He ran up the steps to the flat, his pulse thundering in his ears. He fumbled with his keys, his hands shaking so badly he dropped them twice before finally managing to unlock the door.
He pushed it open, stepping into the hallway.
“Andre!” Blake called out, his voice echoing in the quiet space. There was no answer.
Blake walked quickly through the flat, checking the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom. It was empty. The air was stale, the surfaces covered in a fine layer of dust. It looked like no one had lived there in weeks.
Panic flared in his chest. Where was he?
He pulled out his phone, his finger hovering over Andre’s name in his contacts, but then he stopped.
The painting. The paint had still been tacky.
He hadn’t painted it here. He had painted it at the studio.
Blake turned and ran back out the door, taking the stairs two at a time. He didn’t wait for another taxi. He ran toward the Underground station, his long legs eating up the distance, his breath coming in sharp, burning gasps.
He took the District line to Embankment, then the Bakerloo line to Waterloo, his mind racing the entire way. What was he going to say? How were they going to fix this? He didn’t have the answers. He only knew that he had to see him. He had to be in the same room as him.
He emerged from the station and ran down The Cut, dodging pedestrians and umbrellas, his eyes scanning the familiar storefronts until he saw the heavy wooden door of the studio building. He still had his key. He unlocked the street door and took the narrow, creaking stairs to the top floor. He stopped outside Andre’s studio, his chest heaving, his hand resting on the doorknob.
He took a deep breath, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.
The studio was freezing. The air was thick with the smell of oil paint, cold stone, and stale coffee. The floor was covered in discarded canvases, rags, and empty paint tubes.
It looked like a war zone. And in the corner, on the small, narrow cot, Andre was asleep. Blake walked slowly across the room, his footsteps silenton the paint-splattered floorboards. He stopped beside the cot, looking down at the man he loved.
Andre looked terrible. He was wearing a thick sweater that looked two sizes too big for him, his face pale and gaunt, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. His hands, resting on top of the thin blanket, were stained with the same colors that made up the painting in Blake’s hotel room — indigo, crimson, gold.
He looked completely, utterly broken.
Blake felt emotion surging through him — a mixture of profound grief for the pain they had both endured, and a fierce, protective love that eclipsed everything else.
He stood there, watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of Andre’s chest, and the tears he had been holding back finally broke free.
They spilled over his lashes, tracking silently down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away. He just stood there, letting the reality of the moment wash over him.
A single tear fell from his chin, dropping through the cold air of the studio, and landed softly on Andre’s cheek.
Andre stirred.
His brow furrowed, his dark eyelashes fluttering against his pale skin. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the dim light of the studio.
He saw Blake standing over him.
For a long moment, Andre didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared, his eyes wide and unfocused, his mind struggling to process the image in front of him. He thought he was dreaming. He had dreamed of this exact moment a hundred times in the past few weeks, waking up to the cold, empty reality of the studio.
He reached a trembling hand up, his paint-stained fingers hovering inches from Blake’s face, afraid that if he touched him, the illusion would dissolve.
Blake caught his hand.
He wrapped his fingers around Andre’s, the warmth of his skin shocking against contrast to the freezing air of the room. He pressed Andre’s palm against his cheek, leaning into the touch, closing his eyes.
“I’m back,” Blake said simply.
The words hung in the air, quiet and final.
Andre let out a broken, shuddering gasp. The illusion didn’t shatter. The warmth was real. The voice was real.
