Chapter Text
It's Hard When I Hate Myself
When I’m older. We tend to say that phrase a lot when we’re kids. When I’m older, I’m going to be an artist. I can’t wait to get my own apartment when I’m older. I’m going to travel the world when I’m older. At some point, you don’t know when, you stopped using that phrase. Soon there becomes an indistinguishable feeling deep within your chest when you realise that you are now older, and you’re not who you thought you would be.
Mickey’s childhood wasn’t great. His father, Terry, was abusive, his mother wasn’t around and the only conversations he had with his brothers always ended in arguments, so eventually he stopped talking to them. He never really had many friends as a kid, or even through his teen years. Although, he didn’t care as much back then, even though it did occasionally make him sad, he always had the hope in the back of his mind that things would get better when he was older.
He spent a lot of his childhood behind his closed bedroom door, sitting on a hard bed with a notepad in his hands, doodling away blocking out the noise of his father shouting at his brothers in the adjacent room. He’d draw the objects that surrounded him in his cluttered room, letting his imagination run wild by turning a can of coke into a futuristic car, or a pile of books into a monster with pencils for arms and knives for teeth.
Now he’s 27, surrounded by bright paintings and packed sketchbooks, a full fridge and a roof over his head, windows that let the evening sunlight in like a warm blanket over a shivering body; yet that dull ache in his chest never went away. It was loneliness and it was suffocating.
Sometimes he’d find himself pacing around his apartment, restless with excess energy yet unable to bring himself to do anything other than overthink. He didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t have art, it was the only thing he could do to silence his racing mind.
—
Every morning, the first thing Mickey would always do was jump out of bed to open the curtains. The darkness made me feel uneasy; he’d open them quickly, almost in a panic, scared as if he was going to pull the fabric apart and see a brick wall behind them.
He climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. The tiles were cold on his feet as he leaned in to turn the shower on, hissing at the feeling of the cold water hitting his arm before he could move out the way of the spray. His bathroom was small, awkwardly crowded due to the landlord’s decision to put in separate bath and shower; he rarely used the bath, he preferred quick showers to get the job done. On the odd occasion he did use the bath, he would end up laying there until his thoughts started to drown him slowly and the water turned cold.
Just like every morning, he reached down and grasped his length, methodically jerking himself to release. He jumps slightly when he’s unable to hold in a groan as he climaxes; before realising the only human voice he’s heard in the past 24 hours, was his own. Mickey sighed, then proceeded to wash his body and then let the spray soak his tired face for a few minutes.
He turned on the television as he poured himself some cereal. He didn’t actually watch the TV much, but he tended to leave it on to drown the silence in his apartment. It was depressing to think about, but the faint sounds of voices in the background as be went about his routine made him feel slightly less alone.
—
In order to afford to live alone, Mickey worked part-time in house removals and part-time slinging drugs for his father. He rented an apartment on the Southside of Chicago. As much as he wishes he could move halfway across the world, he ended up only a few streets away from his childhood home; close enough for quick drug pick-ups, far enough to give him a head start if his father decided to put a gun to his son’s head one day.
Sometimes he felt like he lived a double life. When he was alone, he spent his time drawing, painting, or pottering around his apartment to keep himself busy, but when he was with his family, he had to put on his ‘tough guy’ act. There was no doubt he looked the part, with his tattooed knuckles and ripped, sleeveless shirts, he definitely looked more like a dealer than an artist.
Dealing wasn’t exactly an honest job but Mickey sometimes preferred it. Not because it was more profitable, not because it made his father slightly more proud of him than usual, but because it was the one time in his life that he felt like he had the upper hand. For a few nights a week, people were scared of him. For a few nights a week, he didn’t have to worry what people thought of him, because no one dared intimidate him when he had a gun pressing into the side of his jeans.
-
Mickey’s always felt like he was in a constant battle with himself. He knew that in order to achieve anything, he had to put the effort in to make it happen. But every night he would lay in bed knowing that he didn’t have the courage to meet new people, he didn’t have the drive to find a job that he was passionate about and no one would fall in love with a man who didn’t know what it felt like to love anything.
—
Mickey wasn’t working today. To a normal person, this would be a relief, but to Mickey, he knew it meant he had to find something else to stop his brain from eating away at itself. So whenever he had a day off, he would go through his usual morning routine, and then leave the apartment to go for a long walk. He never had a specific route in mind when he set off. The Southside of Chicago wasn’t exactly the most scenic places, but he didn’t do it for the scenery, he just needed to get outside of his dim apartment. Some would call it ‘self-care’.
