Chapter 6

The art room is hardly the place Dylan wants to be but he ends up here, sulking in a corner. He mentally curses Dr. Kern for fucking with his brain. 

Dylan surveys the room, watching the other patients work on their projects. He sighs defeatedly and lifts the brush in his hand. His fingers tighten around the handle while the tip hovers over the blank large piece of canvas. 

"Paint the first thing that comes to mind," is what the art instructor says and Dylan can see through the corner of his eye that the guy's watching him.

Without much thought, he presses the bristles against the white surface and watches the blue paint smears upon contact. He drags the brush across the surface, not really knowing what he's trying to create. This is all bullshit.

He's got a layer of blue covering the center of the sheet before he rinses the bristles in the cup of water. Then he dips the brush on white this time. 

Dylan has an image of a clear sky in his head. Maybe he's wishing for one right now. It's pouring outside. He looks out the window and watches the rain pelting against the glass, the water streaming down like waterfalls. 

His eyes fall back on the piece of canvas that's resting on the easel. The blotches of white that his brush has created resemble clouds sitting in a blue sky. It's too bright, too blissful. The picture doesn't match the mood that the current weather brings at all. 

He dips the brush, still coated with white, into black paint, mixes them a little then creates a veil of dark gray over the layers of colors already on the canvas. 

"That looks depressing," someone says, startling Dylan enough to whirl around, almost losing his grip on the brush. A boy — probably 16, maybe 17 — is standing behind him, eyes locked on his painting. 

"The weather is depressing." Dylan hears the significant boredom in his tone but it doesn't seem to deter the young man who remains hovering beside him. "Is there anything you need from me?" he asks when he feels the boy's eyes boring holes at the back of his head.

"My name's Bryan, what's yours?"

The name strikes a chord and Dylan utters, "I knew a Bryan once," wistfully.

"Was he a friend?" Bryan pulls a stool and settles beside him.

"Yeah. A long time ago." Dylan continues to drag the damn brush across the canvas in uneven strokes, not really trying to create an image now, just wanting to cover the entire sheet with dark gray.

"You look familiar. What's your name?" The scrutinizing look Bryan's giving him makes him uneasy.

Dylan resigns himself to the fact that he won't be able to get rid of this boy unless he tells him what he wants to fucking know. "Dylan," he says with a heavy sigh. Is this boy even a patient here? He's wearing the boring forest green hospital gown so he must be one.

"I think I've seen your pictures. Yeah. On the baseball magazines Ricky has been reading, you know, Ricky, the guy at the front desk?" Bryan waves his hand around probably trying to point to where the front desk is. The movement is making Dylan dizzy.

Dylan's about to tell the boy to cut it out when someone calls out Bryan's name. "Stop bothering Dylan and go back to your own work," the art instructor reprimands and Dylan throws him a grateful glance.

The art instructor (Dylan wishes he can remember the guy's name) only nods before offering his full attention to another patient. 

Dylan stares at his own painting. The blue and white are now peeking through a thick layer of dark gray. His mind floats away, drifting to a particular rainy day somewhere in his distant past.

The steady pitter-patter of the rain against the window sends Dylan into a whirlpool of memories — of someone's eyes, of someone's lips that used to say his name reverently.

*

The past months weren't easy – not for Dylan and Lance. There were so many things going on in their lives they hardly had time for each other.

Lance was in Dax City right before Dylan had to leave for a business trip. There was an air of moroseness that surrounded Lance when he showed up at Dylan's doorstep. His eyes were unusually dim as if the lights inside him had been turned off.

The extra tenderness Lance showed somehow scared the shit out of Dylan, especially when Lance whispered, "I just want to make this night memorable," like it meant there wouldn't be any other nights like this anymore.

Lance breathed out a strangled "Please, Dylan" almost unheard over the sound of the pouring rain that had been pounding against the roof. Lance's voice weighed heavy with desperation and it pierced right through Dylan's (non-existent) morals.

Too aroused to even think, Dylan’s eyes raked over Lance's naked body. He knew there was no fucking way he would be able to hold back, not when Lance was spread out on his bed, stroking his cock languidly, eyes clouded with lust.

He had loved Lance for so long, had wanted him badly so Dylan threw caution to the wind when Lance said, "I want you, Dylan. Show me how much you want me." 

Dylan's heartbeat echoed in his ears. He seized Lance's mouth with his own, pushed his tongue past Lance's lips, savoring the way Lance tasted. 

"I'll be back," Dylan said softly before rushing over to his dresser to get what he needed.

When Dylan returned to the bed, he dove for another kiss, hands traveling down Lance's side, loving the small sounds that Lance made. Then he stroked Lance's thighs and ass before reaching out blindly for the tube of lubricant he had tossed somewhere on the bed. 

Dylan took his time to prepare Lance, fingering him until Lance was begging, "Please, Dylan, please." 

"Babe," Dylan uttered and his breath hitched when Lance spread his legs wider.

Dylan's hand trembled while he slipped the condom on. He held his breath as he pushed into Lance, slowly, as if Lance was made of glass he could break when not careful. 

Once fully inside Lance, he asked, "You okay?" and got a hurried nod as a response. It felt surreal, wrapped within Lance's warmth. "Can I move?" Another nod was all Lance offered, his lower lip trapped between his teeth.

Dylan started moving in a rhythm he reckoned they were both comfortable with, aiming to please Lance. Every thrust was an expression of unspoken words of worship. Of love. Of everything Dylan felt.

Lance clung to him, fingernails digging on his arm and back. Dylan could tell Lance was close. He curled his hand around Lance's cock and started stroking. He loosened his grip when Lance hissed and wrapped his hand tighter around the warm, throbbing flesh when Lance begged, "Touch me, Dylan. Please."

It was Lance who cried out first, Dylan's name falling from his lips. Dylan could feel the warmth of Lance's cum on his hand, could feel Lance's toes curling against the sheet underneath him, could feel Lance tightening around his cock.

"Shit, shit, shit," poured out of Dylan's mouth and he buried his face in the crook of Lance's neck, growling and moaning and lost in whatever shit-sound that came out of him, his hips snapping against Lance's ass. He thrust deeper and faster and harder and—

One final push and Dylan felt the white, hot burst of his orgasm take over his trembling body.

Then he collapsed on top of Lance. 

"Thank you," Lance whispered, his palm warm against Dylan's back. He groaned when Dylan pulled out and Dylan held him close, arms thrown languidly around Lance's middle. 

They lay there for a while, breathing in synchrony. And when the intensity of the moment subsided, the memory of their earlier conversation came surging back to him like a flash flood.

This wasn't about making Lance his or taking their relationship a step further. This wasn't about Lance surrendering himself to Dylan. 

This was goodbye.

Dylan held Lance tighter, afraid that Lance would leave. He could feel his chest close to rupturing.

The love still burned hot in his heart but he knew — Dylan knew that it wasn't enough to keep their relationship alive.

Lance was gone when Dylan woke up the next morning. Vestiges of the previous night lingered on the bed. Dylan reached out to the empty spot beside him, the memories of what he and Lance had – what they had shared for the past three years – warm against his fingertips.