Painting the Roses Red [Jackson]

[Deleted]

It wasn’t really a fair assessment of Riocard Keâts to say that he was crazy. Sure, maybe he did some things that ‘normal’ people would quirk an eyebrow at. Maybe he tended to think about the world in a slightly different way. Slightly. Sure, maybe his only experiences with pets was the dead gerbil that he carried around from the time he was twenty until he was twenty-two, and maybe it was normal for him to black out and his thoughts to turn into white noise. Maybe sometimes he even tended to set traps for innocent people to walk into. But that wasn’t crazy. It was a conglomeration of minor quirks that was inevitably and wonderfully the twenty-something Frenchman. To the casual observer, it would appear that his mind was consistently in a drug-induced haze, although Rio would be quick in pointing out that he only transported drugs, he never used them.

Anyway, despite all the fact that Riocard was not an insane homeless man that would eat small children and use their forearms as wish bones, the parents in the park of that particular day were slightly wary of him. It was a fairly nice spring day – the kind of which seemed to be sort of rare in this stupid uptight and dreary place – and Riocard, being the eternal optimist he is, decided to take full advantage of the flowers blooming.

“Mommy, what is he doing?” a child asked, tugging on her mother’s sleeves.

“Painting the flowers,” the woman replied.

Riocard glanced over to the pair, a frown settling on his lips. “They look better blue, non?” he asked, turning his attention back to the flower. He stared contemplatively at his work, biting his lower lip. “Hey, did you know that if you put a flo—” he turned to look at the two and realized that the mother had already taken off into another direction, her daughter in tow. Rio frowned again.

Really, sometimes being him was a bit lonely.

He sighed and stood, brushing himself off wearily. “When Alice painted the flowers, no one thought she was crazy,” he grumbled, picking up his bag and placing his paintbrush behind his ear contemplatively.

[Deleted]

"Beautiful day out, isn't it?" said Marissa, the young waitress that lived in the flat beneath Jackson. She had a basket of laundry resting on her hip, and an expectant look on her face.

Jackson simply nodded and continued on his way down the staircase, tugging his Airedale behind him. He didn't mean to be rude, but he didn't actually hear the question. No doubt the young woman had failed to notice the white earphones stuffed deeply into either side of his head.

Outside, on the pavement, Jackson was swarmed by the chattering of busy office-workers out for lunch. It was a sea of black, white, gray and blue. He pushed through forcefully, North-bound towards Tchaikovsky's favourite park. It took them eight minutes to finally break free of the swarming mass of bodies, and set foot on the lush green. Marissa had been right; it was a gorgeous day.

The thick green grass stood highlighted by the gold of the sun. A group of college students were playing Frisbee to Jackson's right; to his left, families clustered around shaded picnic tables; and right in front of him, no more than five meters away, a man was painting flowers.

Curious, Jackson wandered closer, letting Tchaikovsky off the leash at the same time. The stranger was about the same age as him and rather attractive - as attractive as a heterosexual could consider another man to be without swapping sides. He stood for roughly ten seconds, simply watching, before sitting down.

He took one earphone out and tilted his head. "What are you doing?"

[Deleted]

“What are you doing?”

Riocard looked over at the man, removing the paintbrush from behind his ear. He looked pointedly at the paintbrush – that was still dripping blue paint – and then at the still-wet blue flower. “I’m painting the flowers blue,” he replied, smiling charmingly. “I don’t really like how it was yellow. I’m just improving things,” he continued, crouching back down to another cluster of flowers and resumed his painting duty. He glanced up at the dog that the man had left off the leash, wondering how it would look if it were blue. Then he looked back down at his palm and wondered how he would look if he were blue.

Blue flowers were much better.

He looked up at the man and smiled charmingly. “I’m Rio!” he chirped brightly, fishing in his bag. He pulled out a few more paint colors and set them on the ground next to him, holding out a paintbrush to the man. “Do you want to paint with me? Look, I even have pink. We can have little boy and girl flowers, but if it’ll make you feel better, I can use pink,” he proffered.

Rio turned back to his own flower, biting his lower lip in concentration as he began to work on the flower. “Also, I really like your dog. What is its name?” he asked.

[Deleted]

After about a minute in thought - and ignoring almost everything Rio was saying - Jackson came to the conclusion that the other man was slightly autistic. Of course, slightly seemed to be under-exaggerating. This Rio guy had to be one of the stranger individuals Jackson had met to-date.

After a moment of hesitation, Jackson picked up one of the paintbrushes and dipped it into the pink paint. He brought it to a buttercup and flicked his wrist twice. It was soon dripping with pink paint. He had to admit, it looked nicer like this. The gaudy yellow had never been one of his favourites.

"His name is Tchaikovsky," said Jackson when he could put a word in edgewise. "He's an Airedale terrier." He paused. "And my name's Jackson."

