#darrendreamer

Cassandra Goth was beautiful. Cheekbones like a pair of stilettos carved from some fine, dark warm marble, flushed with life. That mobile mouth, twisting instantly from a sullen frown to a distracted smile. Dark honey eyes and the untamed curls of an Italian shepherdess. Flashing. Remote. Untouchable. Moocha should have painted her, a slender nymph in a scrap of white silk.

He should have painted her.

She was beautiful as she stood there sobbing, mascara streaking down her cheeks, angry bunched fists ruining the expense lines of her wedding dress.

Don Lothario had muttered, “I’m sorry, Cass,” and left her standing up there alone. What kind of way was that for a man to end a relationship? Darren would have walked barefoot over broken glass to be the man standing with her under that wedding arch, and Lothario had just thrown it all away.

…

It would probably be the wrong moment to tell Cassandra that he loved her.

Don was seriously considering leaving town. If it wasn’t for all the work he’d put into establishing himself at Pleasantview General, he’d have packed his bags two weeks ago.

Half the damn town had been at his non-wedding, and the other half had heard about it, and the consensus was clear - they were two sides to this fiasco and they were all on Cassandra’s. Would it have been better if he’d just gone through with it when every cell in his brain was screaming at him to run? Cassandra Goth didn’t want a man to be married out of a sense of obligation, did she? She’d see that eventually.

Hopefully sooner than later.

Don had given up a huge fortune and the woman (okay, fine, one of the women) he loved just so that she’d have a real chance at happiness with someone else. He was practically a saint.

pasta, pasta, which brand do I like again?

He snorted. Okay, maybe a nomination to sainthood was a bit much too ask. But he didn’t deserve a complete shunning, either.

Even Kaylynn wasn’t return his calls. Too busy with her new girlfriend - Don still couldn’t believe the Pleasants had planned that seduction as a couple. He wondered if Cassandra would have ever been up for planning a fling with the maid.

are fresh peas really that much better than frozen? maybe worth trying

Nina was always happy to see him, but she was happy to see plenty of other people too. Don had wasn’t more than that. It was selfish, but he wanted to be the most important person in someone’s life. He wanted to settle down. It was why he had proposed.

So why had he left her, then? Because, Don reminded himself firmly, because he was in love with different three women and in that moment, he had realized he hadn’t cared which one of them was standing under that arch.

tomatoes? this one feels nice and ripe

Cassie deserved better.

She deserved someone who loved her like - “Afternoon, Dreamer.”

Darren Dreamer actually glared at him, which was a laugh. Don wouldn’t have expected a guy as passive as Dreamer to do anything more more cutting than pretend he was deaf.

Don cleared his throat.

“Do you need something?” Dreamer snarled.

“You’re standing in front the lemons,” Don said mildly.

Dreamer stalked off towards the bread in a huff. Don shook his head. Don barely knew the guy, but everyone knew Dreamer had been carrying a torch for Cassandra (well, everyone except for Cassandra, who was the most single-minded woman Don had ever met. She just hadn’t noticed other guys once she’d started dating him. It had been flattering - at least, until he’d gotten to really know her.)

(He had still enjoyed it.)

how do you check lemons? Do you smell them?

If Dreamer was so in love with Cassandra he should be fucking grateful they had broken up. Now at least he had a chance.

Don shrugged.

There was no helping some people.

what else was in the meat sauce recipe? I knew I should have written it down

Models were the flakiest damn species on the planet. Darren dropped the phone down on the receiver and swore. Heather sat on the sofa looking beautiful, bored, and totally at ease wearing nothing but Darren’s spare bathrobe.

He was going to have to put off painting and he would still have to pay Heather half her rate just for showing up and drinking his coffee.

Darren drummed irritably against the phone table, trying to decide if he could pose Heather solo and at least get a start on the sketches. Work on her back, maybe. He glanced idly out the window.

Don Lothario was jogging past outside.

The artistic soul was strong in Darren. In that moment, Don Lothario was no longer the bastard who had broken the heart of the woman Darren loved. He was just a very good specimen of the male sex, tall and lean with slightly unruly dark hair and warm brown skin.

Darren shot out the front door.

“Lothario! Hey, uh, Dr. Lothario. Are you free right now?”

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“You want me to what?”

“My male model canceled on me at the last minute,” Darren explained, “but I need to paint right now, while the image is still in my head. You’re a little old but you’ve got good muscle. Good flesh tones. Beautiful eyes. Green like Heather’s, which is too bad, but … you’ll do. I’ll pay you, of course. What do you have on under those track pants? You’re comfortable with nudity, aren’t you? You are a doctor.”

