IN MY ROOM
Title: In My Room
Written By: vlredreign
Timeline: Season 1, Episode 118
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language
Summary: Sometimes, you gotta go for it. Justin's POV.
I like it in my head. It’s a pretty cool place, most of the time. I see in Technicolor, 3D and infrared. Every color, every line, every shape stands out in bas-relief. I wonder if other artists see things in this manner.
I am an artist. I realized this a few days ago. Well, I knew it, but I really, truly knew it, understood what it meant when I printed out the acceptance letter to Dartmouth. It’s not a hobby, it’s not something to amuse me while I’m on the phone, it’s what I am. I have to draw. Have to. It almost physically hurts not to. That’s what they don’t understand. What they can’t understand. I have to do this. You would think that, as a parent, the fact that your kid wants to go to college, any college, is a good idea, a cause to celebrate. Not my parents.
My father kicked me out for being queer. But that didn’t stop him from insisting that I apply to Dartmouth. All the Taylor men went to Dartmouth. Big deal. I don’t want to be a business major. I sure as hell don’t want to be like my dad. Some example he set.
As soon as he found out that I was gay, he lost it. I mean, truly lost it. First, he flips out all over me, telling me that it’s unnatural, that I can’t go anywhere, that I can’t see Brian…
Fuck that. Not an option. Try something else.
I think what surprised me was the extremes that he went to to try to straighten me out. First, he smacked me. That in and of itself was mind-blowing, considering that I was a child of the oh-so-PC 90’s, where people didn’t dole out corporal punishment to their children for fear of the child welfare police kicking in your front door. It didn’t hurt, physically, but emotionally it took the wind out of my sails and tarnished my “Dad Is Great” button, for sure.
The next thing he did was to ram Brian’s Jeep one night. I know it was him, because I saw the car the next day. He practically totaled it, and told my mother that some guy ran into him. Yeah, right, dad. To add insult to injury, he hid out in the alley next to Babylon, and sucker-punched Brian. He was out of control, and it scared me. As angry as I was, I was more afraid than anything. Because, what if I was next? There was no way in hell that I was going home with him. And so, I told him no. Never again. I was never going home. And, with the exception of the one afternoon that Brian took me there to try to work it out, which, by the way was a joke, I never did. Never again.
Since then, I’ve tried so hard. To get good grades, to stand up for myself, to get Brian to think of me as more than just an unfortunate circumstance, to be the best artist that I can be.
Brian called it being the best homosexual that I could be. I’m trying. God, I’m trying.
It was right after I found out that my parents were getting a divorce. It was my fault. I did this, I caused this. Nothing could change my mind. I was so fucking excited that day. I’d just gotten my acceptance letter to the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts. I was good enough. For once, I was good enough. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother. I went to her and told her, and the pride on her face was more than I could ever have hoped for. And then she told me that she didn’t think that my dad would pay for school. That he expected me to go to Dartmouth. Didn’t they get it? This was Dartmouth. My Dartmouth. And then, she promptly dropped the other bomb. Divorce. Wonderful.
Deb told me that it wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t have that power. Still, I can’t help but feel responsible. I thought that if I shut up and toed the line, went to Dartmouth like a good little boy, it would make things better, that they’d change their minds and work things out. Deb knocked that thought out of my head as well.
Still…maybe I ought to go to Dartmouth.
*****
The music was pounding, a tribal beat that permeated my body and matched the war being fought in my soul. I tried to shut everything out, everything except Brian, and me, and the dance. The sinful red of his shirt drew my attention like nothing else had. I hadn’t picked up a pencil or a sketchpad in days. No desire to draw, not even him. But Brian had a way of putting things into perspective. And far be it from me to argue with him when he kisses me like his life depended on it. Fuck, I know my life depended on it.
This is the Brian that no one sees but me. The one that can bring me back to life with a look, a touch, a gentle caress of my face. The way he looks at me, as if I’m the only person in the room. The way he kisses me with a hunger that can never be sated. The way he fucks me, sometimes rough, sometimes gentle, and always good. The way he holds me close to him afterwards. That’s the Brian that I know. I think that I’m the only one who does, who ever has. I have to be the best that I can be. Because he expects no less. And to do otherwise would be to deny everything that I am. Everything that he showed me that I could be.
It seemed as if the colors in my world had all but bled out, and the only color that I could see was that brilliant red shirt. Everything else was black and white. Like that movie where the little girl runs through a black and white landscape, the only color the red of her coat. I felt as if I were running, too. But where?
And so, here I am, in my room. My borrowed room, in Debbie’s house, that feels so much like home. I sit, brooding, waiting for my printer to regurgitate the acceptance letter to Dartmouth. I hold it in my hand, staring at the space where my signature will go. Where my fate will be sealed.
Where my life, as I know it, will be over. Black and white and washed out.
And then I see it.
Rather innocuous, really. It’s just a jacket, my denim jacket, hanging on the back of the white door of my room. I stare at it. It seems to breathe, to become sentient. It looks at me as if to say Well? What are you gonna do?
Do I dare? Do I?
I flip the acceptance letter over, that harbinger of doom, the end of my so-called life, and start to draw. The folds and wrinkles appear with ease, the six panels of the door coming to life under my hand. I shade in the faded areas of the pockets and elbows, darken the buttons and rivets so that they seem real enough to touch. It’s blue. Denim blue. I can make it look blue with just my pencil. You’ll see blue if I want you to. And I do.
I smile.
I am Justin Taylor, and I am an artist. It’s what I am. It’s who I am.