[Deleted]

Rio frowned. “Tchaikovsky,” he repeated, the name feeling awkward on his tongue. He sighed, a little put-off by the Russian. “Why did you name him that?” he asked, moving on to another flower. He was now doodling little intricate designs on his flowers – well, intricate for someone who had the attention span of a gerbil on a sugar-high. “Tchai-kov-sky,” he tried again. He sighed. The dog was much too cute for such a horrendously Russian name. Not that Rio himself was much better, the dead rodent that he had carried around in his bad for two years had gone through several names, ranging from Sallybelle to Jeremiah.

“Do you think the paint will kill the flowers, Jackson?” Rio asked tentatively, the paintbrush hesitating slightly over a new flower. “Because I don’t like to kill things, even if they can’t scream out in a fiery agony,” he said, smiling at his new friend. “Can you imagine if someone came up to you and began to paint your eyeballs? I wouldn’t like that very much,” he continued blithely, starting to paint again.

He scooted backward and surveyed his work proudly. “The ones we have painted look so much better now! Don’t you agree?” he asked cheerfully.

[Deleted]

Ooc; Forgive me! I just started school last Thursday and I've been sticking to my New Years resolutions. Basically, I've forced myself to do every scrap of homework I get. Not to mention the fact that my muse has been favoring Cabin Pressure lately.

Jackson covered another buttercup in pink as he waited for Rio to wrap his tongue around the Airedale's name. Many people had difficulty with saying it, and there struggle was something he enjoyed watching. Not in Rio's case, however, as Jackson was sure the other man's head might explode at any second.

"I named him Tchaikovsky after one of my favourite composers," he said, but his words seemed to go in one ear and out the other, because Rio had already moved on to his next topic.

The use of "fiery agony" caught Jackson off-guard, but he didn't think too much into it. He was sitting in a park painting flowers with a stranger; why would Rio bringing up the pain of innocent flowers be odd? Instead he just shrugged and opened his mouth to speak, only for Rio to change the topic again - less drastically this time, but changed nonetheless.

"Oh, yes, they do look nicer," Jackson said with the patience of a teacher congratulating a student. "It's a shame they're, ah, starting to tilt. I think the paint might be a bit heavy for them in some cases, like that daisy over there."

He pointed at a meek-looking thing painted bright blue. The paint was seeping through the dainty white petals, dragging it into the grass surrounding.

[Deleted]

It’s a shame they’re, ah, starting to tilt.

Riocard looked contemplatively at the flowers. Jackson was right – the flowers were looking rather pathetic from the weight of the paint. Rio plucked the daisy from the ground and put it behind his ear, grinning brightly. His fingers were slightly blue from being brushed against the paint, but it wasn’t as though paint had ever really bothered him. “It was a good idea, though,” he said, a little sad that his idea was another failure.

“Next time, I’ll just have to use something sturdier,” he said cheerfully, propelling himself up. He bounced up and down. “Like a tree! Or a… or a…” he looked around the park, muttering to himself in French about the lack of options. “Or a baby,” he said decisively, bright green eyes locked determinedly on an unsuspecting cradle. “If you leave a seed in water and dirt that has dye in it, the flower will become that color. Do you think if we injected a woman with dye, the baby would be that color?” he asked.

He imagined a baby coming out purple and giggled. “The world would be so lovely and full of rainbow people,” he said wistfully, although purple people did make him think of corpses. Still, those dear purple children would be excellent come Halloween.

[Deleted]

Jackson had stooped to paint another buttercup while Rio rambled. The bristles created a lovely whispering sound as the brush tip ran over the petals, until they - the brush and the noise - stopped abruptly. A baby? Did Rio just say something about a baby? Oh, God, Jackson had really gone in over his head; he was painting flowers with a kidnapper.

He looked up to the other man's contemplative face and listened more closely to what Rio was saying. It didn't sound like he was planning to kidnap the pram, but...

Jackson got to his feet, just in case. "I think I'd prefer if you painted the trees," he said slowly, thinking carefully about what left his mouth. He placed a friendly hand on Rio's shoulder. "They're less likely to complain."

[Deleted]

And although he wasn’t the most… observant… of fellows, Rio could still notice a “disturbance in the force”, if you would allow the phrase. He looked over to Jackson, a little irritated that the other man didn’t seem enthralled with his ideas about the babies. He bit his lip and returned looking at the cradle, still turning the thoughts about the dye in his mind. He had no idea what kind of bad mumbo jumbo would happen if he did try and inject a pregnant woman with blue coloring dye. Maybe she’d die (which wouldn’t bother him very much, except then he wouldn’t know if it worked), or maybe she wouldn’t. His eyes shifted from the cradle, searching for a pregnant-looking woman to test his hypothesis out on.

I think I’d prefer if you painted the trees.

“But trees are immobile,” he said, sticking his lower lip out in a pout. “I want something that moves,” Rio sighed.

“They’re less likely to complain.”

