The semester's end is approaching and Chris has three stalled final projects. For the first time he's glad for his art history class 'cause he has at least a shot of passing that. His friends catch him moping at the end of a sketch class, ambush him, really, and drag him out to a bar. He has one beer and feels like throwing it up.

They can tell something's wrong and narrow it down to romantic trouble. He gets a bunch of advice and none of it's worth shit. He's not surprised; no one he knows is lucky in love and he's stupider than most. He wonders if he should just vow celibacy now.

But later, after they finally let him go with last quips about how suffering can be good for the soul—and the art!—he lays in bed and can't help but remember Justin's mouth on his dick, the feel of growing-in hair under his fingers, the smell of his come— He's hard and guilty and his fingers hover over his cock, unsure...

He snaps, quick to his feet, stalking to the easel and ripping away a half-drawn street scene. And then pencil's in hand and the images he's setting to paper are angry, obscene, and underneath it tender as a bruise. He's going on instinct and memory and when he stops, breathes, he knows it isn't enough.

Fresh oils on palette and he love love loves that smell, it gets him higher than anything he's tried except Justin. There's rage in the thought, and pain and he channels it onto paper, getting it out, like lancing a wound, and he's laughing and crying and wild.

When the sun comes in through the windows he's barely aware because every light in the tiny apartment was on so he could work. He's got paint in his hair, on his face, ruining his good shirt. He can't bring himself to care. In his mind's eye a lover lies on the bed, smiling at his artiste foibles and beckoning, knee up, naked. He goes and doesn't even realize it's a dream, he's asleep on his feet. In the middle of the room the easel holds more than a painting and the sun is illuminating passion unvarnished.


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