the scene where i swallow your heart.

“If an exhibit doesn’t happen, I wouldn’t be opposed to a personal viewing,” James quips, finding the friendly flirtation easy. Comforting, in a way, like an unexpected summer breeze that offers reprieve from the scorching heat. An apt comparison, he thinks, as Gisèle has always had a coolness to her. An art piece all her own, she’s akin to a chiseled ice sculpture in his head, and a shiver slices through him at this initial touch. Far from unwelcomed, there is something familiar to the spark of heat that expels from her fingertips. 

“You’ll be hearing from me,” he assures, recollecting his wits and typing in his information before sliding his arm back out so she could reclaim her device. Unlike in their youth, this doesn’t feel like a game of tug o’war, of push and pull. The magnetism is still as present, but it feels like the rules have changed. As if there are no rules, and the shift pleases James and is easy to lean into. “Good to know that all the effort I have been putting into maintenance has been paying off. I’d still have to execute a test-run, though, to know for sure that I have minimized the possibility of chafing.” Teasingly, he tilts his cheek just so that he can scrape his beard against her fingers. He chooses to verify for himself that her skin is as silky smooth as he recalls, his free hand reaching to bump his index finger along her knuckles. 

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

In the back of her head, this feels wrong. No, correction: it feels like it should feel wrong. They might have known each other for a better part of their lives, but could she really say she knew him well? Not really. Not enough to act so readily out of character. She is somebody who has approximately 3.5 people she’d count as close, and that is the way she likes it. So why does the twinkle in this man’s eyes make excitement buzz under her tongue? She tosses her hair imperiously over her shoulder, easy smirk sliding into place. “Of course you wouldn’t—you would be surrounded by art on all sides. Your need to have private time with it is understandable, of course.”

She slides her phone back into her pocket with a pleased wink, letting the interested quirk of her brow do the talking instead. Despite her reservations, this is what makes this encounter maybe the most exciting thing to happen to her all week. Whatever else she may doubt, the ease with which they play the game comes as naturally as ever. The stakes remain undetermined still, but the rules are innocuous enough. Safe. It allows her to thumb across the bristly slope of his jaw, stifling a grin at the transparent interest. “Well, naturally, can’t win without training for the competition first, can you? You probably need thorough practice to make absolutely certain no chafing is happening.”

“Plus, what’s great about art is you could always set up your own exhibit, right? While still controlling your own muse. Win-win, if you ever decide to take up that avenue. I’d be in line to give it a look.” He remembers some of the pieces that he had seen of hers back in university, and wondered if she still dipped into the macabre or if her art had taken a different shape as she had aged. 

“Calling an axe a weapon of mass destruction feels hyperbolic, but yeah, if you ever got an axe to grind metaphorically, you should let me know. We could exchange contact information?” Gisèle has always been a challenge, a battle that he didn’t strive to win but was just happy to participate in. What they have is more akin to a friendly brawl, he supposes, that had once upon a time ended with a good ol’ tussle in the sheets. “I am resourceful,” James concedes with a rub of his chin. “And I have been applying beard oil lately, so that should help.” He resists the urge to ask if she wants to give the beard a touch to test it for herself.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

“Yes, it certainly has room to explore and grow, and you know I like flexibility. I do complete the occasional commission if I get it from a personal reference, but the collection is growing. I'll put you on the list to see for yourself if that show happens. Hopefully, it can be better than this one.” It disturbs her a little, how easily she has been parroting off personal information and opinions since she ran into him. It's not wrong, per se, but she does feel discomfited by the ease with which she finds herself sharing with him. More than half a decade since they saw each other last, and not a hint of awkwardness?

Gisèle slides her phone out of her pocket and swipes the screen to unlock it. She offers the phone to him, gesturing for him to add his details. “Well, I’m not going to say no to an invitation to outlumberjack you, am I? Hit me up if you want to make a plan, I guess.” Because they are no strangers to sex, physical familiarity at least is something that she thinks will always exist between them. Even when she was a contrary teenager disagreeing with him on anything and everything just because she could, this existed. And still, she feels a little thrill at how bold it is to step up close to him in a crowded gallery, to trail careful fingertips across the facial hair. “Look at that, so it does. You’re all ready to touch skin with minimal chafing, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes it’s best to keep a passion just that — a hobby. I am sure that you could still whip up an elixir with just as much finesse.” That’s what James had learned about his own interest in philosophy. Conducting research and debating on his own time was far more worthwhile than pursuing a career where he wouldn’t have owned his own findings. “It’s not so bad. Working with people, that is. The time crunch can be a hassle, but when you are a project manager, I have found people actually tend to trust you as the expert when you insist their ideas aren’t foundationally sound.” 

