He opened his eyes and looked at the lines he’d painted. He thought about the way the blue faded to white then bled richly back into blue when he replenished the brush to resume the stroke. He tried to find something in the canvas to inspire him but it, unsurprisingly, was found wanting.
He took another drink and blinked heavily, dropping the brush and setting the bottle down so he could rub his face. Roland pressed his fingertips against his eyelids. A flash of blue from his memory sparked across the darkness and his eyes shot open. It looked like fireworks in front of his eyes until his vision returned, spotty and slow. He closed his eyes again and saw another shot of blue in his memory. He opened his eyes and the color was there in front of him, arced across the canvas. He swirled the brush back though the paint and stood in front of the canvas, brush raised and ready, but nothing came.
It hadn’t always been this way. Roland had been painting without interruption for years. For as long as he could remember, he’d always been doing some kind of art. Whether it was made with pipe cleaners in kindergarten or tempera paint in elementary school, art had always come easy to him, much easier than dealing with people and considerably easier than life. He had always been focused on his art, singularly, which meant he had little time for friends or relationships. He’d tried once or twice to curate a relationship and failed miserably.
Roland met Stewart his freshman year of college, and they quickly fell into a routine that involved not much beyond drawing, eating, and fucking, with the occasional break to study economics. Stewart was an art major, whereas Roland had been attempting to pursue business. His passion had always been art, but his parents were right— with his talent, he didn’t need a degree in art; he needed a degree in something that would help him sell his art.
It was well over a year into their relationship when Stewart started to get jealous. He would make digs about Roland’s talent here and there, though nothing Roland could call him out on, but enough that the barbs still stung. When Roland pointed it out, Stewart told him he was imagining things.
I love you, baby. I’d never try to bring you down.
When they realized he had no intention of giving up art, even while working toward a degree in business, Roland’s parents cut him off financially— and emotionally. They’d always been a practical couple. He hadn’t ever been sure if they’d married for love or money, but the shortage of affection in his childhood continued to resonate with him. Being free of his parents wasn’t a hardship, more of a burden lifted. There were no more obligatory phone calls with updates on grades, lies about his sexual preferences, or forced trips for holiday dinners. Roland was already working on saving enough money to purchase a small gallery space to prove he could do it, and he’d promised Stewart the first showing could be his. Roland would have done anything for Stewart. Roland did everything for Stewart…
He shook himself free of the memory, drinking another swallow of vodka while he stared at the canvas. Eight-hundred and sixty-four square inches of shit with a blue stripe cutting it on a diagonal slant. Roland was sure he was on to something with the blue but couldn’t make any actual sense of what he needed to do with it.
He dropped the brush onto the ground, stepped on it, and leaned down to pull it upward, snapping it in half.
He took another swig of vodka and found the bottle already nearly empty. Roland scooped the blue paint he’d mixed into a container and sealed it tightly before squirting more blue onto the plate— some navy, a little cobalt, a squirt of cornflower. He used the broken end of the paintbrush to mix it until it resembled as much of a color match to his original that he could manage. He scooped the new mix into a separate container and set them both aside.
Roland finished the bottle of vodka and slapped his palm against the canvas, knocking it, and the easel, to the ground. In frustration, he clawed his fingers down his face and then glared at his hands. Hands that fucking failed him and wouldn’t allow him to make art the way he used to. Hands that couldn’t do enough. He saw a smeared streak of blue on his palm and glanced back to the fallen canvas. Sure enough, he could see the pattern of his skin in the drying paint.
“Fuck,” he grumbled.
Roland went to the bathroom and braced himself against the edge of the vanity with his eyes closed, unwilling to look himself in the face and admit he’d really become a failure. Finally, though, he looked up. He was met with a reflection he didn’t recognize— blank, green eyes that looked like a patch of dry and dying leaves and a smear of familiar blue across his cheekbone, over his beard. Roland picked at it, small flakes dropping to the counter.
Feeling resigned, he sighed and turned the shower on, stripping out of his shirt and jeans. He stepped under the scalding hot spray, wetting his hair and enjoying the feel of the water as it rolled down his back. He turned and dropped his head against the wall of the shower and was met with another flash of blue. To his surprise, his cock twitched.
It had been a very long time since anything related to art inspired him to the point of arousal, but this color he’d made was haunting him. Roland reached down and wrapped his stained hand around his cock, teasing himself until he was fully hard. He closed his eyes and watched varying shades of blue and green dance across the backs of his eyelids while he stroked himself leisurely.
Every color he saw in his mind faded and morphed into blue.
Blue. Blue. Blue.
He quickened his pace, furiously chasing after a memory he couldn’t identify and an orgasm he hadn’t expected. His mind locked on the color and he came—a sharp and jarring release. His back arched, and he convulsed as cum shot from his cock and quickly washed down the drain.
Roland stroked himself until he softened, relishing the tug and stretch of his skin. When the touch became painful, he released himself, cock falling heavy and soft against his thigh. The paint on his palm was gone, flecks of it now stuck to his sated shaft. He squeezed a dollop of soap into his hand and washed his length, rinsing it clean before he raised his hands to his face to wipe the smear from his cheek.