As he was coming to the end of his walk, he stopped off at a small shop a few streets away from his house. It was mainly a grocery shop, but there was a section towards the back that stocked a limited number of art supplies. He nodded to the shop keeper as he entered the store, taking some time to look through the items even though it was the same selection that was there a few days ago.
He picked up some charcoal pencils and a new A3 sketchbook.
‘Morning, Mickey,’ the lady at the till greeted him as he laid his items on the table.
‘Ey, Han,’ his voice croaked, ‘you good?’
‘Wonderful as always,’ Han said cheerfully. Mickey always wondered how someone could be so positive all the time; sometimes he wondered if she really did feel wonderful. It didn’t feel possible in a place like this. He smiled at her. It was possible she only made conversation with him because she knew his father, and the chaos he could create if she ever got on the wrong side of him. Nonetheless, short interactions like that were enough to perk Mickey up for a bit. He still felt lonely, but it brought him back down to earth for a good few minutes before his mind wandered off again.
Mickey paid for his goods and was about to leave the store before he heard Han speak again.
‘Oh Mickey!’ She waved her hand to get his attention. He looked up, thinking maybe he forgot his change. She then pointed to the notice board next to him.
‘Someone came in earlier and put that poster up. I thought you might be interested in it,’
Mickey’s eyes scanned through the abundance of posters on the noticeboard.
‘The green one!’
‘Ah,’ he exclaimed as he found it. The first thing he saw was ‘ART CLASS’ in big letters.
Mickey scoffed at it, raising his eyebrows as he looked back at Han.
‘Don’t knock it,’ She giggled, ‘You might like it!’
It was nice that she thought about him, people don’t tend to do that.
‘I’ll think about it,’ Mickey reassured her before ripping a strip with the website on off the bottom of the poster, waving it at her before walking out the shop. Placing it in his pocket, he strolled back home with his sketchbook under his arm.
—
Mickey spent the rest of the day doing chores around his apartment. Everything he did was to keep himself busy, so even though his home was small, and it wasn’t decorated in the most appealing way, it was always tidy. It was nothing like his childhood home. This place was his. Albeit he wasn’t the happiest of men, at least he didn’t have to be scared in his place. He couldn’t hear Terry shouting through the walls, he didn’t have to worry about him losing his temper again and setting a lighter to his drawings.
He’ll never forget the day that happened. That was the day he stopped drawing for a year.
After Mickey washed the dishes he left in the sink from the night before, folded a load of clean laundry and vacuumed the floor, he opened the sketchbook and turned on his laptop.
He sat down at the table and laid out his new charcoal pencils; then opened google and searched multiple phrases until he found something he could draw.
male body photography
male anatomy references
nude men photography
He found a picture of a man laying on his back with his arms above his head, body stretched so his defined muscles were visible beneath his skin and his penis lay soft against his leg. The models face was angled towards the camera, eyes looking into the lens, as if he was watching Mickey admire his body.
Before he knew it, hours had passed as he worked on his drawing; the large paper size allowing him to include all the details he wanted to. He had to turn a light on half-way through as the evening came and the darkness graduated filled his apartment.
When he was finished, he stood up and looked at the drawing from a distance. It was good. He knew he was good at it. He admired it proudly for a few minutes before sighing, closing the sketchbook and then setting out to make some dinner. Drawing was a nice distraction, but just like everything, it always ends.
Mickey made himself some pasta with pesto, sitting down in-front of his television to eat it. He put Family Guy on, it was his go-to show when he needed something to lift his mood. Every now and then he’d look to the side of his two-seater and wonder what it would be like to have someone else by his side, laughing along with him.
—
For some unknown reason, TV adverts were always louder than the shows, and that was what woke Mickey up at 1am.
‘Fuck sake’
Mickey rubbed his eyes and grabbed the remote, quickly turning off the TV. Suddenly it was quiet and the silence felt louder than the TV ever was. He knew it was going to be hard to fall asleep again now that he’d already drifted off on the sofa. He lifted himself up, sauntered over to the kitchen and poured himself a shot of whiskey, cringing as he downed it in one mouthful. On the way to his bedroom, he grabbed his laptop, throwing it on the bed before disappearing into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
After rinsing his mouth out, he held onto the sides of the sink, looking up at his reflection. Mickey was in his twenties yet sometimes he looked at himself and saw a man much older than he was. His eyelids were heavy, his skin felt rough and a shadow had formed across his chin, reminding him he needed to shave in the morning.
