Work Text:
If Markus had adapted anything from Carl Manfred, it was his appreciation for art. He loved the way everything looked all together, the strokes of every line, the slight wobbles of color as the hand shook. The color choices meant so much, meant everything to the composition of a piece. He enjoyed perspective both good and bad, he saw art in everything, the way the sunlight reflected off the river, the twisted metal of the hallways within Jericho, looking like grasping hands, curling fingers.
Yet, he’d been unable to create anything. He, vast in knowledge and skills he could learn, was stumped so easily by something every artist will get one day or another. What was he to paint with his skill? What subject was he to hone in on? He could paint anything, yet he couldn’t think of anything.
He’d learned early on, even before going deviant, that an exact copy was not art. Sure, he could perfectly replicate a scene, he could get all the shadows and proportions right, but that wasn't art. That was copying. Art told a story. Art displayed an emotion, made someone feel something. All these had been lessons Carl told him early on, all lessons he’d always keep in his memory.
Right now, art was making him feel annoyed, angry even. The canvas before him, blank except for a single blotch of old, green paint, held his attention. His eyes were fixed on it. He wanted to paint, he itched to do so, but, now that he’d finally gotten the time, he was unable to bring brush to canvas.
As he mulled over his options, he heard a knock at the bulkhead door. He looked up, expecting the fiery ginger to be waiting for him, as she commonly did. Instead, it was a short blonde. He leaned against the door frame, and it didn't take a sleuth to know he’d been watching him for a while.
“Simon, is there something you need?” Markus asked, standing up. Simon quickly shook his head, shutting him down. He smiled at him.
“Just came here to visit you. I hadn’t seen you about, so I knew you’d be holed up here doing something or other,” He said, stepping through the threshold. Markus watched him as he walked over, observing his face, his eyes. He felt tempted to paint him, but he couldn't, that would be copying.
Simon eyed the mostly blank canvas, looking it over for a while. He glanced down at Markus’s meager supply of paints.
“Can’t think of anything to paint?”
“Nothing at all,” Markus muttered, returning to his seat. Simon stared intently at the canvas, eyes squinting in thought. Markus enjoyed watching him think, he did the most human thing. He furrowed his brows and squinted his eyes, oftentimes he’d chew his lip. He’d never met an android that had such small human mannerisms, not until him. Simon seemed the one most adapted to humanity, one who could so easily blend in.
It made him wonder why he was here. He’d never asked, because it was never brought up. The past of androids gone deviant was often touchy and hard to convey, it was personal and was often better forgotten. Simon had never seemed all that wary of his past, but he also never seemed all that interested in sharing.
“Do you have any ideas?”
“None at all. I’m not an artist,” Simon mused, pulling up a stool beside Markus. He placed his hands on his knees, his fingers gently toying with the rips in his jeans. Markus looked back towards the canvas. The green blotch was going to be a problem, it was almost dead center towards the top, and had dripped slightly downwards.
Markus looked towards Simon, catching the tail end of his gaze as he quickly looked away. He’d been watching him. Markus turned fully his way, feeling a bit flustered that Simon had been observing him.
“What? Is there paint on my face?” Markus asked, almost jokingly. Simon looked at him again, laughing lightly. He shook his head.
“No, I was just observing you,” Simon said, voice trailing. The two sat in silence for a moment. It wasn't uncomfortable, just needed.
“Have you painted a scene?” Simon asked, Markus sighed, looking towards the canvas’s left abandoned in the corner, splashes of color against the cold metal of the ship's walls.
“I’ve painted many.”
“Plants? Animals?”
“Too many species to name.”
Simon rubbed his chin, looking off into the distance for a moment, eyes scanning the shelves lined with old literature and newspapers. His eyes rested on a magazine with a woman on the cover. He stood, making Markus look at him.
“Have you painted a, what's the word?” Simon asked, looking expectantly at him. Markus hummed in confusion. Simon made a noise and slapped a hand on his leg, seemingly having found the word he was looking for.
“A muse! It’s said all good artists have muses,” Simon exclaimed, then he laughed and pulled a pose. He looked away from Markus, a hand going to his forehead as he laid a hand on his hip, he jutted his arm out weirdly, the pose looked uncomfortable. Markus couldn't suppress his laugh. He also couldn't help to look over him, trailing his eyes along his lean frame.
“I can’t just paint you, that’d end up with me copying reality,” Markus said, twirling his brush over his fingers. Simon loosened and lost the pose he was in, standing besides the easel. He gently touched it, looking down at it.
“Paint how you see me,” Simon said, voice shaking slightly, like he was nervous. Markus watched him, slowing his brush spinning to a stop. He’d been tempted to do that, he’d been tempted to do that since the day he'd met Simon. But they've been so busy, he’d never had enough time, they never really got the time to talk.
“I don’t know much about you, Simon. I understand you, I trust you, I'm friends with you but you haven't shown much of your deeper side to me,” Markus said, standing after a moment. Simon looked at him, but his eyes fell and he nodded a bit, chewing his lip again. He returned to the stool, making them both sit again.
“Then let's talk.”
“But what?”
“Everything,” Simon said, scooting the stool even closer. His knee brushed against Markus’s. He looked towards the window letting sunlight light the long unpowered ship, Markus continued to stare at him, eyes tracing over his jawline.