“Maybe it’s because I know of your past that I suggest axe-throwing as a stress-relieving alternative. You can even make games of it. And play while drinking. You telling me that doesn’t tempt you at all? Here I was about to invite you out with me.” He makes the suggestion with a playful flash of teeth and while rubbing at the full beard tickling at his chin. “I’m glad that you think so. I feared it may ruin my boyish charm, but I think I’ve grown into the look. It can be a bit prickly against the skin though.” There’s a spark in his eye, the innuendo kept subtle. 

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

“There is definite merit in marking boundaries, sure. That’s why I don’t paint professionally either, I guess. Some things are just more rewarding when there is no end to the means, right?” Just imagining the scene makes her laugh a little. “Ah, so the age-honoured art of telling people they have more money than sense when it comes to their idea. Makes sense actually.”

“Drinking games and weapons of mass destruction? Oh, be still my fluttering heart — that does sound like a wildly good time, I must admit.” Gisèle is taken aback by how quickly her brain supplies the most inappropriate answer – but manly charm – and squashes it down just as quickly. How dramatic, to be charmed so easily. “Well, I’ve never known you to back down from a good challenge. I’m sure you can be suitably motivated to find a solution, should the opportunity arise.”

“You did always excel in Potions, but I feel like  — hmm  — that it would be too precise of a craft for you to want to stick with forever? Not enough variety and color, right? And working at your own pace sounds like a fucking delight. I haveta admit that working with strict deadlines has been a brutal adjustment.” James has found that he needs the stability, however, to keep him pushing forward, lest his mind wander. It’s a good balance that he’s achieved, and it seems like Gisèle, too, has carved out a path that works best for her. 

And he’s grateful that their paths have crossed again, even if by happenstance on a foggy afternoon in front of a sculpture that belonged in the bin. “Hey, I’ll have you know that using an axe can be an art form too now. You ever hear of axe-throwing? It’s a masterful form. Feel like you’d love it, actually. Great stress reliever.” And his friends and family are just as important to him, but he has found that doing his own thing has been good for his growth. “My street cred, if we can call it that, is still in place. I’m still just as well known for my plaid shirts, though my hair isn’t as much of a bird’s nest these days.” 

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

“Exactly, yeah. Apparently, being inclined to a certain science doesn't exactly make it fun? Nor do deadlines, I imagine. That sounds rough.” Gisèle says that as if deadlines are the plague; as if she doesn't function on the back of colour-coded lists itemized by priorities. That's just common sense, though. The mere thought of strict deadlines makes her shudder. “You couldn't pay me enough to work on deadlines or for people. From what I hear, that's a slippery slope?” 

With how limited she keeps her social circle, she sometimes forgets what profound pleasure there is in being known, even infinitesimally by someone else. “Haven’t you known me a bit too long to make suggestions about throwing axes? Need I remember you about the many — many — hexing incidents over the years? ‘Cause I’m sure the axes are tempting on your average Monday.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, clear she’s joking. “Oh, well, as long as you’re maintaining the aesthetic... It is looking distinctly less avian lately. The whole beardy thing is definitely working for you.”

“It’s kinda a shame that’s the answer the artist went with. He missed his chance to say that someone looking at this piece and feeling empty was purposeful. There’s some kind of trite  existential message that could have been wrestled out of this.” He’s no longer bothering to look back at the sculpture even as they critique it, warm eyes locked on the person next to him. “I didn’t picture you as someone who wanted to answer to anyone other than yourself, so that checks out. You like the change of pace then?” 

Her surprise isn’t unexpected. When she had last known him, James had been lost in a sea of indecision, and had no clue what path forward he wanted to pave for his future. “I know, who would have thought, right? I wound up going back to school after getting my first degree. Guess I caught the sketching bug. Wonder who from?” He gives a waggle of his brow. “I enjoy it, yeah. Creating new spaces is fun. Worthwhile.” And distracts him from the various spaces and holes in his mind. 

