He narrowed his eyes into an accusatory glare. “Me.”
The doctor chuckled, “I gathered as much.”
“Are you going to make me spell it out?”
The doctor’s smile shifted into something Roland thought looked a little sad, but still on the acceptable line of sympathetic, but he offered no verbal reply.
“I can’t paint.” Roland stared at the floor. “It’s not… connecting. From here to here.” He gestured between his head and hands. “And I need to paint again. I get…depressed when I can’t paint, and not painting makes me more depressed, and then it just gets so fucking out of control.” The doctor nodded for Roland to continue. He licked his lips and was then aware of how dry his entire mouth was. “I just want to paint again,” he finished on a whisper.
Roland’s doctor flipped his chart back open and scanned through his medical history before making some notes and looking up at him. “Let me ask you, Roland. Why did you stop your medication after the last visit?”
“I didn’t think I needed them anymore.” He didn’twantto need them anymore. But at the time, he’d really thought he would be fine. He was in a good place with Cody, art was going well, life itself was enjoyable. He’d over estimated himself, obviously. Roland's cheeks colored as he thought about it, and he crunched the roll-out paper covering the exam table between his fingers. He’d get better this time, do better. He would just have to keep taking them this time— until he didn’t.
“Well, let’s give it another go then.” Dr. Constantin pulled a pad out of his coat and scribbled down a prescription, handing the little blue slip of paper to Roland.
He took the prescription, folded it in half, and shoved it in his back pocket.
Dr. Constantin flipped through Roland’s chart again. “It’s been over a year since I’ve seen you. Do you want to pop into the lab and get your bloodwork done while you’re here? We can make sure everything is in order.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” Roland and Donny hadn’t talked about getting tested and forgoing condoms—their relationship wasn’t even a proper relationship yet—but Roland wanted to hold onto this sliver of optimism in an otherwise shit life.
“Sara can get you sorted with that then, and call the office if you have any problems, alright?” The doctor stood and held his hand out toward Roland. He wiped his sweaty palm down his pants, then begrudgingly took the doctors hand. Roland couldn’t look at him.
“Thank you,” Roland’s voice came out soft, and it cracked. The doctor squeezed his hand before releasing him.
“You’ll be painting again in no time, Roland.”
On the walk back to his car, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts. His finger hovered over Donny’s name. He tapped out a text.
Roland: Can I see you on Saturday?
Donny: I don’t know, Roland.
He stopped walking and looked up. It was a shitty day; the sky wasn’t particularly pretty and there was no sun. Gray clouds floated toward the horizon.
Roland: Saturday makes a week. It’ll be different.
Roland: Please.
Far too much time passed. Roland stared at his phone and then gave up staring and walked to his car. He buckled himself in and checked his phone. He drove home, rode the elevator up to his penthouse, which seemed far too lonely, and still had no reply. Roland took a shower, and still no reply. He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of vodka, swirling the liquid and ice cubes around. He set the glass on the counter and looked at it. A bead of condensation slid off the rim, and he picked the glass up and took a drink.
It was like a glass of cold lemonade on a hot day. Roland felt good, even better after he finished his second glass. He was halfway through his third when his phone finally chirped.
Donny: Alright.
Roland: If it took you this long to say yes, you obviously don’t really want to come, so forget it.
Donny: Stepping up your game, Roland. Throwing me out before I even get there.
Donny: Have you been drinking again?
Roland: Yes, Adonis, I'm drinking. I waited for your text, and it didn’t come, so I started drinking. Because I’m a fucking mess, and I used to just feel numb, but now I’ve met you, and you make me feel like shit, which is at least something. Everything just fucking hurts and I’m lonely, and I’m a grown ass man, so yes, I’m drinking.
Roland: So just forget it, run away like I can tell you want to.
Roland swallowed the rest of his drink in one go, slamming the glass down onto the counter with a crash. He glared at his phone, powered it off and walked away.
He pulled his shirt over his head and kicked his jeans off, discarding them in the hallway before he entered the studio. He stumbled and re-arranged the pile of canvases that Donny had kicked over earlier in the week— the canvases Donny had come all over. Roland palmed his cock through his boxer briefs and picked up a tube of black paint.
