#i lied i have done a lot of art stuff just barely self indulgent stuff

[from-the-stone-art]

Video game men actually make me want to pick up a pen again and if that isn’t beautiful, idk what is

[himbowelsh]

if it would interest you: high school au winnix, lew sneaking out to dick's house while his parents are fighting?

this interests me like hELLA

ever just the same, ever a surprise (ao3)

There are days when Dick considers himself a very grounded, down-to-earth person; and then there are days when he wonders if his life has been a modern-day Shakespeare reenactment all along and everybody just forgot to tell him.

Seeing Lewis Nixon scaling the side of his house tells him it’s one of those days.He watches, intrigued, for almost a minute before it occurs to him that he could be a lot more helpful if he bothered to help. By that time Lewis has already reached the middle of the trellis beneath Dick’s window. Before Dick can warn him about the dangers of rotting wood, he wraps his hand around the nearest rung – and immediately tumbles back.

Dick watches Lewis fall, and makes a noise of sympathy when he hits the ground. It doesn’t look too bad, but that’s going to leave a definite bruise for a while.

“We have stairs,” he calls. From the ground, Lewis lets out a long groan.By the time Dick rushes down the stairs and has left the back door swinging behind him, he finds his friend no longer prone. Instead Lewis is sitting up, admiring the patch of begonias he nearly landed on. Long fingers are caressing one flower’s slender stem. He looks dangerously tempted to pluck it before the sound of the porch door slamming causes him to look up.“Your mother’s garden gets more beautiful every time I almost destroy it,” he says. The remains of what used to be one of the rungs is still clutched in his free fist. Dick rolls his eyes, holding out a hand.“You broke my trellis,” he says as Lewis hauls himself to his feet. “I nearly broke myself. Your trellis should be easier to climb.”As they meander their way inside the house,  Dick shakes his head. “Or you could have used the front door like anybody else,” he says, even as he holds the back door open for Lewis to follow him through. His friend’s footsteps are heavy on the wooden porch. Against the carpeted floors of Dick’s home, his shining loafers finally look a bit less out of place. He grins as they step into the cooler air of Dick’s home, eyes darting around to take in halls he’s seen dozens of times before. “My mom is making fried potatoes.”“Have I mentioned I love your mom?” Lewis pauses at the end of the hallway, not sure whether to continue up the stairs to Dick’s room or head into the kitchen. The heady smell of dinner seems to tempt him, but Dick can tell from the set of his shoulders that Lewis doesn’t feel like interacting with  people right now. (Dick does not count as people to Lewis).So he pokes his head in the kitchen instead. His mother is at the stove, stirring a pot with one hand while adjusting the temperature with the other. He waits for her to finish before speaking. “Mom, Lewis is here.”His mother looks up in surprise, stray curls flying about her temples. “Oh! Is he staying for dinner?”Lewis quickly says “yes” behind him, and Dick smiles. “He is.”“Hi, Mom,” Lewis calls, poking his head over Dick’s shoulder. Dick’s mother waves her spoon at him, a fond smile playing across his lips. Dick’s parents love Lewis like another son. It’s not unusual for Lewis to drop by unannounced, so there’s always a free place at the table and enough food to go around.

“Do you need any help?” asks Dick, and his mother shakes her head.

“Nothing to help with. Dinner’s almost done – be downstairs in twenty minutes, but finish your homework first, alright?”

Dick nods and steps back into the hallway. He finds Lewis already waiting for him on the stair landing, leaning against the wall with deceptively casual nonchalance.

“You heard the lady,” he says as Dick leads the way up to his room. “What’ve we got today? Physics? Advanced calculus? The Art of War?”

“Nothing so interesting,” Dick replies. He pushes the door to his room open, and can feel Lewis’s smirk when he sees the mess of notebooks crowding his bed. “Three paragraphs of analysis on The Scarlet Letter and a bit of algebra. Pretty exciting stuff.”

“Dick, that sets my intrepid brain on fire. Don’t tease me like this.” Ignoring the mess, Lewis flops down on the bed. With his arms spread he looks like a starfish. Dick huffs and rescues one of his books from beneath his friend’s back. “I’m almost done. Give me five minutes.”

Lewis makes a noise of agreement, eyes slipping shut. He lies without movement, content to be still and silent as Dick’s pencil resumes its gentle scrabbling against paper. He’s not in a chatty mood. Not in a bad mood, either, but that could flip on a dime. Lewis’s temperament is mercurial at best.

