Your Arms Feel Like Home

Randy pulled into his driveway, which was agonizingly long. His house was fairly small, but was still very expensive. It was made from the finest wood and had lots of glass, so he had many forms of security. Especially since he was a rather famous artist, and came from a famous family. He need all the protection he could get. Though he was quite the fighter himself.

John smiled when he saw Randy's house. "Nice place." He said, his eyes inspecting the place. Man had nice taste. That was a plus in John's book. John was picky about the men he slept with, but he was picky about his boyfriends.

Randy chuckled as he waited for John to climb off so he could get off. "Thanks," he said. "Wait til you see my bikes."

John smiled and got off. "I can't wait. Maybe we can ride together sometime." He said.

Randy climbed off the bike and started walking toward the house. "Yeah, maybe," he said, in an off-handish way.

John raised a brow at him but shrugged him off and followed Randy. He stared at his ass as he walked. The man was a tease and he didn't even know.

Randy unlocked the door to his house, opening it and walking into a large room with many drawings and paintings covering the walls. He took off his shoes and placed them on the mat. "Take off your shoes, please," he requested. No one wore shoes in his house. At least not ones they wore outside. He was kind of OCD about certain things.

John shrugged and slipped off his shoes, looking around at the drawings. They were good. "You really are an amazing artist." He said, smiling slightly.

Randy chuckled. "These.." he said, pointing at the walls. "... aren't mine. These are some artists that have inspired me to do what I do, on top of my natural want to draw and paint."

John nodded and chuckled. "Ah. Lately for me, I haven't been inspired. I'm having trouble coming up with a new routine. Or even a song for that matter." He sighed, sitting down on the couch.

"I find inspiration in the littlest things. A face I want to capture, a scene I want to draw, a conflict I can vent with my pencil or paint brush," Randy said. "I have a photographic memory, so I tend to get everything the way it was. Sometimes, I'll change a few things to fit my picture."

John nodded. "I used to be able to do that. FInd inspiration in the small things. But lately... its hard. I don't know why. My last performance that you saw sucked." He pouted. He couldn't feel the music. He had no muse. And he needed to find one, though he didn't know his inspiration was standing right in front of him.

Randy shrugged. "I thought it was pretty good. But I'm not educated in the art of dance, so I can't really judge it that well."

John smiled softly. "Well so long as you licked it, that makes me happy." He chuckled. "You a good dancer?" He asked.

"Um, depends on what you're definition of the words 'good' and 'dancer' are," Randy chuckled.

John chuckled. "Well, I think it's someone who can keep up with me on the dance floor." He said.

Randy shrugged. "I'm not much of a dancer," he said. He spent most of his time at therapy, painting and working out as well as training to better his fighting.

John nodded. "So how long have you been painting or drawing?" He asked.

"As long as I can remember," Randy replied. "I remember drawing for my parents when I was five and painting when I was four."

John smiled and nodded. "My parents put me into formal dance lessons since I was two. Dancing is all I know. Gave up college for this."

"My parents had my whole life planned for me. I never took art class. I did a lot of sports. Football, basketball, baseball or tennis. Always doing some sort of sport all year long. In summer, I went to football and tennis camp, one month each. The other month I was off, I was training and street fighting, which my parents urged me to do. Fighting is another of my passions. But anyways, I'm getting off track. I got a full scholarship on football and tennis, ending up choosing tennis because it took more skill. I majored in law, like my mom, graduating from Harvard not too long ago. After I told my parents I wanted to draw instead of be a lawyer, and that I was bi, they cast me out for a few years. About a year ago, they called and apologized for what they had done and I had all my bank accounts re-opened," Randy said.

John nodded, listening intently. "Wow..." He said. He didn't really get into talking about his family. His family was strict and had pretty much outcasted him as well.

"Yeah. The only reason they accepted me back is me and my dad were really close and my dad couldn't take not knowing where I was or how I was doing. It was my mom who wanted me out, actually. She's always been the strict one. My dad just doesn't feel like fighting with her. She gets pretty annoying. So me and my mom don't talk much. I mostly go home to see my dad and siblings," Randy said. He could talk for hours. He loved talking.

John bit back a chuckled as Randy talked. Boy could the man talk. At least he had a soothing voice. John settled back into the couch and listened to Randy talk about his life.

"But yeah. Honestly, if I hadn't become an artist, I would have been a fighter. Like UFC or something like that. I don't know what it is, but fighting is so relieving. I've gotten hurt a lot, though. Got quite a few scars from all the fights. It's crazy. I actually made a lot of money, too. Street fighting is a lucrative business," Randy rambled.