Back in the bedroom, pulled his clothes off his tired body, leaving himself in his boxers as he climbed into bed, opening his laptop when got comfortable. He had completely different plans when he initially brought the laptop into his bedroom, but his eyes shifted around the room and he noticed something on the floor. Near to the pile of clothes next to his bed, a bright green strip of paper lay on the floor. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket. He paused in thought for a second.
It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it?
Mickey leaned down, grabbed the paper and typed the website name into the search bar. It was a Facebook page, dedicated to Chicago artists. Mickey noticed an enthusiastically written post about some life-drawing classes. He looked at the dates on the post and saw that they had already been going on for a few weeks. It seemed silly but even just the simple ‘EVERYBODY WELCOME’ at the end of the post calmed his anxiety a little bit. Even the slight possibility of feeling like a complete outsider in a room full of people made his heart race.
He spent so long thinking about being able to draw someone from real-life. Whether male or female, to be able to draw at a figure that was living, breathing and existing right before his eyes would always outdo the looking at a still picture on a computer screen.
Mickey clicked on the link in the post and it took him to a page where he could book a place in the class.
Fuck it.
It was $15 per class. He paid online and chose the class that was in a few days time, giving himself some time to settle his nerves beforehand.
He needed to start doing things for himself. Things that would make him happy. Things that would allow him to meet new people, have new experiences… and maybe even make some friends.
Mickey was planning to watch some porn, jerk off and then try get some sleep. He ended up skipping the first two ideas, closing the laptop before he could convince himself to cancel the class. He laid down in the bed and an unusual feeling flooded through him.
It was only an art class.
But for once in a long time, he had actually made plans.
—
He almost ended up talking himself out of it when the days passed quicker than he thought they would.
On the day of the class, he kept himself busy. He was working that day so he spent the majority of it helping a rich couple on the Westside move out of one posh apartment and into another posher apartment. He shouldn’t have been thinking about it all day, but with the combination of Mickey’s intense anxiety and the class being a completely new experience to him, it was enough to keep it at the back of his mind all day.
—
On the walk to the art centre, he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket.
Fuck.
He knew who it was before he even looked at the screen. Terry. His Dad. He stood still for a second, and then decided, for the first time, he wouldn’t answer it.
He wasn’t going to ruin this. The class was just one hour, one hour where he could do something he loved doing, surrounded by other people who shared the same enjoyment.
—
Sometimes he’d wonder anyone else felt like this. His heart thumped in his chest as he approached the door; he shouldn’t be nervous, but he was. He could hear the faint chatter of people as he turned the handle and stepped inside. There was a group of around 10 people spread out around the room, some of them flipping through their sketchbooks, enthusiastically showing each other their work, others were setting up their supplies, getting ready for the class ahead.
‘Ooo, you’re new,’ a woman dressed in a colourful, tie-dye t-shirt and jeans approached him as he stood in the doorway, ‘Name?’ She smiled at him.
‘Erm, Mickey,’ He stammered. She searched for his name on the list, pausing to put a tick beside it.
‘Hey Mickey! I’m Haleema, call me Hal,’ she said cheerfully, ‘take seat wherever you want,’
Mickey nodded and took a deep breath as his eyes shifted around the room, worrying that he stood out like a sore thumb and people would start staring if he didn’t find a place to sit soon. His brain was constantly thinking everyone was watching him and yet no one saw him all at the same time.
There was a white platform set up by a wall at the opposite side of the room with chairs and easels surrounding it. His eyes settled on a seat in the corner, slightly further away from the other artists; he swiftly walked towards it and sat down, avoiding eye contact on the way.
He signed up for this class to get out the house and meet new people, but he couldn’t help but find himself wishing he was the only one in the room, the constant nattering around him putting him on edge. He felt even more like an outcast when he thought about the fact this class had already been going on for a few weeks now so the majority of other people already knew each other.
It will get better, he told himself as he let his eyes wander, falling on one man in-particular who was happily joking about with some other classmates. He was the face of charisma, voice loud with expressive hands, dressed like a typical hipster; the type of guy Mickey would find annoying, yet the group around him were listening to him intently and it made him think, maybe I’m the problem.
I’ll be like him one day.
Maybe today was too early to make any friends, his anxiety holding him back as he guessed it would. But it was okay, he had made it here, nothing bad had happened so far. It was going to be okay. He was around other people and that’s all that mattered right now.
—
A tall, red-haired man sauntered into the room, dressed in a thin white robe and slippers. He walked in a way which radiated confidence, which I guess he needed if he was going to be stripping off and letting people stare at his nude body for an hour.
