Page 64 of Painted

But it burned so hot and so vibrantly inside Rhys that he couldn’t not say it.

“I love you, Early,” he said, wrenching himself back enough to look Early in the eyes. He started to move a hand to brush back their hair, but caught the black paint covering it and pulled his hand away. “I’m sorry if that’s too soon or if it’s awkward or?—”

“I love you, too, Rhys,” Early said with a glowing smile, then laughed. “And yes, it’s too soon for either of us to say anything like that. Maybe we can just tuck that away for a while and come back to it when we’re both feeling normal.”

Rhys laughed. That was the best way to put it. Neither of them were normal at the moment. They were both broken and struggling with life. They were both just trying to figure out who they were now and where they fit in the world.

“I don’t want to get paint on you,” Rhys started to say.

Early stopped him from going on by clasping the sides of his face the way he’d done to them a few times and slanting their mouth over his.

Never had a kiss felt so good or so healing. It was a small thing that joined the two of them together, that was all, but itmeant the world to Rhys. He kissed Early back, and when they had to stop for air, he rested his forehead against Early’s.

“I’m sorry I left while you were asleep,” he said, closing his eyes and reveling in the feeling of Early’s body wrapped around his. Now that he was a bit more aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that Early hadn’t just knelt beside him, they’d straddled his legs and thrown their whole body around his like a protective blanket. “I was inspired,” he went on. “I thought I had what I needed to make Raina’s painting perfect.” He lowered his head and blew out a breath. “Now I’ve just ruined it.”

“No,” Early said, pulling back and staring at him in surprise. “You didn’t ruin it.”

Rhys sent them a wry look. “I pretty much just threw black paint all over a year of my work,” he said.

Early shook their head and scooted away from him, standing and reaching down to get Rhys to stand, too. “You didn’t ruin it. Look.”

Suddenly terrified of what he would see, Rhys took Early’s hand, smearing it with black paint, and turned gingerly to look at the ruined painting.

And it was ruined. What was supposed to be a cheerful, summer landscape was now marred with thick, black paint. The greens and blues and whites that hadn’t had time to dry or cure yet were smudged and smeared, making the whole thing look like it had melted. The blackness in the center of the painting and the frantic, streaked handprints interrupted the entire scene, throwing it into messy chaos. The long streaks from when he’d sunk to his knees?—

He stopped his negative assessment and stared at what he’d done. His entire body went rigid and he couldn’t move. He vaguely felt Early wrap their arms around his arm and leaninto him, resting their head on his shoulder, but the physical sensation was distant.

His grief was splashed all over the canvas. His pain was in the dynamic way everything had been muddled and streaked together. His handprints still carried the desperate sadness of the way he’d slammed himself against the landscape that would never be right again, and his movement as he’d sunk to his knees, giving up to grief, stood out loudly in the center of the work.

“I don’t do abstract art,” he said, emotion welling in him all over again, forcing him to blink away tears. “This isn’t what I do.”

“Looks like it’s what you do now,” Early told him softly.

Rhys shook his head, wanting to deny it. He was a landscape painter, a realist. He produced work that was true to nature, that reflected the world everyone could see.

But what stood in front of him was a world that no one could see when they looked at him. No one but Early.

“Shit,” he said, raising a hand to rub over his face, but stopping again when he saw the paint there. “This changes everything. This fucks with my entire career.”

He sounded angry about it, but the new, pulsing force within him was ecstatic. Inspiration practically oozed out of him. He liked what he saw, and he wanted to do more. He wanted to experiment with styles that he’d only dabbled with in art school classes because he’d needed a grade. He wanted to challenge himself to get as much emotion as he could on a canvas in whatever way possible.

“Dammit, Mum was right,” he said at last, breathless with joy.

“Your mum?” Early asked, straightening, but not letting go of his arm.

Rhys laughed and shoved a hand through his hair, forgetting about the paint this time and leaving his hair a mess. “She told me to try something different.” He glanced from the painting to Early. “I hate it when my parents are right.”

Early smiled, then laughed as they looked at his hair. “Come on,” they said, taking his hand in their own, equally messy hands. “Let’s go upstairs and take a shower to get all this paint off.”

“Let me just grab a bottle of turpentine, because we’ll need that, too,” Rhys said, breaking away and heading to the counter.

“Great. A turpentine shower,” Early said. “That’s exactly what everyone needs after a night of mind-blowing sex and cathartic painting.”

Rhys laughed as he took a mostly full bottle from the counter, then reached for Early again as they headed for the door. “Life with me will never be boring,” he said.

“God, I hope not,” Early said, beaming back at him.

For the first time in more than a year, Rhys felt like things might actually turn out okay after all.

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