Work Text:
All Irving wants to do is make something.
The art that Burt has shown him is so meaningful. Artistic renditions of emotions, put down by human hands onto canvas. Human hands like his own, maybe. Presumably. In theory, it is all so simple; in practice—
In practice, well. Irving has no access to any of these materials. Not to paint, nor to brushes, nor to canvas. And even if he did, it’s hard to imagine him having any success with paint, that thick flow that would remind him so much of that hallucinatory ooze he can’t help but—
But, more importantly, Irving doesn’t have access to the most necessary parts of this, either. The meaning. The making. The art.
He's not an artist. He'd love to be— wouldn't that be something— but he's not. He is—
He is this. No more, no less.
But—
Burt makes him feel so much more.
More than the framed masterpieces he's shown, more than the pleasure of the right numbers coming together, more than the rush of flashing reward-colors and prize-music. More than Irving knew it was possible to feel.
So much more, in fact, that he can't help but look for ways to express that more.
Maybe he's not an artist. Maybe he can't— can't find within him the skill or ability or means to create one of those works of art that Burt cherishes so much, cycled through O&D and his careful curating. Maybe he's not creative, or capable, or—
Maybe he's just Irving, without canvas or paints or a hope, trying desperately to express himself when he's never had to try before.
(At least, not that he's aware of.)
It's not protocol, but that doesn't mean it's not allowed. Creating art, that is. There's no paints here, or anything like that, but there’s also no rules against it. Even so— he has no hope at creating anything like what Burt has shown him so far without some sort of medium. There aren't even many passable alternatives; he briefly considers hunting down printer-ink, but that seems messy, difficult to conceal.
That makes him think, though.
Loose ink, spread with his fingertips, would be— far less than ideal. Concentrated ink, though—
A pen.
He may not have paint, canvas, or skill, but he has pens, Post-Its, and emotions. They'll just have to do.
Irving doesn't know how many little squares of paper he goes through. Each one ends up carefully shredded by him afterwards, disintegrated into powdery less-than-nothing under the hopes that his futile efforts will go unnoticed. None of his fellow MDR companions seem to take note, anyway, and Irving—
Irving draws over a dozen tiny pictures— a computer? no. a doorway? no. a sofa? no. an egg? no— before he thinks, Oh.
If he's supposed to make what he feels—
The next Post-It is consumed beneath the point of his pen, dug into the paper in some spots and lightly brushed in others. Maybe he has never done this before, but it seems to come naturally; he can just tell which bits aren't right, how to fix the corner of an eye, the curve of a lash, the shine in an iris. Even in ballpoint, it just seems to flow.
By the end, Irving almost even feels proud of his work. It’s just as he remembers it— remembers him: this tiny sketch-interpretation of Burt’s eyes up close. They’re perfect, he thinks, even if they’re not perfectly rendered. It’s just—
It’s like he can feel his emotions in it, like they came out of him and went into the paper as he created this. This is what Burt must feel, he thinks— that pull, the allure, the drive towards that creation. It’s intoxicating, and Irving huffs a little laugh to himself, unable to prevent the upward rise within him.
“Hey,” Dylan asks, snapping Irving’s head up towards him in attention. “You good?”
“Yes,” Irving answers. It’s automatic, obedient, with a thrill-frisson of fear within. “Can I help you?”
Dylan raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one giggling.”
He turns his attention away in the next beat, and Irving sighs internally, relieved.
Burt’s eyes under his hands. The tiny Post-It, now a thin makeshift canvas, reflecting that memory-moment back at Irving over, and over, and over again as he looks down at it. He’s almost tempted to keep it.
Instead, though, he folds it into his palm and passes it off to Burt the next time they get a second near each other.
“For your private collection,” he murmurs, as low as he can, and doesn’t think he misses the flicker of a smile in Burt’s expression as they continue on past one another.
When Irving glances back, Burt is just turning away. Their eyes catch, right at the edge of missing each other, and Irving has another idea for a Post-It.
If Burt even likes this one.
Which is a big if.
“Come with me,” Burt says, days later, when they get more than a passing glance between them, making another excuse and stealing another moment together.
