>"You've reached the number of Unknown, the artist, not the descriptor. I'm unable to answer your call right now, as I'm either unable to answer, unaware of my phone's location or ignoring you. Anyhow, name, number, message and I'll get back to you. Ciao."
>You stare at the phone screen for a moment or two longer.
>You're worried.
>You're tired.
>And you're worried you're getting too tired of being tired and worried.
>Crow's feet and bags come hastily for a lady who worries too much.

>You redial, looking at the photo of you both intently, as though that will make him pick up.
>It's you, younger, and a tad more petite.
>Only slightly, mind you.
>Unknown -- Anonymous -- has an arm wrapped around you, beaming brightly.
>His hair, usually a raven blue has been horribly, hastily died an ugly and utterly GLARING shade of orange.
>>"Blondes have more fun," he'd said.
>Even despite whatever level of mania he'd been on, he'd managed to stay still after you insisted on getting your photo taken.

>You had just opened up the new boutique. 
>Well. Reopened. 
>No longer was it simply "Rarity's nice little gaudy shack"
>Nono, you had surpassed this, and upgraded to "Rarity's slightly nicer shack, which is more tasteful than gaudy."
>Fashionistas and designers didn't really go above shacks.
>Not if they cared to stay in the business long enough to get their own line, you'd noticed.

>You look mildly startled, but happy.
>A terrible shade of blush, so you tell the girls.
>Not because Anonymous had felt .. electric. A live wire, with a heart hammer as fast as a sewing machine needle.
>Sweat vaguely tasting of ozone. Like he was burning up from inside.

>You'd told him this when he'd finally calmed down, after you'd convinced him to go back on his medication.
>Weeks later, he'd taken the idea, ran with it, broke some sort of speed record and launched himself into the art world.
>A portrait of a man, aflame, clutching a rose of ice.

>From there you both kept on climbing.
>And sometimes, you found your brother had climbed in mood and dipped in vogue.
>And always during these sometimes, you found yourself parked outside of his ornate, self-wrought gate hanging wide open.
>Throwing your phone down onto the passenger seat, you gently (for you) nudged the accelerator.

>You were never very good with cars.
>Anonymous had cried out of humour and sympathy when your first manual had died in a spluttering, screeching heap.

>Which makes it all the more ironic for you when you turn the corner to the garage to find the large door open, and his car left there with smoke hissing from under the hood.

>Before you know it, you've slipped out of the car, and out into the harsh rain.
>You don't care about the custom jacket.
>But the cold and wet combination is frightful.
>You hurry, remarkably quickly for your high heels into the garage interior and slap the door control quickly.
>A brief groan to join the car in its hissing.
>Marvellous, it's --
>Oh. There it goes.

>As if powered by your irritation, the door winds down slowly and shuts away the downpour.
> You briefly eye the car as you pass, silently warning it not to try and explode before pushing your way in to the utility room.

>Paintbrushes sit in tubs, clear and muddied with paint.
>You sniff the nearest one, sat atop the counter.
>A terrible idea, as it seems to be an alcohol as opposed to water or whatever he uses to clean brushes like a sensible person.

>Idly muttering about SENSIBLE people who do SENSIBLE things, loud enough so he can hear you coming, you begin the search.
"Honestly, Anonymous, I KNOW artists who can clean their brushes away properly within SECONDS so they don't have to use -- whatever that was! And I'll have you
know for a fact that I do not appreciate having to come all the way over here so I c--"
>You frown.
> The house is in a villa style. Despite the large floor area - you'd insisted, cramped spaces just don't suit him - he should have heard you 'make basic knowledge a Rarity'
> He should have laughed, popping up to tell you it's clearly called urasillyfashionanol or something ridiculous.
>But he didn't.

"Anonymous? It's Rarity?" You call out uncertainly, as you pass from the darkened hallway to the kitchen, lights humming to life as you walk under the arch. 
>It's.. surprisingly better than you expected, you think as you set your purse on the granite countertop.
>Just the worrying tidbit of there being several uncorked bottles on the breakfast island.
>It was one of his favourite jokes, that he could turn an island into a bar with just forty bits.
>You eye the coarse spirits.
>You are distaste made manifest, you imagine.
>Horrid things.
>He shouldn't be drinking them for taste alone, nevermind his disorder.

