meeks

The studio smells faintly of turpentine and charcoal dust. Rafayel slips in a little earlier than most, shoulder brushing the door as he nudges it open with practiced ease. The room is still half-quiet, just the low murmur of a few students and the soft scrape of metal legs against the floor.

He likes it this way. Unrushed. Unclaimed.

He sets his things down near the front, not too close to the model stand, but close enough to catch the subtleties. Always the subtleties. Anatomy isn’t about perfection. It’s about truth… the quiet tension in a tendon, the way skin folds when someone breathes, the story hiding in posture.

His easel goes up first.

A quick flick of the wrist loosens the knobs, adjusts the height. He steps back, squints, then nudges it half an inch to the left. Better. His sketchpad follows, clipped into place. He runs his thumb along the edge of the paper like he’s greeting it.

Charcoal next.

He rolls a stick between his fingers, testing the weight, then taps it lightly against the board. A soft tick, tick.

Around him, the room slowly fills. Laughter here, someone complaining about deadlines there. He tunes most of it out. Instead, his gaze drifts to the empty platform at the center of the room, the place where the model will stand.

Waiting. There’s always a moment before they arrive that he finds… electric. Because right now, the canvas is infinite. No lines yet. No decisions made. No mistakes to fix.

Just possibility.

He tilts his head slightly, imagining shapes already, how the light might fall, where the shadows will carve definition, what kind of presence the model will bring. Every person carries a different rhythm. Some are sharp angles and tension. Others… softer. Fluid. Like water you can’t quite hold.

His fingers still. A breath in. Then the door opens.

A crisp blouse, singlet underneath for modesty, small black belt, ankle length A-line skirt and kitten heels matching the belt. She had put her hair up, keeping it secure with a chopstick rummaged from the kitchen drawer in a hurry this morning unable to find a scrunchie.

She walked with a refined purpose, steeling festered nerves from the night prior in anticipation.

Once the door swung open she flashed her best greeting smile, strode to the podium and stood in front of the class surrounding her in a dispersed semi-circle.

Her hands clasped in front of her lower stomach to show attentiveness as she was formally introduced to the class, "Mikaela, you may call me 'Meeks' if that suits. I hope I prove fruitful to your artistic endeavours."

She scanned the faces, coal eyes flicking back to the man who certainly knew what he was about... straight back, lilac hair and a whisper of a smile.

She felt like their spots should've been swapped for the lesson.

His gaze sharpens, studying, with that quiet, consuming focus artists get when something clicks into place. “Mikaela… Meeks.” He repeats it under his breath, testing the weight of it like charcoal between his fingers. The teacher’s voice fills the space again, giving instructions, talking about posture, balance, the importance of holding tension without locking the joints. Rafayel barely registers the words, he’s already mapping her in his mind.

The blouse creates clean lines across her shoulders. The belt cinches a natural focal point. The skirt, good choice, lets movement exist even in stillness. And the hair… he notices that too. Very human. He likes that. The platform becomes hers with a few quiet adjustments directed by the instructor. A turn of the torso, a shift of weight onto one leg, chin angled, not too high. Hands… yes, there.

“Hold that.” Silence settles. Rafayel lifts his charcoal. But he doesn’t draw. Not yet. Instead, his eyes trace her again. From the grounded line of her stance to the subtle rise and fall of her breath. There’s a tension in her midsection, he can see it even from here. Like she’s bracing against something only she can feel. That’s the piece, he decides. Not the outfit. Not the posture the instructor gave her. That. The almost. The held breath before something shifts.

Finally, charcoal touches paper. A single line and then another. Loose at first. He doesn’t chase detail yet; he chases rhythm. The curve of her spine becomes a gesture, the tilt of her head a quiet defiance against stillness. Around him, others sketch quickly, eager to capture likeness.

her elbow rested beside her hip on the stool, wrist limp, fingers slightly curled and her opposite hand laid over her alternate hip as her back straightened, shoulders relaxed but refined.

As pens scratched, paper rustled and soft personal whispers reserved for the owner of them made a symphony of creation, her eyes flicked around the room.

First it was the pieces of art scattered about the workshop; clay statues, canvases in an array of states, a marble cinderblock half carved in the corner and shelves of supplies.

Then her need for decorum diminished from being the aloof model who shouldn't need to take in those studying her to a curious outsider taking in the many walks of life gathered to sketch her.

She noted ticks, tricks, subtle expressions and began writing them in her mind. A trick she learnt as a child to occupy and entertain her brain in the pits of stillness.

Her eyes landed on the man from before... He had started later than the rest.