At least tonight he doesn’t reek of whiskey. The memory of several weeks ago, with a stumbling, slurring Lewis throwing stones up at his bedroom window drifts into Dick’s mind uninvited, and he frowns as he pushes it away. Maybe this happens too much. He would never begrudge Lewis the sanctuary, however. He knows, and more importantly, he understands. There are times when Lewis cannot stand to stay in his house another second. If he didn’t come here he would wind up somewhere far less welcoming. If a house of friendly faces can assure Lewis’s peace of mind, Dick is glad to leave the door open at all house.

(That is, if he ever willingly used the door.)

Five minutes stretches into ten, and by the time Dick sets his finished work down Lewis’s breathing has deepened out. The hand cast over his face prevents Dick from seeing his eyes, but he guesses they’re closed. When he leans forward, his friend doesn’t stir.

“Lew. Are you asleep?”

“Yes,” replies Lewis.

“You better wake up then.” Dick gives his friend’s shoulder a light shake, and doesn’t bother letting go. When Lewis makes a noise of content, he turns to massaging his shoulders, easing out all the stress that has gathered there throughout the day. Dick keeps his tension in his stomach and back. Lewis builds his in his neck and shoulders. When he’s under strain, Dick can always tell from the tension in his throat, or the way the muscles of his shoulders bunch together. It is impossible to miss – at least, for him.

(Many people don’t pay Lewis the attention he deserves. Dick tries to make up for this every chance he gets.)

Lewis seems perfectly content to relax into his massage instead. Dick indulges him for a few minutes before the clock really starts ticking. Downstairs, he can hear his sister Ann chattering as she sets the table. They have to get ready for dinner.

He leans down, close enough for his breath to brush the dark fringe that falls over Lew’s forehead. “Lew, come on. Aren’t you hungry?”

Lewis is always hungry, frequently starving. That’s his teenage metabolism at play, and unlike at his own house here he isn’t scolded for eating too much or too little. Coaxing him down to dinner isn’t difficult – getting him out of bed is the hard part.

“Fine,” Lewis eventually sighs, and rolls off of Dick’s bed. He makes a show of drowsiness as they descend the stairs, but by the time they’re at the table Lewis is bright eyed and alert. He greets Dick’s father, pulls at Ann’s braids, and the family settles down to eat.

Lewis’s appetite hasn’t been affected by whatever happened at home. As time goes on, he gets his social graces back too. By the time Ann starts talking about re day at camp, he’s able to chime in and joke with her. He compliments Dick’s mother’s cooking, asks his father about work, and is every inch the charming Lewis that Dick met on their first day of high school.

He loves to see Lewis like this. When he is at his best, he makes up for every second of his worst. Dick can not help but love him when he sees Lewis happy, and these are the memories he holds fast to when Lewis is drunk and self-destructive.

Maybe he’s being too obvious, because when Lew looks over he catches Dick smiling at him. His hand nudges Dick’s own – subtly, but just enough for them both to feel it. Lewis’s lips twitch up in a smirk, and Dick meets his gaze, unabashed.

(He admires Lewis, and wants him to know it. Lewis is wonderful, amazing, intelligent, beautiful – and if he won’t think those things about himself, Dick will think them all tenfold.)

“Careful,” Lewis says after dinner, sprawled out on Dick’s bed once more. “You keep staring at me like that and I’ll go weak at the knees.”

“Well, that’s the plan,” Dick replies, scanning over his bookshelf for something to read. He does not look behind him, but he knows he’ll see Lewis with his chin in his palms, elbows balanced on his bed, that same wicked smirk on his lips. He selects a book before turning around. “Did you bring nightclothes?”

“I climbed out the window again, Dick. I barely brought my shoes.”

“What is it with you and windows?”

“I live dangerously.” Mr. Dangerous barely manages to catch the night shirt Dick tosses his way. “Ugh, plaid? What, are we on a farm?”

“Pretty much,” Dick replies, and settles next to Lewis with his book. Lewis knows he can pick whatever he wants from the bookshelf, but he chooses to read over Dick’s shoulder instead. His body presses up against Dick’s side, and Dick tries to pretend the proximity doesn’t make him feel warm all over.

He knows how this night will end. Lewis will read with him, they’ll talk for awhile, and Dick will eventually fall asleep. He’ll wake up in the night to find Lewis passed out next to him, as unashamedly as if they were two children sharing a bed. Maybe he’ll be wearing a placid, blank expression; maybe he’ll be frowning, caught in the midst of some unsettling dream. Either way, Dick will run his hands through his hair and soothe him until content has take over his sleeping face.

They’ll wake up tomorrow for breakfast, and another day spent in each other’s company. Eventually Lewis will have to go home, but that is a far off concern until the time comes.

They’ve done this enough times that Dick knows exactly how it goes.