>You're not sure why you're cleaning.
>The sooner you find him, the sooner you can hug and slap him for worrying you again and be happy he's ok.
>That's how it always goes.
>"Unknown's unfound." Pierrot Shield will say over the coffee house chatter, looking at you meaningfully.
>Another little joke your brother loved, and would parrot like some sort of dullard after he'd spring back up from whatever condition he had been riding out.
>Honestly, sometimes you think you could tell everyone Sweetie Belle was the elder of him and her, and everyone wouldn't bat so much as an eyelid.

>You stop wringing your hands, instead choosing to apply your hand lotion next to the sink.
>You may have been .. sneaky and slowly populated the house with small comforts over the years since you two had stopped sharing the apartment.
>Just in case you needed to stay.
>In case he asked, instead of letting things get this bad.

>You move into the open-plan lounge, and stop as the lights flicker on when you trip the sensor.
>Paint supplies, everywhere.
>He's ruined the immaculate chaise!
>Pain spikes through your lip, as you gnaw on it.
>A terrible habit, unbefitting but you think this is an appropriate situation.

>You look at the paint on the chaise lounge, and after a moment a meandering pattern appears amongst the chaos.
>How long has it been since he's taken his medication?

>Pierrot had called you on Tuesday. Today was.. Friday or Saturday depending on how long the drive had taken you.
>You'd been too busy trying to call through to check the time.
>Pierrot didn't call you unless Anonymous had been away for at least a few days.
>At least a week?

>It shows.
>Large canvas seem propped up wherever there's space.
>There's always a theme of orange and blue.
>Some are oil paintings, others are sketches.
>Whether those are the underlines or what ever he may call them, or the final result.

>Shamefully, you admit they are ALL good pieces.
>You may be biased, as a sister should love whatever her brother makes.
>Sweetie has several reproductions of his pricier, galleried pieces on her dorm walls last you checked.
>His work was infectious.
"Anonymous, this is your FINAL warning before I march up those stairs and ruin these heels in your derrière."
>Something clatters to the ground upstairs, and you hear things being hastily rearranged.

>You feel your shoulders sag.
>Tension leeches from your muscle, and they already begin the post-tension ache.
>Madame Lumiere had always said it would be the downfall of your ballet.
>Right again, you shrew.

>Beginning to turn towards the bannistered landing that overlooks the lounge for your brother, you stop.
>A torn canvas, slashed towards the top.
>It droops down sadly.
>A disapproved painting to an artist, a scolded dog to an owner.
>You walk over to it, almost floating compared to the march you were doing earlier.

>"Rarity I'll be down in a second, just--" He stumbles out from the master bedroom to the landing, leaning on the bannister
"No, you get down here now and let me look at you." You call up, not bothering to look up.
>Wasted effort, the upstairs all has 'manual lighting, to really appreciate the night sky.'
>She'd wanted to slap the realtor's conspirital smirk off of her face.
>The insinuation was enough.
>The lovey-dovey eyes she made at your brother was simply icing on the 'bugger you' sandwich.

>"I'll be down now, just - just don't touch anything!"
>There's almost a palpable pause.
>There's a slight smacking sound, as he struggles to make noise.
>"NOT THAT."

>You stare at the canvas you've pinned to the frame with your nail.
>You stare even harder at what is on it.

>Some artists enjoy self portraits.
>Some sprinkle it with fantasy.
>You recognise the tattooed form wrought in orange, only an outline with the inkwork being done in a lighter, softer stroke.
>You recognise the gangly, wiry frame.
>And you recognise your own face, moaning with makeup running down your cheeks from under him.
>The blue beneath the orange.

>The frantic cursing and slapping of bare feet on polished wooden flooring barely registers as you stare at it.
>"Rares, Rarity - it's not - I didn't.."
>He pulls you to look away, one large hand securing your outside arm to turn you away and his other pulling your face by the chin to look at his.

>You ignore the oddest feeling in your core, and forget the painting briefly as you perform your own little triage.
>His pupils are wider than they should be.
>A rough stubble verging on being called the lowest tier of a beard covers his jaw.
>Small bruises pepper the sides of his head, near the temple.
>And his face looks like he's come spiralling out of a moment of psychosis.

