He was supposed to be working on the Paris commission — three large canvases for a prominent collector, a project that was meant to cement his transition from athlete to serious artist.
He hadn’t touched them in weeks.
Instead, he was painting Blake.
He painted him from memory, his brush moving with a frantic urgency. He painted the curve of Blake’s shoulder as he served, the tension in his jaw when he was losing, the soft, unguarded look in his eyes when he woke up in the morning. He painted the way the light caught the gold in his hair, the exact shade of blue of his eyes.
But none of it was right.
The paintings were technically sound, beautiful even, but they lacked the soul, the vital, beating heart of the man he loved. They were just images on canvas, flat and lifeless.
Andre threw them into the corner with the others, a growing pile of discarded attempts, and started again.
It was a Thursday afternoon, the rain lashing against the high windows of the studio, when he heard a knock at the door.
Andre ignored it, his eyes fixed on the canvas in front of him. He was trying to capture the exact angle of Blake’s wrist when he hit a backhand slice, the delicate balance of power and control.
The knock came again, louder this time. “Andre, please. I know you’re in there.”
It was Talia.
Andre froze, the brush hovering inches from the canvas. His stomach dropped, a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety. He hadn’t spoken to her since the morning he had fled their flat. He hadn’t spoken to Liam either. He couldn’t bear to hear their voices, couldn’t bear the reminder of what they had done together.
“Andre, please open the door,” Talia called out, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m not leaving until you do.”
Andre closed his eyes, taking a slow, shaky breath. He set the brush down, wiped his hands on a rag, and walked to the door.
He unlocked it and pulled it open.
Talia was standing in the hallway, dripping wet, her dark hair plastered to her face. She looked terrible. Her eyes were red and swollen, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. She looked as exhausted and broken as Andre felt.
They stared at each other for a long moment, the silence heavy with the weight of their shared guilt.
“Can I come in?” Talia asked quietly.
Andre stepped back, holding the door open.
Talia walked into the studio, looking around at the chaos — the discarded canvases, the empty coffee cups, the unmade cot in the corner. She stopped in front of the easel, looking at the half-finished painting of Blake’s backhand.
“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“He is gone,” Andre said, his voice harsh and grating in the quiet room.
Talia turned to him, tears welling in her eyes.
“Andre, I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to fix this.”
“You cannot fix it,” Andre said, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to hold himself together.
“None of us can.”
“Liam is a wreck,” Talia continued, the tears spilling over, tracking through the rain on her cheeks. “He can’t sleep. He can’t focus on rehearsals. He feels like he destroyed your life.”
“He didn’t destroy my life,” Andre said bitterly. “I did. I made the choice. I could have stopped it. I could have walked out the door. But I didn’t.”
Talia took a step toward him, reaching out a hand, but Andre flinched away, taking a step back.
“Don’t,” Andre said, his voice trembling. “Please, Talia. Don’t touch me.”
