I bristle some. My nerves are on fire from being so closely studied so suddenly. “I was thinking about what Bastion said the other day. About how we’re only a pack if we don’t leave anyone behind.”
He runs his thumb over the edge, reverent. “You’re really good, you know?”
I blush, and shove the next canvas at him. This one is more abstract: a tangle of blue, green, and honey yellow, the colors mashed together until they bleed. If you squint, you see three birds in the swirl, but it’s not obvious. I call it“Flight Pattern,”but I don’t tell Wyatt that.
Wyatt stares for a long time. “Is this us?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, and I believe him, because I can see how much it takes him to admit it. Almost as if he’s never really considered art and its meaning before, and then to be faced with pieces inspired by he and his closest friends. It’s a lot, I’d imagine.
The last piece is the biggest, and I hesitate before showing it. But then I think,fuck it, and hand it over.
It’s a painting of my nest, messy and unmade, with three indents in the blanket and a fourth, smaller one at the very center. There are four hands reaching in, holding each other, but only one is painted in full color. The rest are unfinished, but you can tell by the shape whose is whose.
Wyatt exhales, a little shaky. “Is that…?”
I nod. “You. Me. All of us.”
He grins. “Even Ranier?”
“He has feelings. They’re just very pointy.”
Wyatt laughs, then stands and sets the paintings back, careful not to smudge the wet edges. He looks at me, and I see the same awe that’s always been there, only now it’s naked and unashamed. “You’re going to kill them at the exhibition.”
I know that’s true. I’ve put in so much work for it tonotbe true. Yet still the nerves still get to me. “Only if you come with me. All of you.”
He bows, dramatic. “It would be my honor.”
I snort, and then he’s close, so close, and we’re both laughing, and then we’re not laughing, because his mouth is on mine. Warm, easy, hungry in a way that’s not desperate but just right. I melt into the kiss, the way I always do, and his hand finds my waist, smearing blue paint across my shirt.
“Wyatt,” I murmur, but it’s not a protest. Not even close.
Wyatt kisses my neck careful to avoid the fresh bites. “Do you want to paint with me?” he whispers.
I laugh, delighted. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”
He grins, sharp as ever. “I’m not. But I’m really good at making a mess.”
Wyatt moves fast, but gentle. He pulls the tarp from the corner and lays it on the floor, right over the nest. Then he yanks down a big, blank canvas—so new it still smells like packaging—centered on top. He tugs his cardigan off, flicks paint across my legs, and in one smooth motion, peels my shirt up and over my head.
The air is cold, but Wyatt’s hands are hot, painting streaks of blue and green down my back and across my ribs. He kisses every patch of skin he uncovers, humming softly like he’s following a map.
I shiver, but it’s not from the temperature. It’s from him, the way he makes me feel like there’s nothing in the world except this moment, this color, this sensation.
Wyatt guides me down onto the canvas and arranges my limbs until I’m sprawled across the white like a starfish. Only then does he drop beside me, our bodies pressed together. The paint squelches, smears, stains us both.
Wyatt is half-hard already, the outline of him visible even through the streaks of pigment on his jeans. He slides a thigh between my legs, grinding slow and steady. My breath goes sharp.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low.
I nod. “I want you.”
Wyatt grins and then presses his mouth to mine, tongue slick and sweet, tasting of sugar and caffeine. His hands roam, painting me with color and touch until I’m buzzing everywhere.
He unbuttons his jeans and kicks them off, and then we’re skin to skin, only the thinnest layer of paint between us. His cock is hard and hot against my thigh, smearing streaks of green as he shifts.
Wyatt slides a hand between my legs where he finds me already wet and wanting. “God, you’re perfect,” he whispers, and the sound of it almost undoes me.