>Twilight knew more about it, but you'd learnt enough to see he desperately wanted to return to it, no matter how isolated it had made him in the past week.

".. You're okay." You hug him, tightly.
>He smells of ozone, and with your face buried into the long tangle he's grown his hair out into, you can see it's that hideous orange.
>You find yourself repeatedly muttering 'you're okay' into his neck.
>He seems to be mumbling something, hands and arms in the same position he used to turn you to him.
>Away from--
>Oh.

"What was the painting, Anonymous?" You ask, stopping your self-reassurances.
>You pull back from embracing him, keeping your hands on his shoulders.
>He recoils slightly, and you notice slight gouge marks in his shoulders.
>Seconds tick by, and he stares at a particularly deep nailmark intently.

".. Anonymous." 
>He doesn't look, staring.
>Two can play at this game.
>Like he did you, you pull his face to look at you.

>"Rarity I.. the... I couldn't get it out of my head. At all. I tried. I really did, I did everything. Everything, I swear. I even stopped the antipsychotics, just to see if they could drown out my internal monologue."
>Your shock must show on your face.
>If he willingly chose his 'Choir' over ...
>You look back at the canvas.
>Even slack, and folded back over to hide its content you can see the image.

>"I tried, I did, and I stopped for a while then I had to draw. I had to paint. To get rid of it, make it all physical. But at first I didn't realise what I was thinking, what I wanted."
>His voice is scratchy, like he hasn't spoken to anyone.
>Until now.
>Until you.

>"I kept painting, oranges, blues, oranges, blues, ORANGES--" A jaw clench, eyes screwed shut, before he slowly exhales.
>You'd gone with him for that session with Doctor Scara.
>Something about 'momentary reset'.
>He starts again, and you just watch him carefully with one hand on his face.
>"I kept painting, and I forgot my own symbolism. My theme. Why I chose orange and blue." He steps out of your touch quickly, and retrieves a larger canvas facedown
on the floor.
>He hefts it up, leaning it against the ruined -- modified? -- ruined chaise lounge.
>His burning man.

>"This, I realise now. I SEE. I heard, and now I SEE. See, it wasn't just an expression of a man in pain reaching for what he perceived as a beautiful remedy. No, no. That and more, Rares. It's a self portrait."
>You eye the burning man.
>And you look carefully.
>On the arm reaching for the frozen rose, rests a small length of lighter orange. Almost blending in.

"Those are your tattoos."
>He looks at you, worry gone and happiness beaming from his smile.
>"YES. You, you get it. You understand, because you can see it all too. Like I do. We see things the same. I planned to  have these tattoos." He spreads his arms wide. 
>Demonstrating himself.
>"I knew, that like this representation of myself - if I had these tattoos, I would get something soothing, beautiful. Relief. Something that was.. " He shuts his mouth with a click of teeth. "hard to find. Pills, booze, drugs. Easy to find. No. I needed you. A Rarity."
>He stares at you, slowly nodding.
>You nod back, and try to avoid showing you have limited idea of how he came to these notions.
>You also do your best to strangle the urge to hug him, and the odd form of flattery.

>"That's where it started, I think. This notion. This idea." He's walking back and forth, talking quickly. "Come on, Rares. We never dated in college - not in terms of getting someone in the sheets. That's why we moved away from eachother. Stopped living together."
"We were too close and.. frustrated." You whisper. Or it feels that way. Apparently he hears you, as he turns on his heel.
>"FRUSTRATED because we weren't close enough!" It's almost a yell. Enough to make you voice this.
"Keep your voice down." 
>The venom in your voice surprises you.

>You're not doing this properly.
>You're meant to empathise, calm him down and get him on his medication.
>Not argue.

>"Keep my vo-- NO. You want me to be quiet, because you know I'm right. We never brought anyone back. EVER. Why? You were too TIRED, SICK, TIME OF THE MONTH. I'm not the best with women, Rares, but even I fucking know the *time of the month* only lasts about a week. AND ONCE PER MONTH."
>Surely you weren't lying all the time?
"You kept track?"
>"Strangely, yes. When you'd come home after a 'promising night out with a delightful man' or 'a cheeky drink with this most beautiful woman' with your monthly issue three weeks, or two dates in a row, I started checking."
"That.." you panic, turning away briefly to look out the window to gather your thoughts before turning back to him. "Cycles change?"
>You hear the uncertainty of the lie as you say it.
>Anonymous briefly smiles, a sliver.
>"Frequently, apparently." He waves the jab aside. "What about all those headaches that would miraculously vanish? You'd say goodbye at the door, a perfect actress. Then you'd drag yourself onto the couch. With. Me."