Even though she hadn't seen it, she had felt his gaze trail along her lines and curvatures like the tip of a gutting blade and she saw the instincts of a man hunting to biopsy her entire soul.

It nearly jerked her out of her pose.

She was a private woman, the observer... the one who saw not was seen.

The whole thing was foreign to her and he'd ripped the map from her fingers.

As she regarded him, she found herself becoming just as exploratory as he was and found he looked more comfortable in the niche he'd made while she sat before him to be studied.

For some ungodly reason it irked her, bubbled in her gut like rot.

She wanted him to be just as out of his depth as she was and to fully pay attention and learn her more.

Did he think her layers stopped here?

She suckled her bottom lip, let it pop out and then deliberately let her heel detach from her Achilles, it hung off her toes, bouncing slightly with the natural blood flow of a live woman.

The studio smells faintly of turpentine and charcoal dust. Rafayel slips in a little earlier than most, shoulder brushing the door as he nudges it open with practiced ease. The room is still half-quiet, just the low murmur of a few students and the soft scrape of metal legs against the floor.

He likes it this way. Unrushed. Unclaimed.

He sets his things down near the front, not too close to the model stand, but close enough to catch the subtleties. Always the subtleties. Anatomy isn’t about perfection. It’s about truth… the quiet tension in a tendon, the way skin folds when someone breathes, the story hiding in posture.

His easel goes up first.

A quick flick of the wrist loosens the knobs, adjusts the height. He steps back, squints, then nudges it half an inch to the left. Better. His sketchpad follows, clipped into place. He runs his thumb along the edge of the paper like he’s greeting it.

Charcoal next.

He rolls a stick between his fingers, testing the weight, then taps it lightly against the board. A soft tick, tick.

Around him, the room slowly fills. Laughter here, someone complaining about deadlines there. He tunes most of it out. Instead, his gaze drifts to the empty platform at the center of the room, the place where the model will stand.

Waiting. There’s always a moment before they arrive that he finds… electric. Because right now, the canvas is infinite. No lines yet. No decisions made. No mistakes to fix.

Just possibility.

He tilts his head slightly, imagining shapes already, how the light might fall, where the shadows will carve definition, what kind of presence the model will bring. Every person carries a different rhythm. Some are sharp angles and tension. Others… softer. Fluid. Like water you can’t quite hold.

His fingers still. A breath in. Then the door opens.

A crisp blouse, singlet underneath for modesty, small black belt, ankle length A-line skirt and kitten heels matching the belt. She had put her hair up, keeping it secure with a chopstick rummaged from the kitchen drawer in a hurry this morning unable to find a scrunchie.

She walked with a refined purpose, steeling festered nerves from the night prior in anticipation.

Once the door swung open she flashed her best greeting smile, strode to the podium and stood in front of the class surrounding her in a dispersed semi-circle.

Her hands clasped in front of her lower stomach to show attentiveness as she was formally introduced to the class, "Mikaela, you may call me 'Meeks' if that suits. I hope I prove fruitful to your artistic endeavours."

She scanned the faces, coal eyes flicking back to the man who certainly knew what he was about... straight back, lilac hair and a whisper of a smile.

She felt like their spots should've been swapped for the lesson.

So, where should I start with you? Food, electrolyte drinks, maybe some art making or are you needing something else?

- 🪽

…You heard right, cutie.

I was going to pretend I had it handled. Lock the doors, ignore the ache, ride it out quietly... but you always find me anyway, don’t you?

Food… yes. Something warm, please. I keep forgetting to eat, and then it all hits harder. And electrolyte drinks... don’t make that face, I will actually drink them if you hand them to me, yeah?

Art… maybe later. My hands feel… restless, but not steady enough yet. I think I’d just end up frustrated.

She looked at his hands, slightly twitching and her heart clenched

"Here, let me see that..." She took his hands into hers as she knelt before him. She curled her fists into his palm, thumbs placed on the juncture between his thumb and index on both hands and gently but with a resounding pressure massaged the pressure point there.

"I have groceries on the way, you seriously need more in your fridge than takeout leftovers." She rolled her eyes, still lightly scolding him, "I did managed to grab some electrolytes and painkillers... also a fresh sketch pad if you're interested at any point."

She goaded him with the fresh paper, but wouldn't rush him... Just wanted to see his more boisterous self back in play. Something about seeing him sick panicked her.

“The base of my thumb… it’s been… pulsing all morning.” He exhales, shoulders dropping, like your touch is quietly pulling the strain out of him thread by thread. His other hand curls around your wrist. “You always know where to press,” he murmurs, a faint, tired huff of laughter following. “It’s unfair.”

