Can't stop thinking about him

FELIX'S POV

What the fuck was wrong with me?

What the actual fuck was I doing?

It all started with a stupid joke about his name. A harmless joke to lighten the mood of that tense class.

I wasn't expecting the boy to bite back the way he did.

I wasn't expecting him to reply with the exact same energy and not get instantly offended.

I wasn't expecting to like it so much.

I don't know how it got so out of control. The banter, the sarcasm, the rude remarks. All of it was inappropriate and we both knew it. Fuck, he even said it to my face when he was explaining to me why he had blurred lines in his painting.

Oh, and then there was the painting.

I purposefully left it in my office. I didn't want to bring it home that night because I knew I'd think of him and how much of an ass I was.

I guess I didn't need the painting to remind myself of that, unfortunately.

I parked my car in my garage. I checked the time as I took the elevator to the apartment. Almost 9 P.M. Just in time to cook something up and try to get some rest.

Blair De Montmorency was unlike any other student I had ever had. He saw past my strictness and saw that, in fact, I could take a joke or two. He was obstinate in his defiance and always wanted the upper hand. What other 21 year old would so boldly confront a faculty member the way he did? He was also a really good student on top of all that. His intervention in class was excellent, but of course I couldn't tell him this. He'd only become more insufferable and cocky.

I had fought hard to bury my past , the years I’d spent chasing that other life, the man I once was before I found faith again. Being gay had felt like a cage, one I was desperate to escape. I’d tried to erase that version of myself, tried to live clean, to be someone better. But now, with Blair around, those old feelings stirred unbidden, like a ghost haunting the edges of my mind. His presence was unraveling everything I’d built.

I unlocked the door of my apartment. The darkness and coziness of the burgundy walls greeted me and I felt like I could finally relax. I was finally in my safe space. I placed my blazer on the couch and made my way to the kitchen isle and poured myself a glass of wine.

My biggest mistake so far was telling him to come to my office to show me his painting. Why couldn't I have suggested he brought it on Monday morning to my lecture and show it to me after class? Why was I so curious to see a painting which I already suspected would be shitty anyway? Why couldn't I wait?

I took a big sip of wine as the answer started to take shape in my mind.

His painting wasn't that shitty to be honest. It was fine for a student with his level of experience. When he told me about what the elements meant, I realized I had underestimated him. Even if he hadn't provided any insights into the meaning of his painting, I was still very harsh on him, disproportionately so.

I just wanted to test him, to see how far I could push my rudeness with him, to see if he'd fight back. He did cuss at me, so that was something.

I had only met the boy two days ago and I was already having spiralling thoughts about him.

I took another heavy sip of wine.

I cooked up a simple pasta and fried a chicken breast quickly. I wasn't the type of guy to put much effort into his food: if it filled me up, I was happy.

No matter what I did to try and keep my thoughts away from Blair, all I could think about was him.

His slender neck, his short hair, his elegant hands, his brown eyes.

Another sip of wine. I poured more in the glass.

He included me in the painting and I didn't even recognize myself. It didn't even register that he had done it, only when he pointed it out, his words cutting like knives.

"The man in the portrait is just as dark as the man who inspired it."

Did he blur out the eyes because he lacked the ability to paint them or because he didn't know my eyes well enough to do them justice? How many times had he gone over that same area of the canvas, trying to get me right?

I wondered what he was thinking about at that moment, if he had told his flat mates everything that had happened.

I wasn't concerned about them spreading rumours that I had mistreated a student of mine. No, that wasn't my main concern. What worried me was that he'd tell them about the painting, the meeting in my office at night, the jokes we exchanged, the car ride.

Fuck, the car ride.

Another sip of wine.

I really hope it wasn't creepy offering to drive him home. It felt wrong to let him walk alone at night, his kinda small and his body was probably cold from the wind.

Maybe I brought him to my car because I didn't want to say goodbye to him. Maybe I wanted to keep him warm because I had fought the urge to hug him when I apologised.

Wine. I needed more wine.

I walked to the bathroom, bringing my glass with me. I took a quick shower, taking a sip of wine every time his sweet face appeared across my mind.

I put on some gym shorts and a t-shirt and walked to my living room, turning on the TV. Maybe there was some football game airing, or even "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?". I loved those game shows. I always got the Art questions right.

Zapping was a dangerous game because it wasn't engaging enough to make me stop thinking of him.

Blurred lines.

More wine.

It was my fault. I was blurring the fucking lines.

I was making it confusing for him and myself. I was a fucking idiot.

Most Art students nowadays are all edgy and alternative. They think they're making a statement by wearing old clothes and calling them "vintage". Not him. He dresses nicely, he looks elegant.

I bet his body could make any ugly vintage outfit sexy.

Fuck. Wine wine wine.

He's your student for goodness's sake. He is a male. Worse than that, he's barely an adult.

But he's French. In France you're considered an adult at 18, right?

This isn't France, Reynolds.

Wine. Wine would fix it.

I had blurred the lines too much and now I had to deal with the consequences: these tormenting thoughts.

I drank more wine until my head felt hazy and my eyes felt heavy.

No amount of wine was enough to suppress this one desire: I didn't want to fix the lines.

Let them blur.

The thought felt good. Dangerous, but good.

And then, without meaning to, I saw Blair.

Not the student who challenged me, who fired back with that sharp tongue, who kept me on edge but still at a safe distance. This Blair was different.

Blair in the dark. Blair's hands. Blair's mouth. Blair pressing me against something. A wall, a desk, I didn't care.

In the blur, Blair wasn't holding back anymore. Neither was I.

My eyes snapped open. My heart was pounding.

I looked down.

Shit.