—

“Maybe he didn't go to university for a humanities degree, and learn how to bullshit 3000 words in an hour. Could have been spouting metaphorical meanings out of his arse, but alas.” She is not going to preen, but that doesn't mean she doesn't look inordinately pleased at the assessment of herself. “I do. Tried the Potions thing for a while, but it was — how do I put this delicately? — a giant fucking bore. Plus, it's fun that nobody knows if their work is done at 3 am while getting wine buzzed in the bath, you know?” 

“Oh, no, you’re an artiste now. Whatever will Lumberjacks Anonymous do?” She winks, giving him a casual onceover. The more she thinks about it, the better it seems: a solid career choice for a solid man. “That sounds so... Wholesome. Moving from Mother Hen-ing your army of friends to making livable space for others seems like a pretty solid choice. Whatever will happen to your street cred now?”

Dimples crater his cheeks as he shrugs, boyish charm on full display. “Is art not cyclical like everything else? Or does the emergence of digital art create a whole new space?” James is essentially answering his own question. “You doing marketing kind of stuff or what?” It’s hard for him to picture Gisèle hunched over a cubicle instead of in front of a canvas. “I opened up my own architectural firm not too long ago, actually. Focusing more on function than ornamentation. You know me. I’ve always been the simple guy, and that translates into my designs.” It’s a different sort of art in a way, he supposes. 

-

“Well. At the end of the day, it’s all about expression, isn’t it? You want someone to look at your art and feel something — the only thing this is making me feel is depressed at the current landscape. I was talking to the artist earlier, and apparently, he just thought silver-plating a tree ‘seemed cool’ and didn’t mean anything. Weirdly purposeless for an artist. And I say this as somebody who is definitely doing a lot of marketing work right now, yes. Freelance, though. 9 am offices and common workspaces simply do not agree with some of us.”

Even though she wouldn’t ever class herself as theatrical, Gisèle has to whip her head around at that, brows raised. “Oh? That’s — unexpected? Congratulations are in order then? I wouldn’t have pinned you for a creative career, Potter, but it does sound oddly fitting. Do you enjoy it?”

“The boots are a little big, actually. I need a half-size, but can’t be bothered to order custom shoes.” It’s more information than necessary, but it’s offered up anyway in favor of keeping the easy back-and-forth going. “Enlighten me, then. How would you go about constructing this piece? If memory serves me correctly, you were always more into painting. Have you switched up your craft?” 

She shakes her head, unwilling to display amusement, perish the thought. “Still not funny, I see,” she comments dryly. “Neither paint nor prayer can save this one, I’d say. You’ve seen one mediocre commentary on the deteriorating world, you’ve seen them all, wouldn’t you say? The whole steampunk schtick— well, let’s just say it’s about seventy or so years too late.” As an afterthought, she shrugs and adds: “I still paint, of course, but lately, the focus has been on digital art. It’s unexpectedly enjoyable, now that our world is catching up to it. And you?”

“Is that your roundabout way of saying that this sculpture is somehow more tacky than me?” A laugh bounces through his chest. “I’m no expert on the art community like my present company, but from what I have seen of this exhibit, everything, uh, looks a little recycled?” His commentary is as unrefined as the rest of him. “Which…good for the planet, I guess.” 

—

“Well, if the scuffed boot fits, I suppose.” A begrudging grin lifts the corner of her mouth at the expected candour. “Sure, recycled ideas, that is. Not that I believe individual efforts make any considerable difference to the planet, but even if they did, I’m not sure installation art is the way to go. Present company gets it, but we do not respect it.”

An upward quip of the lip accompanies a sparkle in his eyes as he glances at her, then down to his shoes. “I’ll have you know that I’m staring respectfully so that I can get a good look at all the details. Disrespecting my boots seems highly unnecessary.” 

She folds her arms across her chest imperiously as she steps up level to him, shrugging innocently. “Au contraire, Potter, for once, no disrespect directed at you in the least. Even workman’s chic outshines the triteness. The art community seems to have taken silver plating to heart with about as much enthusiasm as nifflers to leprechaun gold, wouldn’t you say?”

“You know, staring intently only works if you get what the sculpture is about in the first place. This… even I must admit: even more perplexing than your footwear choice.”