"Am I not allowed to relax with you?"
>You're crying.
>You don't like that.
>You can hear it in your voice, and see it in the slight blurring in your vision.
>The starbursts hovering around lights.

>"YES. But that started getting weird, didn't it? Us both coming home to eachother, and fucking curling up on the couch." Anonymous seems to have his strings cut as he falls back onto the couch behind him.
>He's digging his knuckles into his temples, breathing slowly.
>And what's worse is he's right.

>You'd both always come home, and explain how your partner had been nice, but something came up.
>A year or two of this, and the sofa sessions had gotten.. heated.
>One particularly.. close night, a hurried and awkward goodnight had led to him moving out with funds from his sold pieces a month later.

>So, for the first time in a good three years, you find yourself walking over to the sofa, and sitting down next to him.
>He doesn't react, besides renewing his knuckling on his forehead and stopping breathing for a length of time.
>You need to discuss this calmly.

>Even if you feel anything but calm.
>You feel unsettled, and panicked.
>But, it is a woman's job to remain calm for the sake of her.. what?
>Rather than dwell on that small mental hiccup, you drag him as gently as you can before leaning him back, his head on your lap.
>It takes him a moment to realise the change from sitting to being sprawled over the couch.

>".. No, n - what the fuck are you doing?!" He asks, trying to sit up but a sharp fingernail (YOUR fingernail) prods his forehead until he reclines again.
"I .. " You frown, before starting again. "I thought we could both relax."
>"No, we need to .. sort this out. Once and for all"
>He watches you, and you chew your lip.
"We.. can do both." 

>Whilst he's distracted, you pull his fists away from his head, setting them on his stomach. 
>Instead you idly massage the area around the bruises he's made as you gather your thoughts.
>"You're crying." 
> He briefly wipes a thumb under your left eye, then your right.

".. I may have been telling a teensy.. tiny lie about why I didn't bring my dates home. Well. Past the threshold."
>You've never really seen Anonymous tired.
>Depressed, yes.
>Singing glam rock to himself in the kitchen at 3am? Yes.
>Tired, heavens, no.
>"Rarity, don't."

"Oh, no. No, thank you. You listen to me, mister.. man." He raises an eyebrow, but allows you to go on. "You don't GET to make me come all the way here, leave out..
that - and then say we don't discuss this properly."
>"I didn't LEAVE it out, I lost track of -mm." You plant a fingertip on his lips, cutting him off.
>You take a breath, and it steadies you a little. That's good.
>You think of how to phrase this.
"You were right."

>Pardon?
>"What?" He asks, briefly looking at his hands then back at you. 
>Oh, hell.
"You.. may have been right. You were right. You are right. About.. why we, that night, the sofa--"
>"Rarity, it was a cheap ass couch we found on the sidewalk."
"Shush! I'm trying to get my point across before I lose this lucidity you seem to be in."
>"You just said 'you were right', so I'm not banking-- mmf". 
>These nails were worth the absurdly high cost.
"I didn't bring any.. guests home. Even when you were out in whatever exhibit openings at the time. It always felt wrong, like I was doing something I shouldn't, couldn't and didn't really want to."
>"You ever notice how we always hit on people with certain.. characteristics?"
>Running a hand through his horribly dyed hair, he looks you in the eye.
>"You always found yourself with some creative type. Guys, tall and thin. Girls were a manic pixies if I ever saw 'em."

>Well, the odd one or two may have been, yes.
>Wait a minute.
"If you want to talk types, when did I ever see you with a girl who didn't look like a cross between a dominatrix and a board room sort?"

>.. wait a minute
>"Yeah, I seem to  be drawn to that. For some odd reason. Maybe it was the fashion."
>You glare at him as he stares back and through you.
"That was all coincidence. They just all happened to be artists, purely coincidence."