Irving is already following him, falling into step at his side, before he thinks to ask, “Where are we going?”
“I want to show you something,” Burt tells him. “It’s a new piece of art, just got it in. One of my fast favorites, I think. Unique talent.”
“Mm?” Irving’s mind goes right to the Post-It, but he can’t make himself ask. Burt would have brought it up, wouldn’t he? Probably hasn’t because it was ridiculous, a child passing a note, meaningless—
“Well?” Burt asks, drawing him to a stop. The backs of his fingers brush Irving’s, don’t pull away. “What do you think?”
Irving doesn’t think anything for a long moment, lost in the touch of human skin to his, Burt’s hand to his, sharing space so closely that they can touch at all. It takes Burt’s eyes turning from Irving’s face to the wall in front of them, a meaningful beckoning meant to encourage him to follow, that he turns his head to give the art his attention.
The—
The tiny, tiny art, his little Post-It in an ornate and accordingly small gilded frame, centered on the massive white wall.
The massive, empty white wall.
Except for his little Post-It, Burt’s eyes staring back out at him from behind shining glass. An even more miniscule plaque beside it reads, ‘Untitled. Artwork by Irving B.’
It is the only thing on the wall. The only thing.
“If you had a title in mind, just let me know,” Burt tells him. “I can make a new plaque like that.” He snaps his fingers, close to Irving’s; he feels the air rush by before the crack hits his ears.
“You… It’s my Post-It,” Irving says, simple.
“It is,” Burt replies, indulgent.
“Why— Why?” Irving turns to him, at a loss. “They— What if they know?”
“Who is they?” Burt asks. “Better— Who cares? It’s art, and I’m the one in charge of it. This is what makes sense in this space right now.”
As he says it, he steps back, giving himself a wider view of the wall, a better scan of its breadth. He inhales, deep into his lungs, then releases it for Irving to share. Another idea for a Post-It.
“Come here,” Burt asks, and Irving comes. “See? You see what I mean? It’s perfect, like this.”
His fingers brush again, the backs of their knuckles bumping together before they fall into place, interlocking. Irving’s breath catches.
And ahead: Burt’s eyes staring out in miniature, built from his own hand, out of the wall ahead.
“It’s silly,” Irving says, his voice smaller than the artwork. “Its own wall, when it’s that tiny and— and amateur. Ridiculous.”
Burt’s thumb brushes the side of Irving’s. When their palms slide together, Irving can’t help but close his eyes— and behind his lids, as if burnt into the thin skin, there are Burt’s eyes still.
He smiles.
A kiss to the edge of his jaw, one he isn’t expecting, and he inhales, sharp down his throat. When his eyes fly open to find Burt’s at his side, he’s met with such open affection he’s caught in it, breath stuck in his lungs, Burt’s name just at the back of his tongue.
“Make me more, then,” Burt suggests.
His eyes, his smile. The brush of his hand, the ease of his touch. His frame around Irving’s art, his eyes within Irving’s canvas. Him.
“Fine, then,” Irving replies, as if accepting a challenge rather than giving and receiving a gift. “I will.”
Irving proceeds to draw hundreds of Post-Its.
He can only assume that it’s hundreds; he loses track around eighty-four. Burt, presumably, knows just how many there are, but Irving often forgets to ask when they’re together. More pressing concerns, and all that.
Squares of uniform white that grow into different colors, made new by his pen. Shades that Irving wants better descriptors for, and yet manages to create all the same, ink scratched and smudged and smeared until it is layered thick on the delicate paper beneath. Dozens contain Burt in detail— his eyes, his mouth, his ear, his temple, his nose, his thumb, him, in all his tiny finery.
Still others show the moments that strike Irving: the curve of Helly’s smile. The way Mark lifts up to look at him. The pattern of Dylan’s finger-trap, shared between them. The little things.
They get better, even. Or— Well, Burt says art isn’t about being good or bad at it, but still. Irving can see he’s getting better. The praise Burt gives him, too— it doesn’t go unnoticed, or unfelt. It makes its way into the Post-Its, makes him even better still, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Irving has never felt like this before— so much.