Rio glanced at the hand and smiled. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “Oh! We can paint me!” he suggested cheerfully, running the paintbrush across his face. He tugged off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. “You can paint my legs and I’ll get my back! And then I’ll be so pretty and colorful, huh?” he chirped, painting his legs with as much intensity as the Frenchman could muster.

[Deleted]

Jackson was completely aware that he was speaking to someone who wasn't all there, but he didn't feel scared or uncomfortable. Jackson had at least some experience with kids suffering from Aspergers or Autism, and Rio seemed to have one of the conditions... or a mixture of a few, even. Jackson expected a small struggle to follow, but he was surprised.

He wasn't expecting to have a half-naked Frenchman standing in front of him. It happened so fast that he barely had time to realize what was happening. For the briefest second, he even wondered if he had passed out, and this was a figment of his imagination. No such luck. The shrill squeals of a young girl and her mother, and the high-pitched giggling of a group of boys, confirmed everything. Jackson turned away in embarrassment and brought a hand to his forehead.

"Rio," said he, his voice thick with bemusement. "You can't take your clothes off in public! You'll be arrested in moments!"

Jackson made sure to keep his eyes averted. It worried him that he had painted flowers with this man, that people had seen him conversating with the half-naked one. If the police did come, and chances were that they would eventually, Jackson was likely to be written up for a ticket.

Five meters in front of him, Tchaikovsky bounce after another dog's Frisbee.

[Deleted]

Jackson seemed to be less than thrilled with Rio’s current – rather alarming – state of undress. Rio turned the man, glancing around at the reactions of the others at the park. He stood up, pouting. Although whether he was more upset from the uncomfortable reactions of the other people or about how he wasn’t painted, he couldn’t really tell at the time. But the shrieking and the giggling were really grating on his nerves, and he contemplated shoving a paintbrush down their throats until all was silent once more.

Rio, you can’t take your clothes off in public!

“I’m not naked,” Rio argued, crossing his arms indignantly. “And I don’t understand why people are uptight about it. The British weren’t born with their clothes on,” he muttered. Although, to be fair, when Rio was little and his father was taking him everywhere they could think of, Rio was rather disturbed by the fact that some people wore little to no clothes. (Even the girls, and Rio still found female anatomy to be gross.)

You’ll be arrested in moments!

Rio covered his mouth to keep from giggling. “If being naked was the worst thing that I’ve ever been arrested for…” he trailed off, deciding that Jackson didn’t need to know about the other things that were on Rio’s rather lengthy record.

Nonetheless, he pulled on his pants and hung his bag around him, stepping in front of Jackson. “Are you embarrassed by me? I can try to be not like myself, I can. I just want to be friends with you,” he said cheerfully, bouncing on the heels of his feet.

[Deleted]

"Well, we British are a prude people," Jackson said tensely, his eyes still focusing anywhere but the now-dressing Rio.

He crossed his arms absentmindedly and listened on to what Rio was saying, not quite sure whether to comment or not - something that he seemed to be mulling over frequently today. Jackson had had his own spats with the law, though they never went outside of putting up posters on public sites or accidentally hitting a policeman when he was first learning how to drive. He hoped Rio's run-ins weren't so horrible that he was actually convicted.

When he was sure that Rio was wearing pants again, and thank God he was, Jackson turned back.

"Not embarrassed, no, don't, um, don't go and change yourself for people," he frowned and began walking the short distance to Tchaikovsky, who was now busily scratching behind his ear. "If you want to be friends though, don't go taking your pants off. That's, ah, likely to scare a bloke off."

[Deleted]

Well, we British are a prude people.

Riocard tilted his head. The sentence itself wasn’t very confusing – it was something that his father had told him, it was something that he had observed, and it was something that sometimes just seemed outlandishly wrong. But it was the way that Jackson had said it that made Rio doubt it. What kind of person would admit they were a prude? Rio was French, but he didn’t go around saying he was promiscuous. He looked down at his bare chest and realized that to the casual observer, he had just stripped for a complete stranger.

“La Sainte Vierge,” he muttered. “I’m not… not a…” the Frenchman leaned in closer, trying to save the poor virgin ears of any prying children, “I wasn’t offering my body,” he clarified, pulling his shirt on. “I just wanted to be pretty. But no amount of pink paint could make me like that. I would need green paint.”

Not embarrassed, no, don’t, um, don’t go and change yourself for people. If you want to be friends though, don’t go taking your pants off. That’s, ah, likely to scare a bloke off.

Rio followed Jackson obediently. “I didn’t mean to make you uneasy, Jackson,” Rio said downheartedly. “I’ll never take my pants off ever again. Especially not here. Maybe when I get unstuck,” he rambled, watching the dog intently. “I wish I was a dog,” he said, sitting down cross-legged. “And then I wouldn’t have to wear pants, and people would like me instantly, and they’d pet me, because it’s rude not to pet a dog and everyone loves dogs.”