‘Don’t worry, Ian is back!’ he spoke loudly, ‘Your favourite model is BACK,’ he joked with the group. Mickey rolled his eyes as the others snickered. The charismatic hipster Mickey noticed earlier let out a ‘whoop whoop’ which Mickey cringed at but everyone else seemed to find funny.
Only a mere minute after he walked into the room, Ian carelessly threw the slippers off of his feet and without hesitation, undone the robe and dropped it from his shoulders.
Mickey stopped breathing for a few seconds as his eyes attached themselves to the nude man in front of him. His position in the room meant he could only see him from the back, but it was still a beautiful sight.
His eyes followed down from Ian’s deep, red hair, over the broad shoulders, down his spine until they reached his buttocks, which looked simultaneously firm and soft. He watched as the tall man manoeuvred himself onto the platform. Mickey blushed and nervously adverted his eyes when Ian bent over and rested on all fours as he figured out the best position to do, eventually deciding to lay on his side, resting his head on his hand and crossing his leg over the other.
He was fully prepared to see the model nude, as that was the whole point of the class, but he didn’t expect to see that much of him. It was his own fault though, he chose this seat due to his desire to keep a distance from the other artists. He panicked slightly, worrying that people would notice his blush, but everyone else seemed fully engrossed in setting up their composition.
Soon the chatter died down and the room was quiet; professionalism taking over.
‘Alright, Begin!’ Haleema clapped.
—
Mickey loved figures. The enjoyment grew from the stick people he’d draw as he sat in class at 8 years old, to the detailed bodies he painted on canvases in his apartment at 2 in the morning. He always wanted to draw someone from real-life, but he never had the chance, so he just settled on the pictures he’d find on the internet.
He thought women were beautiful, but the male figure in-front of him right now was a different kind of beauty. It was one that unearthed desire, lust and an undying need to reach out and rest his hand on the warm, smooth skin.
Mickey silently took a deep breath, stood up from his chair and placed the sketchpad on the easel in front of him.
He despised his loneliness; yet the thought of being alone still brought him comfort. If he was alone, he didn’t have to worry about if he looked weird, acted weird, sounded weird. He let himself believe it was just him, his sketchbook and a still, pale statue laying in front of him.
Mickey grabbed a charcoal pencil and let his fingers map out the shape of Ian’s body. For a moment, his mind minimised the body into a bunch of shapes and angles, every now and then holding the pencil in front of him to gage the size of the composition.
Slowly he began feeling at home, losing himself in the motions of his hands on the paper in front of him. He’d occasionally gaze up and stare for longer than needed at the curves on Ian’s body, wishing he was closer so he could see every little detail on his skin.
What would it be like to touch him?
Mickey tried to stop those thoughts as soon as he started imagining his hands roaming the redhead’s skin. The last thing he needed to do was a pitch a tent in the middle of a life-drawing class.
—
Twenty minutes were left before the end of the class when Mickey felt his phone vibrate against his leg again. He physically ignored it, but mentally, he felt the fear seep through him. He could almost hear Terrys angry voice screaming at him.
Panic passed over him as he imagined what his father would say if he saw what his son was doing right now.
He could imagine the slurs that would leave his mouth as he watched Mickey studying the the nude male intently. He could see the bright flames eating up the drawing right before his eyes.
He’s not here. He’s not here.
Mickey calmed down.
He doesn’t know. He will never know.
He convinced himself.
—
‘Okaaaay, we are all done,’ Haleema broke the silence at the end of the hour. Ian sat up and stretched his arms above his head before standing up and wrapping the robe back around his body. The other artists started chatting again, getting up to to look at each others work.
Mickey built up the courage to take a stroll around the room too, following the others. As he passed the drawings, one by one, he was getting a different view of Ian. Eventually the drawings started to depict his full body and all the parts Mickey didn’t see. He gulped when he noticed that even just in the drawings, Ian looked… impressive. When he was on the opposite side of the room, looking at a younger lady’s interpretation of Ian’s body, Mickey saw a few people gathering around his easel.
He wondered whether he was interpreting their reactions correctly, but to him, they looked impressed.
Mickey smiled to himself.
—
Eventually he got back to his own easel and followed everyone else’s actions as they all started packing up their supplies. People were saying their goodbyes and beginning to leave.
He began to realise that he actually had fun. Even just being around other people made him feel less alone, even he didn’t really speak to anyone.
Suddenly a familiar voice startled him.
‘Damn’
He swiftly turned around and saw Ian standing with his arms crossed, admiring his drawing. Mickey had spent the past hour staring at this man’s nude body. It felt odd to see him so close up, and the first thing Mickey could think was… god, look at those eyes. They were green, a mixture of viridian and cadmium, and they complimented his red hair in a way that made him look ethereal.
