by RJ Scott
Did he really look up to another person for getting drunk or high? I’d never taken drugs, aside from my meds, in my life. My escape was found on the canvas. Maybe Scott needed to find a better way to cope. Maybe I could teach him to paint.
The girl shouted for Dexter to come find her. His dark eyes lit up. “Looks like we both found someone to spend a long, cold night with, huh, Ritter?” Dexter asked, gave me a playful punch in the arm that hurt way more than I let on, and then raced around us in pursuit of his latest conquest.
That was just another reason why I hid in the attic. Squeals of passion from drunken sorority girls all night long made me queasy and itchy.
We climbed the narrow staircase in wet socks, making a left at the top. “Those are the bedrooms. I’m not allowed in them.”
Scott blinked at me in confusion. “What happens if you go into their rooms?”
I rubbed my biceps in reply. Scott’s brows tangled more deeply.
With him on my heels, I climbed one more flight of creaky stairs. The door to the attic was heavy and rested on amazing brass hinges that I oiled regularly. Stepping inside, I then reached to the left and threw on the overhead lights.
“Wow,” I heard Scott murmur.
I smiled to myself. “You can drop your bags in the corner over there, open them up, and we’ll do something with your gear. The shower stall, sink, and toilet are behind that curtain.” I jogged around my bed in the middle of the floor and tugged on the long white curtain that Mom had installed for me when I’d moved in nearly four years ago. We’d paid the landlord to put a small bath up there for me. I had some issues with sharing bathrooms, stemming from several bad incidents in high school that had taken place in locker rooms. I reached up to gather my hair into a ponytail and held it in place. The curtain rings rolled around the pipe we’d installed. “Soap and shampoo are on that shelf. Towels on the corner rack.”
“Nice,” he said, standing under the skylights, his head tipped back, his thick neck exposed. “These are cool.”
“Ah, yeah, you can see the stars.”
He glanced at me over my bed. “Let it down.”
“What?”
“Your hair. It looks cute down. In your face.” Heat raced up my neck to my cheeks. I slowly released the curls. Fourteen or so sprang forward and covered my right eye. “Yeah, that’s super cute.” He seemed flustered, as if the words hadn’t meant to leave his mouth at all.
After that, I had trouble talking to him. He patrolled my space, his bags on the floor by my bed, studying all the oils on the walls or stacked in the corners. The one I’d started a few days ago was still on the easel.
“This looks like Manhattan,” he said, touching the canvas lightly as if he expected the paint to be wet. I took two cans of lemon-lime soda out of my fridge and offered him one. He took it but never opened it. “Is that where you grew up?”
“No, I’m from Rhode Island. That’s just a mindscape, a city of imagination.” I walked to my bed and sat on it, drawing my knees to my chest, then wiggling my cold toes in my wet socks. “I dreamed it.”
“Yeah?” He stared at me and then at the half-finished painting. “I never dream of stuff like that.”
“What do you dream of?” I popped the tab on my soda and took a long swig. The sugar would probably keep me up, but that was okay. Maybe Scott would want to stay up to tell me my curls were cute again.
“Nothing. I dream of nothing. Can I shower now?”
I bobbed my head. He went to the corner, yanked the white curtain around him, sealing him off from me and my stupid questions.
I drank the whole can of soda in one long pull, belched, and then hurried to change while the water was running. Once my sleep pants were up over my backside, I draped my damp clothes over a wooden clothes-drying rack by the grate in the floor. Steam billowed out of the curtained-off area, the moist air rich with the smell of my citrus body wash. I rushed to pull an old air mattress out of the closet, and using a bike pump, I worked on blowing it up for him.
After the mattress was inflated, I dug into an old trunk of Mimi’s that was packed full with bedding. Clean sheets and a nice warm crocheted cover should make him comfy. I wanted him warm and dry as he slept. I glanced at the corner. He was going to drain the hot water heater, and then my roommates would be mad. Mad roommates were a bad thing.