>"Was it coincidence we always wound up ditching them for the real deal?"
"Beg pardon?"
>Equal parts genuine confusion and saving face.
>Not helpful, but its keeping you ticking at the minute.
>"Always wound up on the couch next to what we actually wanted. Look, I'm not saying we consciously knew what we were doing. I only realised this one hundred percent the other night. What I'm SAYING is at some point, probably when we started living together we just started going nuts for eachother. Stress, or something. I dunno."

>His idea hangs in the air.
>"Rares?" 
"Not.. quite."
>"Not quite what?"
>Pushing himself out of your lap, he turns to look at you properly.
"Well. Do you remember that day I'd opened the Boutique Nouveau, and you'd dyed your hair very similarly to how it's dyed now?"

>"Yeah, I do. Vaguely, anyway. Only part I remember is the photos being taken. My mind was racing, then we got ready and I put my arm around you and oh. OH. Oh. Oh fuck."
"'Oh'?" 
>"The burning man. The rose. What I said earlier. That's where that came from. Clarity. Soothing away the burning, even if it just let me think clearly for ten seconds."
>Snnrt.
>His snorting breaks the weight that's been building.

"Stay here." You instruct, and quickly head back into the kitchen.
>You reach into your purse, grabbing the small cut-out sections of a larger packet of pills, and try to remember the evening dose.
>Was it two of the.. no. Two of the Depakote, and ONE of the Fluoxetine and then another of the scrabble massacre that made the antipsychotic's name.
>So engrossed in trying to remember before he spirals out again, you don't notice him until he limps up next to you, pops the required number of each out and clamps his mouth to the tap before turning on the water.

>He gulps quickly and greedily before straightening, and wiping his mouth with a forearm.
"Don't." You say, slapping his chest.
>"Ow."
"Drink." You slap again.
>"Seriously?!" He raises his arms lightly.
"fromthefaucet!"
>"AHA. You DO know the actual words for things that people normally use!"

>Laughing despite yourself, you lean on the counter. 
>Not a giggle, laughing.
>You may have forgotten what it's like to be yourself around him since ..
>the laughter stops.

"Anonymous."
>"What did you think?"
>He's looking out the window, propping himself up on his elbows as  he watches the rain.
"Beg pardon?"
>"The painting. The one I cut open. What did you think?"

>Good
>Enviable
>Brillaint

".. It was.. masterfully done."
>"Based the face off how you looked during the Couch Incident."
>You frown.
"I'd taken my makeup off before I sat down with you, hadn't I?"
>"The mascara running was to illustrate time spent in that position."

>Oh.

>Padding off into the lounge area, he moves things aside for a more direct path.
>Where on earth is he going?
>He returns with a canvas under an arm, smiling before placing it down on the area previously occupied by the selection of liquour bottles.
>"Thanks for cleaning up, by the way."

"Habit, darling." It lacks the usual wit to it, because your mind is elsewhere before he raps a knuckle on the counter.
>He offers a tired, eager grin, and your eyes trace his tattoos to delay looking at the artwork.
>You in blue, he in orange.


>You try your best to look sultry.
"Perhaps we could recreate it." You offer, stepping closer. "Do you have a name for this piece?"
>He mimics walking with his fingers, letting his hand walk up your arm before it 'jumps' so he can wrap his arm around your waist.
>"I'll call it - Orange in Blue." His eyes flicker to the torn canvas, looking pleased.
"Orange ABOVE Blue, you mean?" You ask, poking him.
>"Oh, I definitely mean IN, Rares."

>He grins widely, and leads you upstairs by the hand.

>It strikes you that this may have been what you were both aiming for and running away from for.. a while.
>Tiring as it is to think about, you have other concerns as he pulls you onto his lap as he sits down on the large four poster bed.
>Maybe you'd had some idea of why you wanted to help him with interior design after all.

>He grinds against you as you settle into his lap, and rests his chin on your shoulder.
>"I hear you fashion types can get measurements by touch alone." He purrs, and it's so ridiculously cheesy that you laugh and wriggle back against him.
"Mmm, I think I can make an accurate guess."
>"Well, we have time to make sure you get it down exactly."

>Oh, to Hell with it. You turn and kiss his cheek.
"Yes, yes, we do."
>You think you're going to like the bed a lot better than couch.