Don considered the phrase, ‘No fucking way,’ but he swallowed it. He considered. “You must really be desperate.” Don glanced over at the cute little co-ed on the couch. He could imagine worse company. And Darren Dreamer would probably be on his best behavior. “I guess I could help you out, Dreamer. For art’s sake.”

“Go ahead and strip then,” Darren said, shining with relief.

“I won’t even charge you. It’s not like I can’t spare the time. I’m newly single, remember?”

The shot missed. Darren was arguing with his other muse.

“You want me to work with a total stranger? What if he’s a creep?”

“Mr. Lothario, sorry, Dr. Lothario isn’t a creep, Heather. Would I ask a creep to model with you?”

“You don’t have to keep calling me doctor.”

“I want hazard pay,” Heather said firmly.

“Fine, I’ll give you your overtime rates. But that’s just for today. Don’t think this is a permanent raise. Now get that robe off so I can make sure your bruises haven’t smeared.”

“Yessir!”

Don began pulling his pants down.

“Let me retouch the one on your thigh. Okay, Lothario, Heather’s going to be strangling you. It’s a easy pose for a beginner because you can just lie there.” He smudged something purple onto Heather’s smooth white thigh. Don needed to either stop watching or put his pants back on.

“You’ll be lying prone on the floor, she’ll be crouching over you, hands around your neck. Heather can do the heavy lifting on expressions, so don’t worry about that. I want a 50s look, so I’ll need to put something in your hair … ”

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“Look, I get it,“ said Heather, "but I’m not flattered or interested.” She gave Don a second look and shrugged. “Not at the moment, anyway. Just try and think of me as a piece of furniture.” She shot Darren a look. “This is why I like working with Jimmy. He knows how to act professional.”

Darren frowned at Don. “No, don’t look embarrassed,” he admonished. “That’s not even close to the expression I want. The erections’s good, though. He’s supposed to be egging you on, so … Can you … ”

“Darren, if he touches me with that thing I am out.”

“I’m doing my best,” Don said. He sounded mortified.

“Hold it,” Darren said. “Let me just finish that part of the sketch - and mix some paint samples. I want to capture that color.”

“Artists!” Heather groaned, all her exasperation rolled up into one ball. Don looked like he understood.

“I can’t believe I agreed to do this again.”

Don was sitting on the counter in Darren’s kitchen in just his underwear, letting the other man comb pomade into his hair.

“I really appreciate it,” Darren said. “But I’m guessing you’re here more for the lovely Miss Huffington than for art.”

Don stiffened. Heather? The lovely, luscious girl in the other room? He hadn’t even thought of her when Dreamer had phoned him up and demanded he come back for a second sitting.

Don would have expected him to beg. He wouldn’t have guessed a man who still hadn’t tried making a play for Cassandra to have so much …

Passion.

Cassandra’s consuming, singled-minded interest in every new hypothesis, the way she’d stop at nothing to teach it to everyone else …

The way Nina threw herself headfirst into everything, no safety nets, no restraint . . .

Darren’s total absorption in his own work, death and blind to everything but the vision in his head…

Don liked passion.

He shook his head to clear it. “Don’t move,” Darren said gently. He put a hand on Don’s jaw to steady him. His skin was warm and dry. “You’ve got such thick hair,” Darren muttered. His eyes were far away. “ I should’ve have painted you in bed, mussed from sleep, stretched out against the sheets with the sunlight filtering down - no, moonlight - moonlight dappling over your skin-”

Had Dreamer’s voice always been that … husky?

Heather’s right, Don thought. He shifted just a little on the counter. I need to learn to control myself. Or at least keep it in my pants.

“There’s no way I can bend my arm like that.”

“Are you saying you aren’t flexible enough?” Darren shook his head and tsked. “I knew I should have stuck to younger models.”

“Oh, I’m plenty flexible, old man-”

“I just bet you are,” Darren muttered.

“You should try yoga,” Heather chimed in from underneath him.

“I do yoga.”

“What, seriously?”

“Even if I could get into the pose,” Don went on, ignoring her, “I’d probably strain myself holding it. Don’t they teach you anything about basic anatomy at art school?”

“All right, Doctor. What do you suggest?”

“Well, if you really want to have that fold of sheet visible, then I could …”

“You’ve got some paint on your cheek.”

“Where?”

“Hold on, I’ll get it.”

remember to breathe

…

he’s a flirt. he flirts with everyone.

There still weren’t many people in Pleasantview who would invite Don Lothario out for a drink. He definitely hadn’t expected Darren Dreamer to ever be one of them.

“Well, you won’t let me pay you for modeling.” Darren got Marylena’s attention and ordered them both beers. He asked Don about an upcoming surgery he had mentioned the other day. Don got very eloquent about the use of internal splints to fix spine reticulation.