He finished washing and stepped out of the shower, spinning his hair into a bun before he dried himself. Roland walked naked across his apartment to his bedroom and pulled on a pair of plaid sleep pants. He stumbled and caught himself against the post of his bed.
“That’s what happens when you drink all the vodka,” he said to no one because no one was there. Roland sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at the carpet and at his toes as they flexed around the pile.
It had been nearly ten years since he graduated college. Ten years that he'd been selling his art at a moderate level of success. Almost nine years since he’d seen Stewart last. Roland fell back onto the bed, his down comforter making a small oomphing sound as it fluffed up around him.
Nine years.
Roland had been with other men since then, casually. But none of them inspired him. He found himself feeling flat after endless strings of meaningless sexual encounters through his mid-twenties. Roland had met someone a few years earlier, someone he thought might have been able to inspire him but found himself disappointed yet again.
Cody had been different from the men Roland normally brought home from the bar, and most importantly, different from Stewart in all the ways that mattered. And while there was a brighter spark between them, a longer period of that exciting newness they cultivated into something more, Cody left him in the end. Roland was alone again and back to bathroom blowjobs at clubs in West Hollywood.
All in all, Roland’s life had been fine. He’d known success, and wealth, and at one point, love. But it had only been love in the way first love was love. Too strong and too calm, too accepting and too judgmental all at once. An all-encompassing whirlwind that wouldn’t leave either party whole in its wake.
Roland found himself now on the backside of thirty. His success waning due to a seemingly insurmountable inspiration block, and his bed, consistently empty. Stewart had been right about one thing, and Cody had told him th
e same during their relationship as well. Roland’s self-worth was too wrapped up in his art to be healthy. He put so much of himself, of his heart, onto the canvas that when he found nothing to create, it reflected as a shortcoming of himself. Roland had twice in his life spiraled into a deep depression, and he was aware of his mind enough to see the warning signs coming for a third time now.
He didn’t want to go through it for a third time. But he couldn’t find a way to separate from his art enough to save himself from the pain of staring at another blank canvas before falling into a lonely, fitful sleep.
Chapter 3
The Angry Twink Turtle
Donny shut the door behind him, kicked his shoes off and tossed his wallet and keys on the counter. As far as Saturday nights went, this one had been a huge fucking letdown. First, the heinous date with that douchebag Davis, and then delivering to the hottest and simultaneously rudest man he’d ever met. Roland Wilson could give Davis a run for his money when it came to being a stupid asshole, that was for sure, but something about the whole exchange with Roland made Donny’s cock twitch, whereas over dinner it attempted to crawl inside of his body.
It was probably just because Roland was unfairly handsome. Six feet worth of shiny, olive skin and a mane of hair that looked like spun freaking gold. Donny wanted to climb Roland like a tree and then shove his cock down his throat. He understood this wasn’t a rational reaction to seeing someone he found attractive, and he was fairly certain if they ever found themselves in that sort of situation, Roland would be the one expecting to top, and then Donny would bid him good evening and go home alone.
As was the norm because Donny was very much a top. He was just one who happened to be five and a half feet tall. Donny had bottomed before—he’d tried the whole vers thing—but it wasn’t him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t mentally give himself over to the idea of allowing someone else that kind of command over his body, he just didn’t want it all the time… not even ten percent of the time. Bottoming felt more personal to him somehow, and he didn’t want to offer that up to just anyone.
Donny wasn’t one of those people who liked to use the word never, but it was as close of a descriptor as he could come to when someone asked him if he’d let someone top him again. The last time he bottomed was in high school, and he was not eager to repeat that fumbled experience.
When he walked into the living room, his cats—Pete, Jack, and Jill—were sprawled out across his couch taking up all the available space. Jack and Jill, as usual, were right next to each other, Pete a little farther off to the side with his tail curled over the armrest. He tried to scoot Jack to the side so he could sit down, but the cat opened his eyes lazily and swatted a claw at Donny so he slid down to the floor instead.
He rested his head against the seat cushion, rolling it to the side to face Pete. Pete stretched out and blinked his sleepy cat eyes at Donny before curling up to accommodate Donny into his space. He leaned in and stroked his hand over Pete’s fur, and his eyes opened again. In his half-slumber, Pete brought his paw up to this mouth and started gnawing at one of the pads on his paw. It was enflamed and looked like it may have bled earlier in the day.
“Fuck,” Donny grumbled, continuing his petting but swatting Pete’s mouth away. He’d have to make time to take Pete to the emergency vet tomorrow so it wouldn’t get infected.
He’d never likened himself to being a cat person, but when he found a cardboard box out back behind Frank’s a week ago with the three little Siamese kittens inside, he couldn’t not bring them home. Everyone always said cats were independent, and that was true of Jack and Jill, but Pete— Pete was a bit more attached. He seemed to actually enjoy Donny’s company.
Donny thought, for a brief moment, he was far too young to become a crazy cat person. He was almost twenty-two and he’d already collected three cats? No boyfriend in sight, three cats. Awesome. Well on the way to crocheting teapot cozies.
If he was being honest with himself, Donny didn’t so much have an issue with being alone now. It was the fear of being alone later that left him unsettled.
