“The third time—”
I don’t let them finish. I’ve heard enough.
When my lips meet theirs, they open in shock. I back away an inch, giving them space to refuse me. But they don’t.
Then Phantom’s hands are entwined in my hair, and mine are fisted in their hoodie. The scarred skin of their lips is taut and uneven, but they’re warm and soft, and they taste like peppermint. I say everything I can’t find the words for with that kiss.
I see you. I hear you. I understand. I’m sorry. Your pain is real. I’ll carry it with you.
Phantom hears me. What I’m trying to say. I know because they deepen the kiss, pulling me to them like they wish they could absorb me into their skin. Our tongues mingle and our lips bruise, but we don’t part. We melt together and become magic.
Phantom groans in frustration when they eventually break the kiss. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Turning to empty air, they yell. “Let me have this! It’s not a lie. It’s not a sick joke. This is real, and it’s something you’ll never understand.”
I turn their face back to me. “You tell her,” I murmur proudly against their lips.
I don’t know how long we kneel there kissing, but eventually, Echo’s words become too overwhelming for Phantom. They get up and walk around the studio, picking up random painting supplies before eventually returning to our ruined canvas. They study it for a long time, pacing back and forth before it. They’re still full of manic energy. I can see it in the twitch of their fingers and the feathering of a small muscle in their jaw. But instead of lashing out, they turn the canvas on its side.
It’s then that I see it. The composition. Our masterpiece.
I rush to join them, grabbing any unspilled paint I can find off the floor.
They glance at me as I come up beside them, the full beauty of their face on display for the first time, and I can tell from their awed expression that they’ve seen it too. Words need not be said.
All that’s needed is paint.
33Want
Around midnight I have to lie down, exhausted. But Phantom keeps painting. Silently, I watch them from the bed. The painting is still in its infancy, but it’s coming along nicely. My heart flutters with excitement at the thought of seeing it finished.
“Phantom,” I finally call to them. They turn to me with a question in their gaze. Their scars remain fully exposed. “We need to rest.”
They look as if they’d like to argue, but think better of it, wiping their hands with a rag as they walk over to me.
“We’ll wash up in the morning.”
They nod as I pat the empty space next to me.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” they say, looking over their shoulder. But the floor is completely covered in paint.
“Don’t be silly,” I argue, beaconing them again.
“I don’t deserve—”
My voice is stern. “Phantom.”
They nod again, tossing the rag on the floor. They discard their paint-soiled sweats, remaining in their underclothes, and climb in next to me.
“We’ll finish the painting tomorrow,” I promise, resting my forehead against their shoulder.
“Okay,” they say quietly.
“Do you feel better?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“It’s the act of painting, isn’t it?”
