Portrait

It had been through weeks of careful deliberation that he decided it, for all intensive purposes, needed to be kept a secret—one big, dark secret.

It was the kind of thing that would put his reputation at stake, should anyone ever find out about it. Surely no one would take him seriously as a champion boxer if they also knew of his little—what was it?

He supposed it could be considered a favorite pastime of his, though deep down he knew it meant much more to him than that. It was an escape, almost; a small existence of his own creation, where his imagination—and hands—could roam free.

Free from responsibility, expectations, and, most importantly, prying eyes.

If his secret got out, there was no doubt in his mind he would be criticized for it. It would inevitably be deemed a sign of weakness by the general population, and he would be scarred forever, his career ruined.

He wanted to concentrate on his fighting, he honestly did, but the urge proved too strong to resist. Again and again it would happen, filling the once empty space inside him, the void longing for fulfillment.

He hadn't thought anything would compensate for learning the horrible truth about himself, about his origin, but his hobby was always there, like a reliable friend, patient and willing to give him the illusion of being a whole man.

It started out small. He was no professional—he'd never even considered the possibility—and so needed a lot of practice. He'd spent late nights whiling away the hours, searching for the perfect subject and, ultimately, making his desires a reality.

He tried not to think about it too much. Thinking, as he learned early on, slowed the process, made it difficult to capture the moment.

His focus had been rather random at first, no particular pattern or niche. He experimented, each time testing his experience and skill to the best of his ability.

Then he'd met her.

Her, the guiltiest of his pleasures; she'd been so different, so vibrant that she captured his attention within days.

She made him forget about his past, his problems, his thirst for revenge. Being around her made him feel as though someone had transported him back to the time when he was happy, so wonderfully ignorant. Her smile, he found, was more contagious than a yawn.

It was only logical that he'd use her for his—activity. Separately, they could fill him up, take him away from his reality. Together, then—well, he could hardly conceive the satisfaction.

The others had simply been additions to his collection, his portfolio, but she—she was fun.

His secret had kept him from feeling lonely for a long while, but now that he'd discovered the extent of excitement he could experience, he felt like he was just starting to enjoy what he did. It was a rush, unmatched by anything he'd previously undergone. He reveled in the way his fingertips brushed over her body, her cheeks, her lips—anywhere he wanted.

She was his for the molding, just plain his—in his hand-crafted world, at least.

He contemplated insanity when he neglected to feel any remorse. He knew it was wrong, but a large part of him didn't care, didn't want to recognize the fact that he had no right to do what he was doing.

He was violating her, true, but he didn't heed to anything but the beautiful final product.

He hadn't intended for anyone else to see it.

How could he have known she was going to walk into the hotel room at the moment she did?

The familiar itch of desperation coating his hands made him waver, but he caught himself and jumped to his feet from his position on the couch, mentally swearing and hoping she hadn't seen.

"Hi, Steve," she was saying, "I was just wondering if—"

The fact that she'd stopped in the middle of her sentence worried him. Perhaps she had seen. Fine, then; just so long as she didn't—

"What were you doing?"

He gave an inward cringe before offering her the most convincing grin he could manage. "Oh, nothing special."

"What," she remarked, smiling, "is that?"

A slender finger brought his worst fear to life.

He couldn't help but self-consciously gravitate toward the crack between the nearest cushions. "What do you mean?"

Her movements were quick, effortless, just as they were in the ring. The hard cover contrasted with her pale skin in precisely the way he'd envisioned it would so many times. She regarded him with curiosity before motioning with her hand, preparing to peel the protective barrier away from his best kept secret.

He leapt to his feet. "Wait, don't—"

Could an apple survive without its tender skin?

Could a fighter survive without his safe place to hide?

He was going to find out, because no sooner had he started to spurt protective demands did she flip open the thick sketchbook.

He studied the attentive expression on her face with acute paranoia, the yearning sensation spread across his palms now beads of nervous sweat. Her eyes scanned page after page, delved increasingly deeper into the book, into his sensitive core.

"Xiaoyu." The word, so simple in theory, tumbled out before he gave much thought to the reasoning behind it.

She didn't respond, engulfed in the artistic manifestation splayed before her, and he held in an uncertain breath. She broke the surface of reality minutes later. The absence of resentment in her gaze dumbfounded him.

Had she not just seen everything, his secret addiction? Had she missed the many portrayals of her, juxtaposed haphazardly out of carelessness or perhaps anxious desire?

She now knew about all those times he was there, watching her every move with a voracious stare in order to illustrate such a fragile figure correctly. The book held sketches of her doing everything, anything, everywhere. Her hotel room. The lobby. The gym. Not always smiling, but always bringing a smile to his face.

"They're beautiful."

The statement hit him with unexpected force. In that moment, he was suspended between the truth and the comfort of deceit, a place that made his life worth something.

Her innocence prevented her from seeing the passionate strokes of graphite, the smudges where his thumb had found the paper's coarse surface. She saw only the lines, the colors, the obvious.

As if relieved, he slowly released the breath he'd been containing. He softly jarred the smooth binding from her hands and grasped it tightly, no less frustrated than he'd been when she first discovered it. A familiar tingle had returned to his fingertips.

"Steve," she said with wavering conviction, "Could you—"

He watched her reconsider, shyly tucking a raven tress behind her delicate ear. He felt the rhythm of his heartbeat accelerate abruptly. He dreaded her next words.

Was she going to leave the apartment, his life? He couldn't bear it on his own. He'd become so accustomed to her subconscious aid, her willingness, her release.

And what of his reputation? He could almost see his future resting on her slim shoulders.

"Could you paint me perfect?"

His eyes shifted from her porcelain face to the cover of the sketchbook in his hands.

It was pathetic how even then, as she stood showing carefully disguised insecurities, the eagerness to capture her for his own use continued to drip down through every pore in his body.

The truth was that he saw no difference between perfection and the petite dancer before him.

It was a thought that had crossed his mind many times before, a thought he'd decided, for all intensive purposes, needed to be kept a secret—one big, dark secret.