Written By: vlredreign
Timeline: Season 1, Episode 118
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language
Summary: Sometimes, you gotta go for it. Justin's POV.
I like it in my head. It’s a pretty cool place, most of the time. I see in Technicolor, 3D and infrared. Every color, every line, every shape stands out in bas-relief. I wonder if other artists see things in this manner.
I am an artist. I realized this a few days ago. Well, I knew it, but I really, truly knew it, understood what it meant when I printed out the acceptance letter to Dartmouth. It’s not a hobby, it’s not something to amuse me while I’m on the phone, it’s what I am. I have to draw. Have to. It almost physically hurts not to. That’s what they don’t understand. What they can’t understand. I have to do this. You would think that, as a parent, the fact that your kid wants to go to college, any college, is a good idea, a cause to celebrate. Not my parents.
My father kicked me out for being queer. But that didn’t stop him from insisting that I apply to Dartmouth. All the Taylor men went to Dartmouth. Big deal. I don’t want to be a business major. I sure as hell don’t want to be like my dad. Some example he set.
As soon as he found out that I was gay, he lost it. I mean, truly lost it. First, he flips out all over me, telling me that it’s unnatural, that I can’t go anywhere, that I can’t see Brian…
Fuck that. Not an option. Try something else.
I think what surprised me was the extremes that he went to to try to straighten me out. First, he smacked me. That in and of itself was mind-blowing, considering that I was a child of the oh-so-PC 90’s, where people didn’t dole out corporal punishment to their children for fear of the child welfare police kicking in your front door. It didn’t hurt, physically, but emotionally it took the wind out of my sails and tarnished my “Dad Is Great” button, for sure.
The next thing he did was to ram Brian’s Jeep one night. I know it was him, because I saw the car the next day. He practically totaled it, and told my mother that some guy ran into him. Yeah, right, dad. To add insult to injury, he hid out in the alley next to Babylon, and sucker-punched Brian. He was out of control, and it scared me. As angry as I was, I was more afraid than anything. Because, what if I was next? There was no way in hell that I was going home with him. And so, I told him no. Never again. I was never going home. And, with the exception of the one afternoon that Brian took me there to try to work it out, which, by the way was a joke, I never did. Never again.
Since then, I’ve tried so hard. To get good grades, to stand up for myself, to get Brian to think of me as more than just an unfortunate circumstance, to be the best artist that I can be.
Brian called it being the best homosexual that I could be. I’m trying. God, I’m trying.
It was right after I found out that my parents were getting a divorce. It was my fault. I did this, I caused this. Nothing could change my mind. I was so fucking excited that day. I’d just gotten my acceptance letter to the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts. I was good enough. For once, I was good enough. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother. I went to her and told her, and the pride on her face was more than I could ever have hoped for. And then she told me that she didn’t think that my dad would pay for school. That he expected me to go to Dartmouth. Didn’t they get it? This was Dartmouth. My Dartmouth. And then, she promptly dropped the other bomb. Divorce. Wonderful.
Deb told me that it wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t have that power. Still, I can’t help but feel responsible. I thought that if I shut up and toed the line, went to Dartmouth like a good little boy, it would make things better, that they’d change their minds and work things out. Deb knocked that thought out of my head as well.
Still…maybe I ought to go to Dartmouth.
*****
The music was pounding, a tribal beat that permeated my body and matched the war being fought in my soul. I tried to shut everything out, everything except Brian, and me, and the dance. The sinful red of his shirt drew my attention like nothing else had. I hadn’t picked up a pencil or a sketchpad in days. No desire to draw, not even him. But Brian had a way of putting things into perspective. And far be it from me to argue with him when he kisses me like his life depended on it. Fuck, I know my life depended on it.
This is the Brian that no one sees but me. The one that can bring me back to life with a look, a touch, a gentle caress of my face. The way he looks at me, as if I’m the only person in the room. The way he kisses me with a hunger that can never be sated. The way he fucks me, sometimes rough, sometimes gentle, and always good. The way he holds me close to him afterwards. That’s the Brian that I know. I think that I’m the only one who does, who ever has. I have to be the best that I can be. Because he expects no less. And to do otherwise would be to deny everything that I am. Everything that he showed me that I could be.
It seemed as if the colors in my world had all but bled out, and the only color that I could see was that brilliant red shirt. Everything else was black and white. Like that movie where the little girl runs through a black and white landscape, the only color the red of her coat. I felt as if I were running, too. But where?
And so, here I am, in my room. My borrowed room, in Debbie’s house, that feels so much like home. I sit, brooding, waiting for my printer to regurgitate the acceptance letter to Dartmouth. I hold it in my hand, staring at the space where my signature will go. Where my fate will be sealed.
Where my life, as I know it, will be over. Black and white and washed out.
And then I see it.
Rather innocuous, really. It’s just a jacket, my denim jacket, hanging on the back of the white door of my room. I stare at it. It seems to breathe, to become sentient. It looks at me as if to say Well? What are you gonna do?
Do I dare? Do I?
I flip the acceptance letter over, that harbinger of doom, the end of my so-called life, and start to draw. The folds and wrinkles appear with ease, the six panels of the door coming to life under my hand. I shade in the faded areas of the pockets and elbows, darken the buttons and rivets so that they seem real enough to touch. It’s blue. Denim blue. I can make it look blue with just my pencil. You’ll see blue if I want you to. And I do.
I smile.
I am Justin Taylor, and I am an artist. It’s what I am. It’s who I am.