Hearts of Deceit (ManxMan)

Ch 7: Tulach Hills

My apartment was kind of a shit-hole. It was small and cramped, the edges of claustrophobia creeping in on you as you tried walking through the tiny hall to the bedroom. The kitchen was barely there. It consisted of an oven, a sink, a microwave, two cabinets and a counter of about 4 feet right below the microwave and between the oven and sink. The "kitchen" (or the wall that was the kitchen) was divided by hard, tiled white floor from the living room.

I had a weird relationship with my living room. It's where I slept since my bed was lofted right above the couch. I often watched the little TV on the cracked coffee table and many nights fell asleep on the couch. But there was also the fact that the carpet was horribly stained and had developed a puke-y, yellowish tint that made you feel revolted just to walk on. Never-mind that the window was too small to let in enough light or that it faced another brick building (yeah, I know, stellar view).

 The single bedroom I had was where I kept my desk, my clothes, and the few supplies for crafting and building I could fit in there. It was my little studio. Emphasis on little. But I loved it nonetheless. I owned it. I carved little statues the way my dad had shown me.  I would even leave a few in front of the picture of him on the bedroom window sill. Catch him smiling at me with ruffled blond hair. 

The bathroom was small, the sink cracked, the shower never had hot water. I let Misha know this when he asked to use the bathroom. Watching him walk into my apartment was...humiliating. It was bad enough when he drove us over and looked around the area with a look of concern and disdain.

"You live here?" he asked quietly. "Sorry if this sounds ignorant, but is it...safe?"

"Safest I can afford, buddy. We don't all have mysterious well-paying jobs like you do."

Misha chuckled. It was true, though. There was very little I knew about him, even after two months of dating. We'd gone on into the beginnings of December, when the winds bit into your cheeks and nipped at the tips of your ears, leaving them red and numb. Driving was hell and more than once, I'd had Elise take her car back to the shop. Luckily, I had Misha to drive me around in his admittedly lovely BMW. The same one I told him to park at least two blocks away  from the apartment (and laughed when I caught sight of his distress). Hey, I lived on the edge of the Lower East projects. What the hell did he expect?

As we walked in, the same apprehension I'd felt when he'd first asked to see my apartment hit me. I cringed as I watched him look around. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. My guess being that he wasn't very impressed. 

"So...you, uh, wanna see my studio?"

He glanced at me from his spot over by the couch/bedroom combo in the living room. I stood awkwardly by the entrance. When he nodded slowly, I eagerly ran to the bedroom and opened the door. 

"Wow," he said. I smiled. We could barely fit through the hallway together, trying to squeeze through to the bedroom but I swelled with pride as Misha ran his eyes over the various wood carvings, small or large and the few pieces of furniture I'd been working on. Mainly a table and a few chairs.

"You work on the side? How good do they sell?" he asked, while running his fingers over a small statue of a dragon. 

"Oh, uh, I just make them for me. And my dad. He, er, owned a shop where he made homemade furniture and statues before opening the mechanic shop with Elise's father." I rubbed my hands together, suddenly nervous (the heating was also shit to be fair). 

"You should sell them. I think they'd do well," Misha said quietly. He was still observing all the different statues with those pine green eyes. I had the urge to leave the room. Should I tell him that was the last thing I wanted? Or needed? I didn't tell him though. Maybe it was the intense way he was looking at the different works, both with appreciation and a sense of fascination. It reminded me of a certain alpha and how different they both were. Joe had little regard for my works. I stopped showing him after he casually told me that he could care less about my carved statue of a horse.