He still wasn’t done washing when I’d gotten his bed set up, so I crawled into mine and waited, my heart thundering wildly.
What have you done?
“I don’t know,” I whispered to myself, but whatever I’d done, it was going to be something that changed my life. I could feel it, as if the cosmos was subtly realigning in some ethereal way that would forever change my existence. Or the sugar from the soda was kicking in.
“Where do we hang the towels?”
I looked at him and instantly regretted it. He was far too masculine, standing there in fleece pants and a gray tank top, his hair rumpled from a firm toweling, and his shoulders still damp from the lengthy shower. My fingers itched to touch each droplet, remove it from his skin, and take it onto my tongue so I could taste him.
Scott held up his wet towel. My dick stirred in my sleep pants.
“On that rack,” I whispered, then burrowed deeper into my covers, leaving just my eyes peeking out. He was beautiful. Muscled, strong, and lost. So obviously lost. “Can you turn off the lights before you get into bed?”
I didn’t dare leave my mattress with a raging hard-on.
“Sure.” He made his way to the switch after hanging up his towel. The lights went out with a faint snap. I rolled to my side so I could observe him, even though it was now dark in the attic. The nightlight beside the toilet was hidden behind the privacy curtain, but I knew when he found the air mattress. It groaned under his weight. Just as I would…
And my cock just got even harder. Super.
“Hey uh, Hayne?” he said a few moments later. I yanked my hand out of my sleep pants at the sound of his sleepy voice.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for this. You’re… this is… thanks.”
“It’s okay. We all need a helping hand from time to time.”
“Yeah, yeah, we do. Night.”
“Goodnight.”
He must have been exhausted because he dropped off instantly. Whenever I’d been in a strange place, it had taken me forever to drift off. Not Scott. He was out like the proverbial light. I lay there, my eyes closed and my ears sharp, listening to him breathe while the storm blustered and blew outside. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? Whatever it would be, I bet it wasn’t going to be mundane or boring.
My dreams were full of vintage spun glass ornaments and red stags, icy cold castles with snow-covered parapets, and a knight of winter. He rode a white horse, and his armor was silvery like a frozen lake. Blues and whites and moth grays followed me out of slumber, the skylight over me packed with snow. The wind had died down overnight. All I could hear was the water pipes leading up to the attic creaking and Scott’s deep, restful breaths.
I had to paint. Not that cityscape I’d started, but something with periwinkle and slate gray, dabs of bone white and lavender. And the knight. Yes, he had to be represented as well. Maybe as a bold splash of pure white amid the swirling colors of winter. His horse could be the winter winds themselves, and his lance crafted of ice. I slid from the bed, turned on the lights, and threw the cityscape aside, my hands trembling with the rush only painting had ever given me. I pawed through drawers filled with brushes and tubes of oil, finding the cold colors my inner eye told me to use. Within minutes, the top of my palette table was covered with globs of blues, charcoal, a tender pink, some iris for the purple, and white. Lots of white.
Using a wide four-inch brush, I picked up the white and began applying it to the new canvas. I worked the paint into violent swirls, then added the pink, the brush dribbling paint to the floor and my toes. My breathing picked up as the storm on the canvas blew into existence. My mind
slipped into that place where all creatives go, that world where it’s only me and my art. Lost in color and texture, I grabbed the remote for my stereo and turned on some music. I skipped ahead until I found Vivaldi. I fast-forwarded through the first three seasons. Winter filled the room. My arms prickled with gooseflesh. I threw my hair from my face, picked up a smaller brush, and ran the bristles through some slate paint. The winter knight spoke to me.
“Is this part of your usual morning routine?”
I spun around to face Scott sitting up on his air mattress, his eyes hooded and sleepy, his neck and cheeks scruffy, and his hair sloppy from sleep. He was wearing this odd, crooked smile that made me feel lightheaded and sort of silly.
“I… was inspired,” I replied, reaching for the remote to turn down the music that everyone on campus who wasn’t a music student or Hayne Ritter hated. “Sorry.”
