Page 68 of Seeing Grayscale

“I think you’ll like what is inside it.”

I get out of the car first, opting to open his door for him, but he beats me to it. The doom and gloom surrounding him only moments ago vanishes, replaced by golden beams of excitement. If his leg wasn’t in that brace, I’m sure he’d be jumping. I get his crutch out of the backseat, offering it to him. He grumbles something about not needing it but takes it regardless.

“May I getthisdoor for you?” I tease, reaching for the handle.

He rolls his eyes but smiles immediately after.

Pulling it open, I go to guide him but drop my hand before it makes contact. It’s instinct with him—the desire to cater, give, and please.Knowing I have to divert from those instincts hurts more than I thought it would.

“Oh hell yes,” he growls. It’s an eager aggression, the sound far more than appealing to my ears.

Limping over to the first wall covered in street art, his eyes round in their sockets as he fawns over the image.

Uncanny, the picture is a cartoon alien with exaggerated body parts, obscenely large facial features, and flamboyant neon colors. Rainbows and words are slashed over the canvas in graffiti font—I don’t know what that style of writing is called. Stepping beside him, I start trying to view the piece as he would, utterly confused by its appeal. Just as I’m about to ask what it all means, he zips away—well, as fast as he canzipwith a broken leg.

“This is so badass!”

I follow him around the impressively sized studio for the next twenty minutes. The building is deeper than it is wide, with various exhibition rooms.

With my hands in my pockets, I observe his wonder.

Is this what he saw earlier? If passion had an expression, it would be Gray’s face. Beauty, awe, obsession, and rapt attention wrapped into a 5’9, bleached-blond man with my favorite shade of blue for eyes.

Eventually, we get to the final area tucked in the back, and Gray abruptly stops.

Brick by brick, the wall he usually hides behind comes back up as all the color drains from his face. I frown, wondering what happened. Art is meant to invoke emotion, although I doubtthissort does. I’m still not sure what the appeal of it is, but that’s not for me to judge.Grayloves it, so I’m feeling some hostility towards this offending canvas that he can’t look away from.

At first glance, there’s nothing obvious about the painting.

A swath of greys in various shades with harsh lines. The longer I look at it, the more I see the depths of the shading and how intricate and purposeful it is. I’m not an art guy, butwhoever made this has obvious talent. Focusing my attention back on Gray, I watch his features become more anguished by the second.

“What’s wrong?” I ask gently, wanting to slip my hand in his but keep it in my pocket instead.

He swallows hard, eyes glued to the bottom right corner where a name is scribbled. It takes me a few times to read the name, but when I do, I make the mistake of saying it aloud. “Caleb Brooks.”

“I want to go now,” he blurts, spinning on his heel and limping away with speed.

Catching up to him, I palm his shoulder, easing him to stop. His eyes are rapidly flooding with tears. “Hey,” I soothe, searching his face for answers.

His chin wobbles as he sucks in his bottom lip. “I’m trying to understand. Was that…artwork just really emotive or something?”

A few other people wander back to where we are, and his eyes dart around frantically. “Okay, alright. Come on.”

I take his hand, locking our fingers together. Someone might recognize me, but at this moment, I’m more concerned with getting Gray out of here. The death grip he has on my hand only worries me further.

What happened back there?

Why is he fucking crying?

My jaw tics as we weave through the studio, making it outside slowly due to his limp. As soon as we get to my car, he rushes me. The crutch clatters to the ground, his arms band around my middle, and he hides in my chest while a soft cry slips out of him.

My heart races as I scan the busy sidewalk, people coming and going. I need to get him out of sight and in the car, but he’s holding me so tight like I’m the only one who can make this better.

Trying not to panic, I shake off my selfishness and wrap my arms around him.

“It’s alright,” I whisper, nuzzling the top of his head. “It’s okay.”

“He fuckingstole it.He left me, and hestole it,” he whimpers, trying to burrow deeper into my body. Long fingers claw at my back, and tremors quake through his limbs as he cries harder. “That’s why he kept me around so long. I’m anidiot.”

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