The Painter & The Pianist

v.

CHAPTER FIVE

Monserrat really had no idea how it had gotten to this point. All he knew was that, one moment, he was drying off and cleaning the kitchen, which had been left as a mess by the "not-so-kosher" boy, and the next, he was face to face with the aforementioned boy's shirtless torso. "Why do you have your shirt off?" Monserrat exclaimed, flailing his arms in the air.

"Why do you not have your shirt off?" Amadeus inquired, a smirk plastered on his face. Monserrat rolled his eyes, an action that had become habitual after the past few days, and turned his back to him. He attempted to speak, but the best he could muster was a weak, "What?"

Amadeus snickered. "I'm kidding. So, what are we gonna do today?" he asked.

Monserrat scratched his scalp; underneath the skin, uncoordinated thoughts swam to the surface to taste the brief warmth his fingers emitted. He glanced at his desk, and at the blank canvas which was propped up on it so that it faced away from the sunlight.

"I need to paint. I entered a competition that doubles as a fundraiser for women with breast cancer. The theme this year is... flowers." Monserrat sighed. "And for the sake of Van Gogh, please get rid of those pizzas. They're stinking up my house," he said with a crinkled nose.

Amadeus stuck out his tongue in contemplation. What part did he have to play in Monserrat's afternoon plans? "I don't smell anything, Mon," Amadeus said, attempting not to gag at the now painfully obvious stench occupying his nostrils.

"Of course you don't, you're used to the smell of filth, death, and disappointment," Monserrat quipped, walking to the counter to grab his bag. Amadeus followed hands on his hips.

"Hey, at least I got mostly cheese pizzas, and that's not as bad as like, meat ones, right?" Monserrat swiveled around, and stuck his finger in the air to respond, but decided to ignore Amadeus in favor of avoiding the journey down the dark road of a debate about his vegan principles.

"So... you're just going to, uh, leave me here? With all of your fragile, expensive... flammable, pillows?" Amadeus asked, leaning closer to Monserrat with each word. Monserrat inhaled sharply. Amadeus was almost nose to nose with Monserrat. Discomfitingly close. Kissably close.

Well, that came out of nowhere.

Monserrat quickly blurted, "Get in the car..." and as an afterthought, added, "and uh... please don't set the flowers on fire."

Amadeus walked towards the car with a bounce in his step, powered by anxiety and a mysterious sense of... exhilaration? He brushed it away, and made a beeline to the car. They quickly set off, neither of them eager to linger in the abyss of awkwardness that had intruded into their lives as soon as Amadeus had made the decision, whether idiotic or genius was yet to be determined, to seek help from Monserrat, of all people.

///

Monserrat continually tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, and soft music played out of the radio, but the car ride was abnormally quiet, or, at least, Monserrat thought, quiet compared to how loud Amadeus usually was. He occasionally glanced to the right, where Amadeus was sitting, to try to peek at his aesthetically pleasing face. God, he was so nervous. Amadeus had no idea how difficult it was for Monserrat even to be in the same room as him anymore.

He was seriously considering dropping Amadeus off somewhere safe, like a daycare for stupid adults, but he couldn't think of anything besides the library and the bar, and Amadeus wouldn't fare well in either of those places. Curse Monserrat's immense sense of responsibility for Amadeus! Curse whatever demon decided to make Amadeus so alluring! Curse his stupid handsome face and hair and eyes and mouth and abs and-