Pompeii   von <span style='color: gray;'>abgemeldet</span>
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                                  Kapitel 1: 
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The golden light of a summer's day slowly dimmed, telling Mello he had about
half an hour to go until it would become to dark to paint by, but by then he'd
probably be done. Right now, he was putting the last finishing touches on the
canvas, with little dabs and soft sure strokes, because he knew exactly where to
put the last bit of shell pink, the final sparks of cadmium orange.
At the beginning he hadn't been so sure, even when he pencil-sketched the image
for the very first time, because he wasn't sure it would come out as what he
wanted. In Mello's eyes, that was the problem with art: You had a clear picture
of something in your mind, and tried to materialize it onto paper, and somewhere
on the way it transformed and became something entirely else. But somehow, he
had put onto the canvas exactly what was in his head this time.
Near was reclining on a mattress on the floor, halfway on his side, his head
resting on one arm, lips ever-so-slightly open and bottomless eyes half-lidded.
He looked sensual in a tired, drooping way, like one who has been satisfied but
is still waiting for more. His entire demeanor had gradually changed from cold,
listless arrogance to this over the course of the weeks he spent with Mello in
the small apartment with the huge skylights, exploring the newfound terrain of
his sexuality.
One evening, he had watched Mello paint a tall, imperious woman with flowing red
hair, one half of her face marred by a scar much the same as his own, her hands
casting new fire to diminish the memory of the one that scarred her, as Mello
had said. Idly playing with an old brush, Near had wondered what it would be
like to be immortalized in the masterful, strong lines that made up Mello's
paintings.
“Do you think you could paint me?” he'd asked, and realized too late how
much that sounded like a challenge. But that was also well, because never, not
even with their new, almost frightening bond Mello was going to back down from a
challenge issued by Near. And so he'd sketched the other's figure on paper in
smooth, clean lines, but when he started painting, he refused to let Near see
the canvas. 
“On your birthday I'll be finished with it, and then you can see.” 
All demands on Near's side had been silenced with wet, hard kisses that made him
forget what he was complaining about. When he'd come back to his senses after
what the kissing inescapably led up to, Mello was already telling him to turn a
little, yes, just like that, tilt his head a bit more, and they were back to
painting. 
Now, the painting sat almost finished on the easel, a last brush stroke away
from completion. With a gentle, almost loving touch not many people would have
expected from him, he added a last slate-gray highlight to one of Near's
incredible eyes, and then he was finished. Just like that. 
With a sigh, he moved to look around the canvas, and said “All done.” in a
tone that suggested the whole thing had taken no less than five minutes. And
even though he'd spent more time than even he liked lying around on the bed,
draped in several white sheets, and even though he'd had to scarf down a piece
of his birthday cake in five minutes because Mello wanted to go back to
painting, Near was not at all unhappy. He fished around for his pajama pants,
which he knew he'd left somewhere by the bed, and he quickly pulled them on as
good as he could, wrapped as he was in sheets. He stood up, not bothering with a
shirt, and moved into Mello's direct vicinity, not looking at the canvas yet.
“Come on, now you can look.” Mello said, half-smiling. Near stepped to his
side, and  anything he'd wanted to say died in his throat. 
The painting was magnificent, seeming so lifelike Near thought he was looking in
a mirror.
On the painting, he was reclining in the same listlessly erotic pose, but not on
a bed in a small apartment, but rather on a flat, altar-like rock amid a
scorched, wasteland scenario. The figure on the painting was draped in dusty,
smudged linen, white skin scratched, flushed and stained by dirt. Half-open lips
glistened wetly. Mello had captivated the expression of satisfied need and
passion smoldering under the stony exterior perfectly. The abyss-like eyes
looked out of the painting with incredible intensity. In the background, a
volcano was just erupting, floods of lava cascading down the mountain's sides, a
cloud of smoke billowing up and rocks flying everywhere. Fiery sparks leaped in
the air, shone in Near's hair and fell down in a rain of ash like black snow.
Near turned to look at Mello, eyes wide. He managed to get out “That's
beautiful-” before a long, paint smudged finger silenced him. 
“Happy Birthday, Near.”
In the past weeks, Near hadn't been sure if he loved Mello, if he was even
capable of feeling that strongly, even though Mello was the only person he'd
ever felt for before. But at this moment, seeing how Mello had captured his very
essence in oil and canvas, seeing through him with what he realized now was a
lover's eye, Near knew. He wasn't ready to tell him yet, maybe not ever, but he
suspected Mello already knew. Before he was, rather unromantically, steered in
direction of the bed by a very eager Mello, he had time to ask one question.
“What are you going to call it?”
Mello smiled, a rare, genuine smile that all but made the marks of emotional and
physical suffering on his face disappear.
“Pompeii.” he said.

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