Not So Innocent

“Did you get paint on my cape, Shawn?” The question-disguise slovenly thrown over the sentence was unable to hide that Matt already had decided on who was to blame.

Blank stare.

Impatiently shifting his weight from one foot to the other and holding up the piece of clothing, tell-tale bright-yellow stains scattered all over it, he repeated himself.

“D-ah, maybe?”

“It’s all ruined. Do you have to play with paint where my clothes are?”

Accusation acid-burning, yet Shawn’s expression remained perfectly unaffected. Not a wince, not a frown. He sat perfectly still, an uninterested look on his face. And that he seemed like he was about to yawn any second was pinpricks of annoyance spiking Matt until a sunburn burst out right beneath his skin in a rash of anger.

“Could you play outside next time?!”

“Shawn does not play. He makes art.”

Face still stiff with held back irritation Matt’s attention was diverted and he noticed Jon sitting just a few feet away, calmly meting Matt’s gaze with childlike conviction in his eyes.

“Art?” Both Matt and Shawn questioned simultaneously – the first with a crook of his eyebrow and the other with a sudden burst of curiosity. The drummer then turned his head to look at Shawn again as he had spoken but the singer was intently watching Jon, so focused everything else seemed to have cease existing. A brittle noise of crackling glass buzzed in Matt’s head as tissue, muscles, bones turned to transparent fragility. Lowering his hand holding the cape and adjusted his glasses with the other he turned his attention to Jon once more.

Looking from one band mate to the other, smile battling with a serious expression, Jon seemed to be fumbling for words. Fidgety movements tugged at hands and legs and head. His gaze tumbled to the floor, jumped up, ran off, scampered back and forth. But all that passed his lips was murmur-laughter and it was making a soft tone of red slowly blossom onto his cheeks.

“Finger-painting junk is not art, Jon,” Matt sneered condescendingly, the usual softness on his face gone, when his friend didn’t speak.

Jon frowned at him. His fingers began fiddling with the t-shirt he was wearing and continuously knitting his brow he watched the digits tug and yank and toy restlessly.

“It. Is-a. All Shawn does is. It’s all art,” he said. The frown then slipped from his face as he turned to Shawn. “Right?”

“I don’t know, man.” Amusement tugged at the corners of the singer’s mouth.

“It is.”

“Nah, it was just, like. I was smearing some leftover paint on this um, some metal I found, just, outside of the, the tourbus.” Laughter sneaked into his voice as he spoke and it glimmered in his irises.

Matt rolled his eyes.

“Told you so,” he said to no one in particular and when being ignored by his two friends who simply continued to stare at each other, grinning stupidly, he sighed and with another roll of his eyes he left, brining his ruined cape with him; clutching it tightly in his hand.

“So you really think that. It’s all art? Why?” Shawn asked as soon as Matt was out of sight.

Jon’s eyes shied away, Shawn tried to catch his gaze again.

Their gazes played tag, running around, sneaking, tiptoeing – discharges of excitement in the shape of grins jolting through them both when their eyes met.

“C’mon, man!” the older man laughed.

“It just is.” Jon mumbled writhing and turning his hands, his gaze now on the floor.

“Yeah?”

The guitarist nodded his head, not looking up.

“Thanks Jon, that’s-.” A grin cut into the graveness and ripped it apart. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Welcome.” A small laugh accompanied the words.

“You know, I’ve been. Thinking about that. What you said before, um, about kissing guys.” Expression nonchalant, tone of voice easy.

“Oh?”

“U-huh.” Shawn bit his lower lip, nodding. Eyebrows slightly raised, hands tucked away in the pockets of his jeans. Calm. Collected. Preventing teeth from attacking tissue and fingers from restless, nervous movements. Calm.

“You-a. You think. Think you would?” Everything dancing – fingers, eyes, words; all moving and dashing.

Silence engulfed them and grew more awkward until Jon had run out of places to pretend to look at. Slowly, hesitantly, Jon moved his gaze until he looked Shawn in the eye only to find the look on the older man’s face to be inscrutable. Jon shifted where he sat.

“You.” He began then fell silent. Uncomfortably he forced more little blocks of letters through his throat trying to build something with them. “It-a. Wasn’t true, what you said? You have. And-a. You would. Again?”

Shawn’s face remained unreadable.

“What. What dude have you kissed?”

For a few seconds it seemed like Shawn wouldn’t answer and his expression didn’t changed but then it crackled into a wide, beaming smile. With glittering eyes and laughter sparkling ready to make every word passing his lips twinkle he began telling.

“It was at, like, a concert.”

“The-uh. That band, uh. I forgot. Their name. That metal band?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he continued all sheepish smiles and held back laughter. “They said something about the song not being for, like, faggots, right? So I did some dancing, sixties dancing, and this guy like, launched at me. And so I kissed him. On the, on the mouth.”

Shawn paused for a second and when he spoke again his voice was almost a bit strained because of held back giggles.

“Then I got a punch in the face.”

Jon laughed.

“Bad experience?” the younger man chuckled.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.” Shawn nodded his head vigorously.

“The-a. The kissin’ or the punchin’?”

“Please.” Shawn gave him a sardonic look.

“So. You wouldn’t do it again?” the grin faded from Jon’s face and his eyes sneaked away until he was looking at his own fingers fumbling about instead of at his band mate.

“No, man, I totally would.”

“You would?” Jon looked up.

For a moment Shawn looked completely serious. Then he burst out laughing.

“C’mon. No way. Noo way. Get out, I so wouldn’t,” he snickered, nose all scrunched up, eyes aglow.

“But if. If-a there were. Other circumstances. Like you wouldn’t get a punch?”

“Yes.” Dragging out the word – biting slightly at a corner of his lower lip – Shawn held Jon’s gaze. “Maybe.”

Shawn then shook his head, a smile tugging slightly at the corners of his mouth.

“Look, I just don’t. I don’t know. Maybe I would, you know? You’ve been like, talking about it so much.” He grinned again. “But I-I.”

A voice interrupted him mid-sentence. Someone had called his name. Shawn got up and moved in the direction of the calling voice. After a few second he reappeared.

“I’ve got some shit to deal with.”

The younger man simply nodded.

Shawn began walking away but turned on his heels.

“Maybe only way to find out is to just, you know, do it. See what happens.”

With that he left Jon alone on the couch – frown on his face and jumble of question is his head.