“No, hey, it’s cool. Leave it on.” Mimi’s blanket puddled in his lap. “You’re cute when you’re inspired.”
I lowered the remote and gaped at him. He stood. I blew curls out of my face. “The music…”
“Is you.” I had no words. “Go ahead and paint. Are there any classes, or did they cancel?”
“Classes?” I asked because half of Hayne was still in the land of the winter knight.
Scott laughed. It was just a short one, kind of barky but deep and appealing. “You’re really adorable.”
“I, uhm… you’re the winter knight. He’s powerful and rides a snow horse, and the North winds blow when he and his steed race across the cold skies.”
Scott blinked at me.
Oh my God, Hayne, what have you done?
Five
Scott
“You’re the winter knight.” He was talking to me, about me?
I heard the words and blinked at Hayne, not at all sure what he wanted me to say back to him. I’d seen poetry from passion generated on the ice. I’d seen chemical reactions form prisms of color in the classroom, so I knew enough about art to be dangerous, but I’d never seen anyone construct something as Hayne had done. The choice of colors, the way his whole body swayed as he painted, and the beautiful images he was creating were a sight to see. There was paint everywhere, dripping off the canvas, down his clothes, his hands wet with it, and he was breathing heavily. Every part of him was connected to the painting, and it was possibly the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. Scratch that; it was the sexiest thing, bar none. I could honestly say no one had ever called me a winter knight, so I assumed it was an art thing, but my confidence slipped away. I’d started this damn conversation, and now it was up to me to carry it on.
“Oh, cool,” I finally said and saw the moment the simple words disappointed him.
His expression became more guarded, and I noticed he took a step away from me. Why did that reaction cut so deep, and why did I feel I had the ability at that moment to destroy his world? I carefully sidestepped him, purposefully not crowding him at all, and peered at the painting. I felt something squelch under my foot and assumed my sock was now covered in one of the icy colors he’d used. I didn’t care. Somehow nothing was as important as making him smile.
“Not just cool, I actually meant to say it’s a beautiful painting, and I’m blown away that somehow I made it onto canvas.” There. That would be enough, right? He’d smile again now and say something that diffused the situation.
Silence.
I turned to face him, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Instead he fiddled with the volume control, which was rapidly turning icy-gray as the paint transferred from his hands. Yet again I had seriously fucked up, and I wanted to fix it. I reached for his hand, and he didn’t stop me from taking the control, which nearly slipped from my grasp. I put the music back up, allowing the beautiful notes to fill the room. Then I placed it very carefully back onto the small table Hayne had taken it from. I tilted his chin with a finger so he had to look up at me, and for a millisecond I was lost in his soft eyes. Before I attempted to clumsily kiss him, cementing the weird electric connection we appeared to have going on, I found some words I hoped would help.
“You’re so talented,” I said and then released my hold and handed him the last brush he’d been using. Now all I had to do was snap him out of whatever fear or concern I’d put into him, and I did my usual Scott thing, gesturing at myself and then the painting. “I think you missed a bit,” I said. Before he could say anything back, I went behind the curtain to wash my hands of the paint, only it really wasn’t coming off. I probably needed some paint thinners or something. Otherwise I’d be left looking like I had ghost hands for the rest of the day, if not longer.
“You need these,” Hayne murmured, coming to stand next to me and nudging dish soap and olive oil toward me. “Use a little of both, and it will get rid of the paint. They’re not chemicals, so it’s okay on your skin.”
I put on my best smile, thanked him, and he disappeared back into the main room as I cleaned off the color. When I came out, he was lost again in painting and didn’t seem at all perturbed that I was in the room watching him. There was a message about canceled classes on my phone, so at least I didn’t have to go outside today, and right about now, I was very happy with that, quite content to sit on my mattress, propped up with my back to the wall, and watch Hayne work. I thought maybe I should tell Hayne about class cancelations, but I wasn’t sure what building he would even be in or what he studied. Apart from art, I assumed. I didn’t want to be the one to break the spell again, so I kept really quiet and checked the news instead. I didn’t have the Wi-Fi password yet, so mobile data was where it was at, but that didn’t matter either. Hell, nothing seemed to matter this morning. Apart from when my cell vibrated and I saw Jacob’s name with a text alert, and I thumbed to my messages without thinking.