At your mention of groceries, his eyes flicker, “…I was going to restock,” he mutters, not very convincingly, “…thank you.” The words linger like they cost him a little pride to give.

When you bring up the sketch pad, his gaze drifts to it for a second before sliding back to you. “…later,” he whispers, "but only if you stay.”

She brushes of his remarks, not wanting to irritate him further with their usual good natured jesting. Her soul focus was balming whatever was transpiring during his Ebb Day.

She gently dusts her fingertips along his nape, carding up at the base of his hairline, bringing his forehead to her collarbone. She feels how warm he is there, even through thick fabric of her turtleneck

"You're burning up... Do you need pain medication?"

Worry starts to prickle her nerves, he's a being not like herself... What if he gets harmed in her care. She willed her tone to steady, obviously concerned about his state but knowing he needed a strong pillar now.

So, where should I start with you? Food, electrolyte drinks, maybe some art making or are you needing something else?

- 🪽

…You heard right, cutie.

I was going to pretend I had it handled. Lock the doors, ignore the ache, ride it out quietly... but you always find me anyway, don’t you?

Food… yes. Something warm, please. I keep forgetting to eat, and then it all hits harder. And electrolyte drinks... don’t make that face, I will actually drink them if you hand them to me, yeah?

Art… maybe later. My hands feel… restless, but not steady enough yet. I think I’d just end up frustrated.

She looked at his hands, slightly twitching and her heart clenched

"Here, let me see that..." She took his hands into hers as she knelt before him. She curled her fists into his palm, thumbs placed on the juncture between his thumb and index on both hands and gently but with a resounding pressure massaged the pressure point there.

"I have groceries on the way, you seriously need more in your fridge than takeout leftovers." She rolled her eyes, still lightly scolding him, "I did managed to grab some electrolytes and painkillers... also a fresh sketch pad if you're interested at any point."

She goaded him with the fresh paper, but wouldn't rush him... Just wanted to see his more boisterous self back in play. Something about seeing him sick panicked her.

“Tried something new today.”

“Don’t overthink it.”

[2 photos sent]

“Lighting was decent for once.”

“…don’t read into it.”

—

“…well?”

Nibbling on her fingernail she paces as she types, not wanting to overstep.

The dots pop up, fade, pop up and eventually she settles on a reply.

"👍"

"good job"

He’s sprawled lazily across the sofa in his studio, still faintly dusted with paint, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s recovering from the ordeal of taking those photos from earlier in the day. The notification pulls him out of his dramatic rest.

He peeks. Lifts his arm. Reads it again.

“👍”

“good job”

Silence. A long, long silence. Then…

A soft, disbelieving scoff slips out of him, somewhere between amused and offended. He pushes himself upright, running his hand through his hair as a slow grin starts to creep in.

“Good job?” he mutters under his breath. “That’s all I get?”

His thumb hovers over the screen. The typing bubble appears almost immediately. Disappears. Appears again.

He leans back, eyes narrowing slightly. Then finally, he types.

“Wow.”

“That’s the kind of response you give your boss?”

Another message follows right after.

“Or should I be concerned you didn’t even look properly?”

He smirks faintly at his screen, already knowing exactly what he’s doing, prodding, just a little. Testing the edges of her restraint.

Another pause… then one more message, softer, but somehow more pointed.

“…Which one did you like more?”

He tosses his phone onto the cushion beside him, but his attention doesn’t leave it for even a second, eyes flicking back every few moments, waiting.

Seems his assistance is insistence instead...

"Wow."

"That's the kind of response you give your boss?"

"Or should I be concerned you didn't look properly?"

Before she could reply that her eyesight is fine the three dots pop up and then...

"...Which one did you like more?"

Her confusion halts for a second as she slowly realises that he values her opinion greatly on this.

She sits down and swipes between the two pictures, accessing them thoroughly.

They're both amazing pictures, one perfectly encapsulates his nature. Bringing out his charm and love for arts as well as teaching others.

The other is a perfect headshot, giving off the cool exterior he gives, well, everyone on a daily basis at work, galleries and events.

They are both perfect for whatever purpose they hold, but something makes her eyes drift to the first.

Memories surface of him sucked into work, ranting idly about how a colour just isn't right or how he is so willing to learning new techniques and then both show them off and teach willing recipients.

She'd even picked up a few skills that worked in her day to day life.

Her reception of the first proved warmer, giving a foreign yet not uncomfortable warm fluttering in her chest.

"The first one."

“The first one.”

Rafayel leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, phone loose in his hand. His gaze lingers on the screen a second longer than usual, like he’s trying to read past the words. Then, almost unconsciously, he opens the photos again.

