Yet You're my Favorite Work of Art

Chapter Eight

The storm began not too long ago. Thunder crashes outside, a flash of lightning floods in through the window of the living room. Brendon sits on the couch, a notebook balancing on one knee and a pen in his hand. I stand in the kitchen, a glass of whiskey in my hand. Brendon's glass sits untouched on the table in front of him. We've stayed like this for a while, not a single word being exchanged except for greetings after we were let out of our cells. I watch him as he works, pen flying across the paper, brows furrowed in concentration, his mouth parted as he works. God, is he beautiful. Things have been awkward since our night spent in the jail cell. I can't stop thinking about how good it felt to have his fingers intertwined with mine.

He finally stops drawing and picks the glass up, taking a large sip. I take a sip of mine to finish it off and place it in the sink. Brendon groans and stands up, making his way across the room to the kitchen.

"Hey," he says, sitting down on one of the bar stools. It's the first thing that's been said in the past hour.

"Hey."

"I'm sorry for being so quiet." He places a hand on the counter and smiles tiredly.

"It's fine," I reassure him, "don't worry about it."

"I'm just really confused, y'know?"

His sudden revelation of his feelings catches me momentarily off guard.

"I'm probably as confused. Hell, maybe even more confused." He shakes his head and takes another sip. I move slightly and place my hand on his.

"Let's be confused together, then." I add a dorky smile at the end.

He doesn't say anything, just looks down at his feet.

"Dallon," he whispers, finally saying the one name neither of us wanted to say.

"Right. Dallon."

Brendon clears his throat uncomfortably. He takes his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his contacts.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

He puts the phone up to his ear, "Calling Dallon." I lean across the table and take the phone from him.

"You can't just end it like that, he'll think I stole you or some shit like that." I hang up the phone before Dallon can answer.

"Shit man, you're right." He pauses. "So are we, like, sneaking around now or something?"

I don't answer-don't have a chance to answer. The phone ringing in my hand cuts me off before I can say anything. I look at the caller ID.

"Do you want to talk to your boyfriend?" I ask. Brendon's face grows pale and he holds out his hand. I hand him the phone and go back to the fridge. I need another drink.

"Hello? Everything's fine, must've butt-dialed you. Yeah, I'll be home in a little bit. I'll pick up Chinese. Love you too. Bye." My glass is already empty when he hangs up.

"Using the L-word so soon?"

"Fuck off." His voice has become cold and bitter.I raise my hands up in mock surrender. "I gotta go." He says and stands up.

"Meet me for lunch tomorrow?" I call after him. He's gone already. I bang my fist on the counter and forcefully run my other hand through my hair.

This is so fucked up.

I walk into the living room and see Brendon's notebook still on the table. My eyes linger on it. I know I shouldn't open it. Well, technically it was already open, spine up in the air, two pages visible. It's a pen drawing, a really fucking good one, at that. It's of a man, a cigarette in his hand, puffs of smoke dancing around him. It takes me a few seconds before I realize that man in the picture is me. Something inside me throbs at that moment. I would say it's my heart, but that's ridiculously overused and gay. I smile at the notebook in my hand and put it back down, instantly feeling guilty for looking at it. I close it and place it gently on the table, looking back at it as I leave the room, a smile still painted on my face.