyes could take in all the details. Since he couldn’t paint that—and it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway—he used his mental image of Mathias’s nude form as a model. He channeled his confusion and unsatisfied desires into the painting, trying to understand Mathias’s pull, to figure out how someone like Mathias was possible and why the werewolf was even there for him.
When the fourth painting was done, Ward stepped away and observed it. The fever of inspiration was subsiding, as if he’d exorcised the fire in his blood. He had no idea if it would return, but for now, the muse was satisfied.
His body, however, was not. He swayed and stumbled, almost spilling his paints all over the floor. Thankfully, he recovered quickly enough and set everything down in a safe place. Really, he should have known better than to binge-paint, but sometimes, he couldn’t help it.
Ward couldn’t say he was surprised when he looked at his cell and saw it was over seven pm. Coincidentally, he also had seven missed calls—two from Vera, three from Peter, and one from each of his parents. Ward didn’t bother with addressing them, or the voice mail they’d undoubtedly left. He needed to eat first, since he hadn’t had anything for more than twenty four hours, and his stomach wasn’t happy with him at all.
This self appointed task led him to the kitchen, and he smiled in bemusement when he found the slab of once-frozen beef still there, where he had left it. He wasn’t particularly in the mood to cook, but he supposed he had to do it now, since otherwise, it would go to waste. Besides, Mathias had said he’d drop by to visit.
It occurred to Ward that Mathias could have already come and gone during the time Ward had been in the ‘zone', but somehow, he doubted it. He had this strangest feeling that he would have known if that was the case.
As Ward set himself to the task of preparing the meat for being cooked, he thought back at everything that had happened. It seemed almost surreal now that he thought about it. Hitting a wolf with the car wasn’t in itself unusual, but then taking that wolf home, only for it to turn out to be a shape-shifter... Yes, that wasn’t something that happened every day. Could he have imagined it? He supposed it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. In fact, a dream was the most logical explanation—leaving aside the fact that Ward had pinched himself so hard he still had a bruise to show it.
Ward hated the idea, hated that Mathias might be nothing more than a figment of his imagination. But if he wasn’t, if Mathias was real... What then? Where did that leave him, in a new world he now knew held werewolves and magic?
He still hadn’t found an answer to that question when he slid his meal into the oven. Since he was too hungry to wait, he opened the fridge to find something to snack on. His gaze fell on the pressed bacon he’d planned to feed to Mathias the wolf before Peter’s call. However weird it had all been, Ward couldn’t forget holding the wolf and crying in his fur, the same way he couldn’t forget that tender kiss on his forehead. He needed to know more, much more before he could draw a real conclusion. After what had happened with Peter, he couldn’t trust easily, not even—or especially—a shape-shifting Adonis. But God help him, he wanted to. He was afraid, but he wanted this to be real. And that was perhaps scarier than the werewolf thing.
He was just taking the cooked meal out of the oven when he heard the car approaching. Confused, he set his dinner on the table. As far as he knew, no one in Willow Cove was aware of his visit. He’d brought along everything he deemed necessary, and after Mathias’s departure, he hadn’t gone to the town. So who could be driving in to see him?
In hindsight, the answer was pretty obvious, although it didn’t occur to him until he went the answer the door. Standing on Ward’s porch, looking just as handsome as Ward remembered him, was Mathias.
“Hi,” the werewolf greeted Ward with a small smile.
Ward must have looked surprised, because Mathias’s expression sobered slightly. “Am I early? We didn’t exactly set a time, so I made an educated guess.”
“That’s not it,” Ward replied quickly. “I just didn’t expect you to drive here.”
Mathias’s golden eyes lit up with comprehension. “I don’t go running around in wolf form everywhere, you know,” he said. “It’s sort of inconvenient, what with the no clothes thing. Not to mention that people aren’t exactly inclined to sell something to a wolf.”
Those words were pretty confusing, up to the point when Mathias offered him a bouquet of flowers. Ward had no idea how he’d missed it, even if Mathias had obviously been holding it behind his back. The thing was huge, bright red roses emanating a sweet perfume that Ward had always secretly loved. A cliche, he knew, but he refused to feel embarrassed about it.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t left a little dazed by Mathias’s gesture. He’d forgotten the last time anyone had given him flowers. “Thank you,” he said, gingerly taking the bouquet in his arms. “This is... This is very nice of you.”
Realizing he was still keeping Mathias out on the porch, he stepped back and gave his guest room. Mathias walked into the house, and the way he moved, with so much veiled strength and elegance, made Ward’s fingers itch for a brush and easel—or at least a pencil.
It was as he put the flowers in water that the thought connected with something entirely different, and more practical. He hadn’t taken a shower after his painting binge. He’d remembered to wash his hands, but his clothes were stained with paint and he smelled like turpentine. Wincing, he threw a look in Mathias’s direction. “Sorry about this. Give me a moment, and I’ll go wash up and change.”
“It’s not a problem,” Mathias replied. “I take it you’re a painter?”
Ward nodded, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. Usually, this was where everyone asked to see his work, but right now, he wasn’t sure he could share the fruits of his labor. They were more than just paintings to him. He’d exorcised his confused emotions within those portraits, and they were something private which he would have preferred to keep safe.
Mathias didn’t ask. “Somehow, it suits you,” he said instead. “And you look cute, with the paint on your nose. Very... fetching.”
Ward gaped. It was not the first time anyone called him cute, but somehow, Mathias managed to make it sound different.
What was it about the werewolf that hit just the right notes inside Ward? He couldn’t tell, but it made him roll his eyes and say, “The paintings are in the bedroom. You can take a look while I shower and change.”
Judging by Mathias’s expression of shock and surprise, the werewolf had understood more about Ward than Ward had given him credit for. “Thank you,” he said, his voice strangely reverent.