He tries to keep them vague, the drawings. They must be ambiguous enough, nebulous in their small and fractional scale, that it works. Nobody ever asks Irving about them, anyway, and they continue to decorate the wall Burt chose for them, tucked out of the way, more for them than anyone else.
And they do go up, decorating the wall nearly as soon as Irving makes and gives them. The creamy whip inside an egg, the digital corner of an open box, the strands of hair that bleed from dark to silver-grey: each tiny artwork finds its home within the display, Burt arranging them in some way that only he understands as he creates it.
Without fail, every time— it’s perfect. Irving feels this deep sense of relief, this settling. He makes the art— and it is art, he thinks privately to himself, and he could even be an artist, if he were not this, if he were not here, if he were not him— and it feels right, and Burt—
Burt frames the art, and names it, and hangs it, and credits it, and understands it.
He understands where to place each piece, and he understands the weight of them, and he understands what Irving means.
How many times Irving stands in front of that wall, his hand creeping closer to Burt’s, until they’re turning into each other and letting skin press to skin, he loses count. Similarly, it’s somewhere around eighty-four; the next drawing after that one is cheek-to-cheek, how he imagines they must look from the outside. Maybe he’ll even see it someday, in a mirror, or a photograph, or—
Well, not every Post-It makes it to the wall. Some are private; some are intimate; some are messages. Some are just for them in a way that has to be destroyed, concealed, consumed.
Still, though—
All of them are for Burt. All of him is for Burt.
In the end, he just can’t stop making them.
Even when Burt is gone, Irving sits and scribbles and doesn’t let himself forget. Even when it hurts— especially when it hurts— he draws him still. Until Dylan is concerned enough to ask what he’s doing, and beyond that still.
Over and over and over again, in the tiniest details: Burt’s eyes, his mouth, his ear. His temple, his nose, his thumb. Him, all the way through, and still more. Him, his hands on the wall, adjusting a frame; him, his cheek to Irving’s, pressed in close enough to feel the creases of his smile; him, his knuckles brushing Irving’s, finding the hollow places they fit together and made each other whole; him, and how they must have looked before they lost it all, when Irving had gotten close enough to Burt to share air and had felt, for once, that he was living.
And this—
This last one—
He can’t stand to look at it. This moment exists in his memory, and in his every waking moment, inescapable.
All Irving wanted to do was make something. Something meaningful, something beautiful, something artistic. Instead, all he’s made is a mess.
The Post-It stays in his hand, out of sight, as he makes his way out of the office. He doesn’t remember what excuse he makes, if any. It’s sloppy, but— maybe he’s sloppy. He’s not sure who he is, really. With Burt— he had some idea. An artist, maybe.
The wall is still there, and Irving’s knees nearly buckle.
A massive white wall, no longer empty, just as he left it. It’s nearly impossible to tell the wall even is white, anymore; it’s so covered in tiny, gilt-framed and plaque-labeled Post-It portraits that it seems to be made of shimmering gold, shining glass, and ballpoint ink. A world, glimpsed from without, as if a mirror between realms.
Looking into that silver reflection, Irving blinks past himself and looks to Burt’s eyes inside, as if through a window. For a moment, their eyes overlap; then, Burt clarifies, gazing back out at him with a sparkle, familiar enough to press closer to, as if he will feel warm skin rather than the glass and gold he finds instead.
Without thinking, Irving lifts the Post-It in his palm to his mouth and stuffs it inside.
Outside, Irving waits until he’s off property to pull the wedge of paper out from under his tongue and unfold it.
He doesn’t understand what he’s looking at— a man? two men? about to kiss, maybe, or—
And then, he does.
Not full understanding, not knowledge, but a feeling, an emotion, a meaning.
This, he realizes, is a work of art. His innie made something.
His chest hitches, breath caught in a way he’s not expecting, emotions torn up out of nowhere, and he recognizes himself in the Post-It art in more ways than one. In the same way he’s feeling: in so much more.
That face, he keeps thinking, over and over. Those eyes. Him.
Through his tears, he has the nonsensical idea to frame this.