“I guess I should start out with how I found Jericho?” Simon asked, still not looking towards him. He chuckled awkwardly, hands kneading the denim of his jeans, “When I left my house, I had to go a long way before I found anyone else like me. I had been passing by a college campus when I saw a group of students laughing and running away from something.”
Markus listened intently, leaning closer to Simon. He finally looked back at him, hurt written in his blue eyes. His brows furrowed and he looked away again, eyes cast towards the ground. He couldn’t look Markus in the eye, he couldn’t look anyone in the eye when it came to emotional subjects.
“When I approached, I found Josh. He was surrounded by blue blood and he looked so hurt. I offered him help, and brought him to the first place I could find. I had to keep watch over him for 3 days before he was able to walk.”
“You two traveled together. I remember Josh mentioned this to me once, I didn’t know you’d met like….that,” Markus said quietly, he didn't want to interrupt, he wanted to know everything now. He was ravenous for every detail.
“We traveled until we found a run down house, Josh suggested we stay there for the night, but inside we found another deviant, and he blessed our journey, telling us to follow the symbols,” Simon’s voice was small, Markus, realizing the story was over, straightened up. He nudged Simon’s leg with his own, and Simon looked up at him.
“I’m glad you were there. I’m sure Josh is too.”
“Yeah.”
Markus glanced at the canvas, slowly turning to face it. He picked up a bit of paint, spreading it onto a piece of wood beside him. It was splattered with dried paint, coloring it a whole slew of shades. He gently tapped his brush into it.
“If you don’t want to answer you don’t have to, but what was your life before you were deviant?” Markus asked gently. The subject was hard to ask, most of the time the stories were brutal and gut-wrenching. His story was simple and clean compared to many, but that didn’t stop him from wanting better for everyone.
“I don’t remember much of it,” Simon said. Markus glanced at him, brush pausing in the air. Simon continued before he could speak, “I do remember it all, but..”
“I can’t remember anyone from my past. I can remember every home I was put into, every family and its size, the layout, the tasks I was made to do, the comfort that worked for each individual kid. I just cannot remember their names. Their faces.”
“What do you mean?” Markus asked, having to pull his eyes back to his canvas. Simon sighed beside him, struggling for words.
“It’s a blur to me. It's as if they were intentionally erased from my memory, the people, but not the experiences. It’s horrible. I know what I’ve learned, I’ve learned where I got my compassion from, the people who’ve wronged and helped me. I remember, vaguely, there was a woman who was so kind to me. She was so motherly. She made me feel like I was human.”
Simon’s voice was frustrated. Markus looked towards him. He knew what Simon meant by his words, but he couldn’t imagine what it felt like. To have every name, every face of those who’d cared for you stripped away. He couldn’t imagine it happening to him with Carl. He didn’t want to imagine that happening. Simon lowered his hand from his head, looking at him with sad eyes.
“I want to remember her. She wasn’t my last home, but she is the reason I’m here today. Her love helped me realize I was more than just, a servant of humanity,” Simon said. Markus stared into his eyes for as long as he could, but he couldn’t take the sad look he had for long. He turned back to his painting, starting to paint in silence. Every stroke he imbued with emotion, no one stroke was emotionless, was thoughtless. Unintentionally, or maybe it was, he was painting Simon, though his forehead was blotted out with the green splatter. Maybe he’d done that intentionally.
“Markus,” Simon said, causing Markus to look at him. Simon was staring at the painting. His eyes were full of appreciation and awe, but also so full of reminiscence and hurt. Markus slowly put the brush down, turning to him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fully encapsulate him, every emotion, every thought. Simon looked at him, reaching for him.
The two of them pressed their hands together, gently, ever so gently. Their skin faded to grey. All at once, Markus was hit with every memory of Simons rushing into his mind. The blurred faces, the censored names, the scribbled addresses. He saw dozens of people rush by, children, adults, cats, dogs, elders, babies. He saw through Simon's eyes as he repaired a heater, as he helped the children study. He saw an old woman, face blurred like one from a dream, despite that, he could see her smiling.
“You belong here, Simon. You’re as human as me, don’t forget that.” she had said. The memory faded, their hands regained their color, but they did not pull away. Simon stared at him, blue eyes so full of emotion he couldn’t pinpoint any single one. Markus suddenly felt everything, he understood him. Markus reluctantly pulled his hand away from Simons, glancing at him remorsefully as he turned back to his painting.
Simon sat with him until he finished the painting. The strokes were not perfect, they were sloppy and strained, but they conveyed what Markus wanted. What Simon wanted. When he finished, he stepped back from it, followed by Simon. The portrait was of Simon, facing towards the two of them. The green splotch covered his forehead, scribbled with black and blue. Markus knew why he did that, to convey his memories, his mind, but he also did it because it felt like he should.
“Markus, thank you,” Simon said quietly, hand brushing his. Markus took it without resistance. The two of them looked at each other. Markus looked into his eyes, understanding every hint of emotion and thought they conveyed. He loved them. Simon stepped closer to him, pressing his forehead to Markus’s. He closed his eyes, squeezing his hand. Markus closed his eyes after a moment, missing the sight of him immediately as he was plunged into darkness.