Follow the River

You know how everyone always has that classic bullshit “New Year, new me” mentality the first few weeks of January? They stick to their resolutions for a month, maybe two. But all of a sudden, its mid-March and they haven’t lost any weight, they’ve stopped working out, they started drinking soda or coffee or what-the-fuck-ever all over again.

And so they say, Maybe I’ll try again next year.

This isn’t one of those times.

I didn’t have any intention of opening up to River the way I did a few days ago in that blanket fort. And then again the next morning in his room. But I fucking did, when those moments were over, I made a vow to myself to keep letting him in.

It might only be the fourth day of the month—the year—but this is a promise I intend to keep in whatever way I can.

Giving him small pieces of me, no matter how insignificant they might seem.

Eventually, when it’s time, I can give him the darkest scraps of my soul, the fragments that never are able to see the light of day. The parts no one would love or understand, but I know he will find a way to see the good in them.

That’s just who he is.

Which is why I find myself holding River’s hand as I drag him to my bedroom door, where my makeshift art studio has taken over the space. I haven’t slept in here since the night I slipped into his bed that first time after finding him in the hallway, but I have found myself in here a few hours a day when we aren’t busy wrapped in each other.

He gives me a warm smile, but there’s confusion in his eyes. He hasn’t set foot in this room once since the day we arrived at the cabin, so the furrow of his brow and way the fingers on his free hand tap absently against his leg screams not only of his discomfort, but also what the fuck is happening right now?

I swallow the lump in my throat and turn the knob, still gripping his hand tightly with my other hand. “I want to show you something.”

And I really do want to give him this piece of myself. More so than I already did by giving him that painting for Christmas. It’s the least I can do for him at this point.

I still might not be confident admitting to the world, or even myself, who I am to my very core. I don’t have the courage to show the world the “real” Ciaráin Grady instead of the person they think I am.

But I do know, when I’m with River, I’m who I’m supposed to be.

I open the door all the way and let him step into what was my little slice of sanctuary from before, when we couldn’t stand the sight of each other. He slides past me, taking in the bright bedroom, artwork strewn about the entire space.

He’s quiet for a minute, taking in the disaster of my workspace, complete with a canvas laid out on the floor I still need to cut down before I can start working on it. There are several finished acrylic pieces stacked together in one corner, piles of completed watercolors on the desk, bedside table, and even the floor. The crates I brought to put them in have long since overflowed in the past four weeks.

And don’t even get me started on the paint. It’s literally everywhere. Watercolor brush pens, along with actual watercolors, are scattered across the desk and there are boxes of acrylic paints amassing on the floor. Anywhere and everywhere I could find the space to put them.

To River, who’s room is neat and tidy, it probably looks like a tornado and a hurricane and then a bull ran through the place. But to me, it’s organized chaos.

River looks at me, a huge grin on his face, and fuck me, I love being the reason it’s there. I’ll never tire of seeing him smile, those dimples popping in his cheeks.

“Can I look at them?”

“Sure,” I whisper, walking over to the bed to clear off some space so we have a place to sit. “They should all be dry. Just be careful of the canvas on the ground. That’s the last of what I have until we leave.”

I stack the watercolors that were set out to dry in a pile, careful to keep my eyes and hands busy while I feel him looking around some more.

God, this is harder than I thought it would be.

Art is subjective, certain kinds don’t always appeal to everyone. Some of it is dark and tortured, while some are bright and fresh and new. Yet each piece and style has its own beauty and place in the world.

But that doesn’t take away the fear of rejection, of not fitting in where you want to belong.

I’ve come to learn, because of River, people are like that too.

River lifts a crate full of watercolors to look through and places it on the bed next to me before climbing over me like I’m some sort of jungle gym or something. As he settles in beside me, his grin only grows larger. He catches me looking at him and literally beams.

“What?”

“Are you actually this excited about looking at artwork?” I laugh nervously. “I mean, art isn’t really your thing.”

Leaning over, he presses a light kiss to my lips, licking the steam with the tip of his tongue. “I know it’s fucking cheesy as hell to say this, but you’re my thing. It’s part of who you are. Of course, I want to look at them.”

He slides his tongue into my mouth, and I groan as it makes contact with my own. My dick is already thickening in my pants and the last fucking thing I want to do in this bed right now is look at watercolors. But all too soon, he breaks away and rests his forehead against mine, panting slightly.

“Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“Thank you for caring,” I whisper over his lips.

He pulls away after another quick peck on my lips and grabs his phone to put on his favorite “Mellow” playlist I’m really starting to love before he begins digging through the crate, pulling out each and every painting that’s inside. Over the next thirty minutes, he goes through damn near a hundred paintings of the surrounding landscapes, the cabin, the city of Vail. Some dark and moody, the style I prefer to paint, with an abundance of neutral tones, and others more vibrant and lively like the one I painted for him. It doesn’t escape my notice the more vivid works are also the more recent ones too.

After taking in each one, he passes it to me to put back where it belongs, always meeting my eyes with a smile, and hell, I can’t help the thrum I feel in my chest. Because I can’t believe doing something like this would truly make him smile at me the way he is right now.

Once the last painting is in place, I hop off the bed to take the crate back to where it belongs. I start straightening up the desk, grabbing the remaining pile of paintings to set on top of the others when I hear a loud smack against the hardwood.

Glancing up, I catch River picking up a black book off the ground. My sketchbook from the looks of it. I go back to my task of picking up my desk when I tense.

Wait.

Shit.

My. Fucking. Sketch. Book.

I spin around as he flips the cover open to the first page and immediately stiffens.

So do I. Because I know what is on the first page.

A sketch of his hands and wrists, the small cross tattoo over his pulse point sketched there as well.

I know what is in the rest of the sketchbook too. I fucking drew them.

Him.

All the parts of his body I’ve memorized over the past weeks. Every line, curve, and muscle. Every piece of ink that adorns his skin.

It’s all in there.

Ohfuckohfuckohfuck, this is bad. Worse than Thanos getting all six Infinity Stones bad.