The message was certainly short and to the point.
We’re done messing around. The Aviary, one hour, no excuses.
My chest tightened, my stomach sank, and there was no way in hell I wanted to go the local hangout for the Owatonna Eagles hockey team. The café was supposed to be for the entirety of the student body, but the colors and pennants on the wall were for the Owatonna Eagles hockey team. It only held about thirty people at a time and would be mostly empty this early on a school day, but still...
No way can I face Jacob.
Hayne turned to look at me, and for a moment, I thought I’d said something out loud.
“Are you okay?” Hayne asked and frowned at me.
“What?”
“You sighed really hard. I could hear it over the music.”
“Nothing, just… I have friends.” I stopped and then corrected myself. “I had friends. They want to see me.”
“You should go.” Hayne pushed at his hair, a streak of pale blue icing the tip of one persistent curl.
“They must hate me, and I don’t think I’m ready to hear what they have to say,” I muttered, dropped my cell to the blanket, then scrubbed at my eyes. When I opened them again, Hayne was crouching in front of me, and I reached out and brushed a curl from over his eye. He didn’t flinch, but I was kind of mortified I’d gone straight for his hair like that.
“Trust me, if they’re real friends, they want to see you for a reason.”
I laughed, a bitter noise that startled both of us. “I let the team down, I permanently scarred my friend, I lost my shit, beat up perfect strangers, and I haven’t returned anyone’s texts.”
Hayne nodded. “Then you go and see them now, and if you’ve gone too far and they pull away, then they weren’t friends in the first place.”
I wish I believed it would be that easy. Ben and I had been close for a long time, naturally gravitating toward each other over our love of hockey and Cheetos, and Jacob had been a constant in my life, keeping me solid and settled. But I’d made an art out of pushing people away.
“Okay.” I picked up my cell and fired off a quick I’ll be there, then regretted it as soon as I’d pressed send.
“S
cott, do you need an advocate?” Hayne asked softly.
“Huh?”
The meaning of the word escaped me at first, as if I’d never even heard it before, and then the sense of everything was back, but I must have hesitated too long. Hayne looked concerned.
“Scott, do you want me to come with you?”
The offer was genuine, I could see that, but I couldn’t take him into The Aviary when I didn’t know what I was facing. The idea of dragging Hayne into a shouting match wasn’t a good one, nor did I want Hayne to see the final strings of friendship being cut.
“I think I need to do this on my own.”
“Okay, I get that, but you need to go. If I had people who potentially cared about me, I would be meeting up for coffee so fast it would make your head spin.”
Something in his words made me stop. If he had people… Did he not have anyone? That sounded so wrong, and I wanted to tell him that…
What? That I’m here for him? Am I actually losing my shit here? I don’t even really know him, but I could be a friend if he needed one.
I didn’t get to say that, and with a shy smile, he went back to his painting and left me to make a choice.
The Aviary was tucked away behind the rink, a small nondescript building with a sign including a golden eagle sitting on top of a pile of broken hockey sticks, each one emblazoned with the logos of our rivals. The owner, Liam Canton, was a really good guy, supported the Eagles with a fiery passion, and cut us all really good deals on some fine coffee. It used to be a place where I could find some quiet, but now it was another obstacle I had to overcome.
Part of me hoped that Jacob had given up and gone back to his house.
I pushed open the door, the warmth rushing out, and quickly shut it behind me. Nothing had changed in The Aviary. After what had happened before Christmas, I felt as if the seismic shift in my own life should’ve been evident in everything else, but the tables were in the same places, and the coffee bean poster art hadn’t moved. The scent of coffee was still mouthwatering, the cakes under glass remaining a temptation I couldn’t pay for right now. The place was empty, all apart from the tall man at the back.