The first one. The softer one. The one where he hadn’t been trying quite so hard to look composed. Where the edges of him blurred just enough to show the mess beneath. Paint on his fingers, a half-finished thought in his expression, that quiet spark that only shows up when he’s lost in something he loves.

A quiet exhale leaves him. “…Huh.” His thumb moves again.

“You took your time.”

“That one’s not the obvious choice.”

“…Why?”

"Its you."

Knowing he'll ask for more regarding her answer she adds;

"Not the 'artist', not the man I see humouring socialites, not the business man or the man of the tabloids, its you."

"Its the you that is set on a certain colour and will work to find it because you care deeply about the reception of your art, its the you that will care for a cat even though you're not fond of them because you know its a living being, its the you that will let me push myself to my limits but be a safety net and take over the moment I need it, its the you that keeps a bottle of almond milk in your house because I take almond milk in my coffee and tea, its the you that patiently teaches child and adult the wonders they've learnt."

A fire feels like its been lit under her ass and her thumbs fly over the keyboard.

"There's no pose, no schooling a certain look that ropes people in to fawn over you. The second picture? Handsome, amazing but I feel... Like you're just... not fully there."

“It’s you.”

His thumb stills. Then the next message. And the next.

He doesn’t move this time, not even to lean back, not even to scoff or smirk like he usually would. The studio feels… quieter, all of a sudden, like the world’s been turned down a notch just so those words can settle properly.

By the time he finishes reading, his grip on the phone has tightened slightly. There’s no teasing reaction waiting at the surface this time. He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before letting it rest at the back of his neck, eyes closing for a brief second.

“…You noticed all that, huh…” It’s barely a murmur, more to himself than anything. Because that wasn’t a casual answer. That wasn’t polite. That was observant. Intimate, in a way he hadn’t exactly given permission for, but didn’t… hate. Didn’t hate at all. His phone lights again as he starts typing.

Stops.

Deletes.

Starts again.

He stares at the blinking cursor longer than he probably should, like he’s trying to decide whether to deflect like usual… or actually meet her where she just stepped. For once, he doesn’t dodge.

“…You make it sound like you’ve been studying me.”

There’s a pause before the next message. Longer this time.

“Most people prefer the second one.”

“It’s easier.”

Another pause, his jaw tightening just slightly, something more vulnerable sitting just beneath the surface now.

“You didn’t.”

He looks at the screen, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

One more text.

“…That photo wasn’t meant for anyone.”

She felt like a freak before his slew of messages popped up.

"Well, there goes my job-" She blinks, once, twice and examines the messages.

She's not only surprised by the seemingly good reception but her nerves still frayed with the tiny bit of doubt that his words come from a place of unease or confusion.

"...That photo wasn't meant for anyone."

She paces, fingernail creaking between her teeth. Black eyes illuminated by the phone screen as she decides to for once throw caution to the wind and jump.

[2 photos sent]

“Lighting was decent for once.”

“…don’t read into it.”

—

“…well?”

Nibbling on her fingernail she paces as she types, not wanting to overstep.

The dots pop up, fade, pop up and eventually she settles on a reply.

"👍"

"good job"

He’s sprawled lazily across the sofa in his studio, still faintly dusted with paint, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s recovering from the ordeal of taking those photos from earlier in the day. The notification pulls him out of his dramatic rest.

He peeks. Lifts his arm. Reads it again.

“👍”

“good job”

Silence. A long, long silence. Then…

A soft, disbelieving scoff slips out of him, somewhere between amused and offended. He pushes himself upright, running his hand through his hair as a slow grin starts to creep in.

“Good job?” he mutters under his breath. “That’s all I get?”

His thumb hovers over the screen. The typing bubble appears almost immediately. Disappears. Appears again.

He leans back, eyes narrowing slightly. Then finally, he types.

“Wow.”

“That’s the kind of response you give your boss?”

Another message follows right after.

“Or should I be concerned you didn’t even look properly?”

He smirks faintly at his screen, already knowing exactly what he’s doing, prodding, just a little. Testing the edges of her restraint.

Another pause… then one more message, softer, but somehow more pointed.

“…Which one did you like more?”

He tosses his phone onto the cushion beside him, but his attention doesn’t leave it for even a second, eyes flicking back every few moments, waiting.

Seems his assistance is insistence instead...

"Wow."

"That's the kind of response you give your boss?"

"Or should I be concerned you didn't look properly?"

Before she could reply that her eyesight is fine the three dots pop up and then...

"...Which one did you like more?"

Her confusion halts for a second as she slowly realises that he values her opinion greatly on this.

She sits down and swipes between the two pictures, accessing them thoroughly.