The voice spoke again.
‘Considering the awkward angle, you did a great job,’ he joked, smiling at him. Mickey felt his cheeks start burning.
‘Er,’ He brushed his nose, attempting to play it cool, ‘yeah thanks, did my best.’
Ian’s eyes moved from the paper to Mickey’s face. Mickey didn’t know where to look, desperate to not make eye contact even though he could see Ian still smiling at him out of the corner of his eye.
‘Is this your first time here?’ Ian asked.
Mickey could feel his heard beating wildly. He wanted to talk to him. He wanted to be near him. The thing is, when someone spends so much of their time alone, the simplest of social interactions feel like they're stuck in a minefield.
It’s easy, just talk. You can do this.
‘Yeah,’ Mickey replied.
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Yeah,’ He said. ‘I did enjoy it,’ he added when he remembered one-word answers are not exactly the most exciting replies. ‘Did you?’
Mickey internally cringed. Why the fuck did you ask that? Did he enjoy being naked in while people drew him for an hour?
Ian scoffed.
‘I fucking love it,’ He said heartily, ‘It’s very freeing, you should try it some time,’ Ian looked him up and down.
Mickey laughed awkwardly, ‘Nah, I’m not really the type.’
Ian lowered his eyebrows as he smirked slightly.
‘What’s the type then?’
‘Er,’ Mickey panicked, ‘I d-dunno, man,’ he stammered, looking down at his feet.
‘What’s your name?’ Ian asked, changing the conversation.
‘Mickey’
‘Right, well I’ll stop bugging you now, Mickey,’
Ian was just about to leave before he stopped and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Make sure you get a front-view next time though, it’s much more impressive,’ Ian stated with an amused smile and squeezed Mickey’s shoulder before walking off in a confident strut.
Mickey blushed for the tenth time that evening.
-
It definitely wasn’t the perfect interaction and Mickey will definitely be overthinking it tonight when he lays awake in bed, but it was something. Although, he did wish he found the courage to break the ice a bit earlier with one of the other artists instead, so that the first conversation he had that evening wasn’t with the most beautiful, confident man in the room.
Mickey packed up his supplies and closed his sketchbook. He was trying, and that’s all that mattered. As the other artists gradually made their way out the door, Mickey followed suit. Just before he walked through the doorway, he glanced back and saw Ian standing with two other people engaging in conversation. Ian wasn’t looking at them though, his gaze was directed straight at Mickey, watching him intently as he turned and walked out the door.
-
It was nearly nine by the time Mickey got home. He didn’t bother to make anything to eat, he simply placed his sketchbook down on the sofa and made his way to the bedroom. He was more tired than he would usually be at this time of night, maybe it was social exhaustion from the small interactions he had that day. He realised even though it wasn’t much, it was more than he’d had in a long time.
Once in his bedroom, he stripped down to his underwear and pulled the bedcovers back, catching sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror in the corner of his room as he did so. Hesitating for moment; he walked over and stood in-front of it.
He didn’t hate his body. He just never really thought about it much. Maybe that was because he never really needed to. No one had seen him undressed in years. He ran his hand over his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his skin. He worked out, not a lot, but he tried to keep up some form of exercise ever since Terry made a comment a few months back that he was getting ‘podgy’, it was just something he needed to do to try keep up the tough guy act.
Mickey ran his hand down his stomach, his abs weren’t as visible as they used to be. Lifting his arms above his head, he looked at his muscles and wondered what it would be like to have people draw him. The thought of being nude in-front of a group of people terrified him. Dropping his arms to his sides, he then put his hands under his waistband and pulled his boxers down, kicking them off his feet. He sighed as he looked at himself. His dick was semi-hard as it hung between his legs; like the rest of his body, he thought of it as slightly below average.
He thought about Ian; the way his muscular back curved as he lay there, completely nude for everyone to see. He felt a pang of jealousy when he thought about the other artists in the room getting a much different view to him. Mickey didn’t even see Ian’s body from the front, but he let himself imagine what it would look like. He imagined what it would feel like. He held the base of his dick as he pictured the sight of Ian bending over the platform. He couldn’t stop the guilt forming in the back of his mind as he started moving his hand back and forth. He wanted him so bad, but he shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. He was just there to model for them, not to be perved over by a sad, lonely man. He felt a lump grow in the back of his throat, then he withdrew his hand and climbed into his bed, alone. Then the overthinking began.
Mickey couldn’t imagine anyone ever wanting him.