Darren divided his attention between Don and a sketch he was making on a cocktail napkin.

“What are you drawing?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever gotten the shape of your eyebrows right.”

Don snorted. “Should I keep my face still? Are my many medical exploits distracting you?”

“No, I like watching them move.” He made a few small strokes with his pen. "Actually, can you hold right there?”

Don didn’t know why he listened. He had no idea why he was doing a lot of things, lately. He watched Darren drawing quick sketches of his brow, his nose, his mouth …

“One of your models asked me out.”

Darren jerked to attention. “Heather? She didn’t break up with her girlfriend, did she?”

“Not Heather. Tiffany. The one with the obvious trust-fund. What’s she doing slumming as an artist’s model, anyway?”

“You’ll have to ask her on your date,” Darren said. He crumpled the cocktail napkin he’d been sketching on into a ball and started tearing small pieces off it. “Better take her someplace nice.”

Don sipped his beer. “I let her down gently. She’s a little young for me,” he said. He glanced carefully at the man on the next barstool. “What about you?”

Darren looked up. His own eyebrows rose. “Are you asking me out to dinner?”

Don choked on his beer. He coughed. “Have you ever gone out with one of your models?”

Darren snorted. “Of course not. If you’re too old for them, what does that make a fossil like me?”

Those girls aren’t that much younger than Cassandra, Don thought. You aren’t that much older than me. And the edge of both those thoughts stung.

Darren ordered them another round of beers. “Isn’t this supposed to be a good season for stargazing?”

Don perked up instantly. “It really is! See, the orbit of the moons …“

It was the fourth time he’d agreed to pose.

Darren didn’t know why Don kept agreeing. He didn’t even know why he kept asking. He liked young models. He liked the quality of their skin, the vulnerability of youth.

It was the difference between a sapling and a tree that had grown into, well, solidity. Maturity. That whole self-contained universe that trees get to be when they grow up.

No, that made it sound like he was starting to prefer older models.

darleen would have said i was finally growing up

Don said posing left him free to do nothing but think. That was what he liked about it. “Gives a chance to read through patient reports and new medical journals in my head.”

just a little blue there so the brown is more brown

cerulean? no, cobalt

Darren wanted to split his head open, pull out everything going on behind Don’s bright green eyes and set it against the deliberate sensuality of the pose.

He wanted to capture the passions, the dichotomy, the muscle and skin and mind of the man in front of him…

He wanted to capture the man  …

He wanted . . .

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Posing left Don free to look.

Darren Dreamer was absented-minded. He was terrified of spiders. He had the worst pollen allergy Don had ever seen. Ever surface in his house was covered in books and he was constantly picking one up (usually right in the middle of a conversation, sometimes when he was the one doing the talking) reading a few paragraphs, and putting it right back down. He lived completely off leftovers from meals his kid had cooked.

But put a paintbrush in his hands, or an idea into his head, and the man was transformed. Don had gotten addicted to watching him, mercurial, transfixed, enraptured, inspired, muttering to himself about color and light.

And he really could paint.

And when he was painting him, he looked at Don like he was most fascinating thing anyone had ever seen. Like he was an object, but a beautiful object. A treasured object. Something that existed just on Darren’s whim. It was almost a challenge.

Lots of people had been attracted to Don, and most of them had bothered hiding the fact, but no one had ever looked at him like Darren Dreamer looked at him.

And the spider thing was actually kind of cute.

“Don’t move your head.”

“What?”

“You’re moving your head again. The wrapper’s going to fall. Hold still.“

"Yeah, all right.”

“I don’t see why you can’t hold still,” said Darren, a man Don had never seen sit still for more than about 10 seconds at a time. He surged forward in his usual impatient way and began messing with Don’s hair. He tucked the condom wrapper back into position where it could resume imitating a laurel leaf. Then he took a possessive hold on Don’s head and began twitching it back and forth. “We’re losing the light,” he complained. “There’s a certain light I want to paint you in. If I could just paint you properly-,” his finger skated over Don’s jaw, “-you’re too good for Dionysus, you’re-”

Don kissed him. His lips brushed against the corner of the other man’s mouth. He wondered which of them was more surprised.

Darren murmured, “What are you-”

his voice is fucking sexy

“I-” Don You - you reminded me of Cassandra.“ Wrong thing to say. Maybe the wrongest thing anyone had ever said.

Darren shoved Don right up against the wall and glared at him more intensely than he had ever glared over Cassandra. "You’re not getting out of this that easily, Lothario.”

And he kissed Don right back.

“If we’re going to do this,” Darren growled, “The only name you’re going to say is mine.”