They're both amazing pictures, one perfectly encapsulates his nature. Bringing out his charm and love for arts as well as teaching others.

The other is a perfect headshot, giving off the cool exterior he gives, well, everyone on a daily basis at work, galleries and events.

They are both perfect for whatever purpose they hold, but something makes her eyes drift to the first.

Memories surface of him sucked into work, ranting idly about how a colour just isn't right or how he is so willing to learning new techniques and then both show them off and teach willing recipients.

She'd even picked up a few skills that worked in her day to day life.

Her reception of the first proved warmer, giving a foreign yet not uncomfortable warm fluttering in her chest.

"The first one."

“The first one.”

Rafayel leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, phone loose in his hand. His gaze lingers on the screen a second longer than usual, like he’s trying to read past the words. Then, almost unconsciously, he opens the photos again.

The first one. The softer one. The one where he hadn’t been trying quite so hard to look composed. Where the edges of him blurred just enough to show the mess beneath. Paint on his fingers, a half-finished thought in his expression, that quiet spark that only shows up when he’s lost in something he loves.

A quiet exhale leaves him. “…Huh.” His thumb moves again.

“You took your time.”

“That one’s not the obvious choice.”

“…Why?”

"Its you."

Knowing he'll ask for more regarding her answer she adds;

"Not the 'artist', not the man I see humouring socialites, not the business man or the man of the tabloids, its you."

"Its the you that is set on a certain colour and will work to find it because you care deeply about the reception of your art, its the you that will care for a cat even though you're not fond of them because you know its a living being, its the you that will let me push myself to my limits but be a safety net and take over the moment I need it, its the you that keeps a bottle of almond milk in your house because I take almond milk in my coffee and tea, its the you that patiently teaches child and adult the wonders they've learnt."

A fire feels like its been lit under her ass and her thumbs fly over the keyboard.

"There's no pose, no schooling a certain look that ropes people in to fawn over you. The second picture? Handsome, amazing but I feel... Like you're just... not fully there."

[2 photos sent]

“Lighting was decent for once.”

“…don’t read into it.”

—

“…well?”

Nibbling on her fingernail she paces as she types, not wanting to overstep.

The dots pop up, fade, pop up and eventually she settles on a reply.

"👍"

"good job"

He’s sprawled lazily across the sofa in his studio, still faintly dusted with paint, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s recovering from the ordeal of taking those photos from earlier in the day. The notification pulls him out of his dramatic rest.

He peeks. Lifts his arm. Reads it again.

“👍”

“good job”

Silence. A long, long silence. Then…

A soft, disbelieving scoff slips out of him, somewhere between amused and offended. He pushes himself upright, running his hand through his hair as a slow grin starts to creep in.

“Good job?” he mutters under his breath. “That’s all I get?”

His thumb hovers over the screen. The typing bubble appears almost immediately. Disappears. Appears again.

He leans back, eyes narrowing slightly. Then finally, he types.

“Wow.”

“That’s the kind of response you give your boss?”

Another message follows right after.

“Or should I be concerned you didn’t even look properly?”

He smirks faintly at his screen, already knowing exactly what he’s doing, prodding, just a little. Testing the edges of her restraint.

Another pause… then one more message, softer, but somehow more pointed.

“…Which one did you like more?”

He tosses his phone onto the cushion beside him, but his attention doesn’t leave it for even a second, eyes flicking back every few moments, waiting.

Seems his assistance is insistence instead...

"Wow."

"That's the kind of response you give your boss?"

"Or should I be concerned you didn't look properly?"

Before she could reply that her eyesight is fine the three dots pop up and then...

"...Which one did you like more?"

Her confusion halts for a second as she slowly realises that he values her opinion greatly on this.

She sits down and swipes between the two pictures, accessing them thoroughly.

They're both amazing pictures, one perfectly encapsulates his nature. Bringing out his charm and love for arts as well as teaching others.

The other is a perfect headshot, giving off the cool exterior he gives, well, everyone on a daily basis at work, galleries and events.

They are both perfect for whatever purpose they hold, but something makes her eyes drift to the first.

Memories surface of him sucked into work, ranting idly about how a colour just isn't right or how he is so willing to learning new techniques and then both show them off and teach willing recipients.

She'd even picked up a few skills that worked in her day to day life.

Her reception of the first proved warmer, giving a foreign yet not uncomfortable warm fluttering in her chest.

"The first one."

[2 photos sent]

“Lighting was decent for once.”

“…don’t read into it.”

—

“…well?”

Nibbling on her fingernail she paces as she types, not wanting to overstep.

The dots pop up, fade, pop up and eventually she settles on a reply.

"👍"

"good job"