Styles of Expressionism H.S

28. Indiana

/Tina An/

"Harry..."

"Just relax," he soothed. His hand graced the small of my back as he slowly helped me toward his bedroom. It lulled me a little more than I was ready to admit, feeling his light touch graze along my heated skin.

My eyes entered the room first. I had only had a chance to glance in here once or twice. I sped over all it had to offer, from the large bed that was shoved up against the wall to the small chair in the corner to the art supplies spread throughout. It seemed to double as a home art studio, a messy one at that.

I hesitated before walking in. His scent lingered in the warm air, a certain aftershave that he used.

"Sit down on the bed. I have a few things to set up."

There was little emotion in his tone, which only put me on edge. I just had to... I had to suck it up. I sat myself on the end of his bed. I needed money to start myself up in life. What I had in that backpack was all I had in my possession currently and I had to make some rational financial decisions. Besides, it wasn't that big of a deal.

I inhaled deeply before I forced my fingers to grip onto the hem of my thin shirt. I slowly dragged it up, trying to swallow down my insecurities as I did.

"Woah, Indiana, you don't have to-"

His voice broke when I yanked the shirt over my head, dropping it to the side before looking away. I didn't have the time to ease into things. I had to be strong about this. I stared into the pale wall, trying to ignore how quiet it was. My heart was pounding worryingly fast. Any one of these days it was going to pack out against my frail ribs.

"Just get it on with," I eventually urged, fisting the feather duvet under me. There was another pause before I heard him gulp down and clear his throat from behind the wooden art board.

I bit into my lip when I looked up at him, trying to decipher his reaction. I had done something wrong, I was sure.

He sauntered over. I cowered back out of instinct when he reached forward. He faltered at my movements and dropped his hand, though sunk to his haunches in front of me. His eyes remained only on my face, their expression now knowingly calm.

"You're not ready for that yet. I can see," he murmured. I froze when he reached up.

His fingers lightly held onto my flushed skin as he guided my arms over my chest, a bit to my surprise. He silently adjusted me a little to the left, his thumb stroking the underside of my jaw so I would lift my chin. I stared at him in curiosity, but he didn't meet my eye.

His light touch paused at my collar bone, and he frowned as he gently trailed his fingers along a scar where the rigid bone was felt. I recoiled at the sensitivity and it made him jump slightly, as if the pale and jagged line had drawn him in too deeply.

I gave an apologetic look, saying, "An accident when I was young."

"What happened?"

"I... It's nothing, honestly. You can just leave it out of the painting, can't you?" Just as I said it, his eyes met mine like he was searching for something in them, his fingers slipping off the scar and allowing me relax again.

"Why would I leave it out?" he asked in a low voice. His breath washed over my chin as he spoke, his eyes flickering between mine.

"W-well, I just assumed artistic vision would disregard the odd pimple and a bit of scar tissue."

He huffed and moved back from me. "Art is the only truth, Indiana. It's not necessarily what meets the eye, but it is always true."

"You're going to paint everything?" I murmured dully, feeling a little bothered.