Donny had always been too much—too intense, too aggressive, too short, too busy, too introspective.
He couldn’t win.
Donny was a thinker. He liked to observe people and learn their tells; he wanted to understand what motivated people to do the things they did, so he was too manipulative. He wanted to become a better artist and make something of himself, so he was too distracted by his hobbies.
These were all things he’d been told… more than one time.
Was it not just easier to focus on the things that made him happy than to worry about how to fit someone else's happiness alongside his own?
Donny reached his fingers under the couch and felt around for his sketchbook. It had been on the couch when he left earlier in the day, but he had no doubt the troublemaking triad had batted it off when they wanted room to lounge. He pulled it out and flipped to an open page, tugging the pencil free from the spiral bind, then he let his mind take over.
When his lines started to blur and the pencil needed sharpening, he looked down and his eyes focused on the sketch.
“I’m a fucking idiot, Pete,” Donny said to his sleeping cat. He dropped the sketchbook on the floor and pushed himself up. He went to the kitchen, dug a pencil sharpener from his junk drawer, and got a beer from the fridge.
When he returned to the living room, Pete had left the couch and was now curled up on top of Donny’s sketchbook, chewing at his foot. That little shit.
“Pete, come on.”
“Mewl.”
Pete looked up at him with one of his beautiful little blue cat eyes. Donny tilted his head down and looked incredulously at his cat. Pete mewled one more time and then scooted off the sketchbook onto the floor.
Donny resumed his position and picked the sketchbook up, taking a swallow of beer and sitting the bottle beside him. He looked down at what he’d drawn and couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes back into his head.
Roland.
Donny had drawn Roland.
Or at least, he’d drawn what his mind remembered of Roland. Their encounter had been fleeting, but Donny had managed to recall a tall and broad form, strong shoulders stretching the seams of a paint-stained shirt, and an unmistakably beautiful mane of hair. Donny’s colored pencils were in the other room so he couldn’t even begin to try and capture the indescribable golden-brown shade of Roland’s hair, but it was fresh in his mind. And his eyes— Roland had green eyes that looked like polished glass bottles.
Donny wanted to capture their color so badly, but he didn’t fancy himself talented enough to sort it out. That was his ongoing struggle when it came to his art. He could see it in his mind clear as day. He could even see himself creating the art in his mind, but something didn’t communicate clearly between his brain and his hand. What he did create wasn’t bad, but it never matched the visions in his head.
Putting the sketchbook down, he grabbed his beer and took another drink. Pete moved and curled up on top of the drawing again. Donny assumed that meant he was done for the night.
His phone chirped with an incoming text.
Athena: You getting some D from D?
Donny: Negative, big sis.
Athena: WHYYYYYY??????????????
Donny: He was a tool. Joel dodged a bullet.
Athena: You need some D.
Donny: You need to stop worrying about everyone else’s sex life.
Athena: ADONIS, I just want you to be happy.
Donny: One, I don’t need to get laid to be happy. Two, DON’T CALL ME ADONIS. You know I hate when you do it.
Athena: But Donny sounds like Donatello and while you are definitely an angry little twink, you are not an angry little turtle.
Donny: I’m gonna go now. Bye.
Athena: My brother, the angry twink turtle.
Athena: I’m sorry, I’ll stop.
Athena: Donny
Athena: Donny
Donny: OMG, fucking stop.
Athena: Donny
Donny: I’m disowning you.
Athena: You love me.
Donny: Maybe, I’m going to bed though. I need to take Pete to the emergency vet tomorrow. I think he has some kind of infection in his paw. It’s swollen and he keeps chewing at it when he thinks I’m not looking.
Athena: Not my Pete!!!!
Donny: He’s not yours, he’s mine. I’m really going now, Athena.
Donny tossed his phone on the couch and stood up, finishing his beer. He tossed the bottle in the trash on his way to the bedroom, turning off the lights as he went. Donny stripped down to his briefs and crawled into bed. He reached his arm out, feeling across the sheets for his full body pillow, and pulled it close, wrapping his arms and legs around it.
He closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep.
Donny woke early the next morning, the sun barely halfway through his window. He arms were still secure around his pillow. He buried his face against the pillowcase before stretching out and yawning. He’d just woken from a horrible dream he couldn’t make sense of. He’d been falling which wasn’t a new dream for him. Donny had looked that particular dream up years ago and knew it centered around his insecurities and anxieties. This time, though, he landed, and he landed in bush covered with thorns. It was such a vivid dream, he thought for sure he would wake up with gouges across the pads of his fingers and his palms from his struggle to escape.
But he looked at his hands, and they were whole— still capable of creating.
Sighing, he pulled a pair of underwear from his dresser and stumbled to the shower. He washed quickly, then dressed in clean clothes and set about getting Pete to the vet. Donny didn’t have a cat carrier, as he’d brought the cats home in a box with no top. When he’d gone to the pet store to get supplies for them, he hadn’t even thought about buying a cat carrier. He just assumed they would stay with him and it would be unnecessary. He needed to start thinking ahead if he wanted to do right by the felines.
The Colors Between Us Page 2