It feels wrong

BLAIR’S POV

I felt like I was going to be sick. Anger and humiliation were running through my veins, blinding my vision.

My stomach was in knots, my eyes were burning from holding back tears. My heart was contorting painfully in my chest.

And underneath the anger, there was something else I didn’t want to name. Something that made my pulse pick up for reasons that had nothing to do with rage.

How much more proof do you need that he is a total bastard?

Why did he do this? Why was he so sweet in the morning and a total jackass now?

What truly pissed me off was that I knew he was right.

Whatever happened in his apartment could never happen again. He was sweet and kind and thoughtful, and he made me feel comfortable and that just couldn't be. I couldn't be feeling those types of feelings towards him.

And yet, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I’d caught myself noticing his hands, his voice, the way he moved around the kitchen. Stuff I’d only ever caught myself noticing about women before.

When I got to my room, I had the urge to change into my own clothes. If I got his clothes far away from me, maybe my feelings of anger would follow. Out of sight, out of mind.

Still, as I pulled them off, the faint scent of him clung to my skin. I told myself it annoyed me… but it didn’t feel like just annoyance.

A nagging feeling coursed through me, I was craving something. I really wanted a cigarette.

No, I wasn't going to throw it all away because of him. Absolutely not.

I had so much work to get done. I had to work for Professor Agnes' class, and I also had to finish reading the Art History paper. Maybe I shouldn't even pick up the latter just to piss him off.

Sense came back to me as my anger started to subside.

I had to read the paper, I had to finish my work. I wouldn't let Dr Reynolds get in the way of my education.

As I started reading, completely neglecting lunch, an overwhelming sadness came over me. As I read an excerpt from Jacques Bousquet's Mannerism: The Painting and Style of the Late Renaissance, no words were registering in my mind. It was as if my eyes were only looking at the paper and not reading it. No matter how hard I tried, my mind kept taking me to his apartment, to his hands, to his warm embrace.

And the worst part was admitting that I missed it — not in a casual “he’s a decent guy” way, but in a way that made me wonder if I was into him. Into a man.

I clearly had unresolved feelings, but I knew I wasn't going to get closure from him. I had to do something to process my emotions, to let them out.

I put down my study materials and made my way to my easel. Professor Reynolds had ruined the painting I had made of the desk, but I wasn't going to allow that to be the narrative.

Determined, I painted the same painting again, but this time to perfection. I was so impressed I decided I was taking it to Durham to show it to Professor Agnes. Maybe painting interior spaces was my thing.

As I got started on the portrait of the man, I was suddenly hit by inspiration. He cooked me breakfast, gave me medicine, gave me his clothes, let me rest and recover, saved me from a situation that could have ended in me getting assaulted. With tears welling up in my eyes, the man I drew in the portrait was not a man in a dark suit, but a knight in silver armor.

It wasn’t just a symbol of gratitude. I was painting the way I saw him — the way I wanted to see him. And the truth was, no matter how much I tried to fight it, that way of seeing him wasn’t straight.

I had worked on that painting the whole weekend. I tried keeping Dr Reynolds’ comments about the first one far away from my mind, but it was virtually impossible. With every line that I drew, I remembered how he said the shapes were indistinguishable, how the angles were wrong. I found myself unconsciously improving the new painting with his corrections. I kept the colors how he liked and added even more spots of light. When it was done, I realized that most of his corrections contributed to an overall superior, more technical piece.

"This is wonderful," said Professor Agnes during her workshop. "When we think of depictions of light, we usually think of the outside world, but with this you managed to blend the inside and the outside perfectly. Maybe you should do a few more painting of interiors and see how it goes."

She instantly gave me a confidence boost. I decided that, for the remaining 4 hours of the workshop, I'd create another room of the house, having a desk or a table as its focal point. At the end, I had achieved a decent first draft of a dining room.

I was so excited with how the painting was going along that, when the class was dismissed, I took the still fresh painting and moved to another art studio on that same floor, the one that was open 24 hours. This one was much smaller and had a staff member supervising the room. There were only two other students there, so noise was kept at a minimum. I was so enthralled in that painting that I put my headphones in and forgot about the world around me. All I could think of was finishing the painting.

And if I kept myself buried in it long enough, maybe I could avoid the bigger question that was clawing at the back of my mind: what if I was starting to like him really like him and what did that make me?

FELIX'S POV

At the end of the day, I decided to give Professor Agnes a visit. I hadn't had the chance to speak to her at Maddox’s exhibition, and I wanted to ask her what her thoughts were. I was also dying to know the opinion of the art critics. I knew she had some contacts in that world. Maybe she could give me a hint.

I made my way to the lowest floor where Agnes was usually teaching at that time. She beamed a smile when she saw me walk through the studio doors.

"Hello Felix," she said, organizing some papers. "What brings you here?"

I approached her desk. "I wanted to ask you what you thought about Maddox’s exhibition."

"It was a success! I noticed some evolution in his technique, and the way he introduced surprising elements." She sat on her teacher's chair, taking her reading glasses from the top of her hair and placing them on her table. I followed her hand gesture and glanced over the papers she had on her desk.

My heart skipped a beat. What the hell was this?

"Is this yours?" I asked, knowing damn well it wasn't.

What in the world was Blair's painting doing on Professor Agnes' desk? Had he taken it from my office without me noticing, sneaked in and stolen it? If that was the case, it was inexcusable. If he wanted it back, he had to man up and ask for it.

"Oh, this is from that boy you told me was a troublemaker, what's his name... Blair, is it? He wanted to show it to me. Must have left it here by mistake."

I picked the painting from her desk. I noticed instantly this wasn't the original painting.

For starters, the harsh pencil marks were gone. The lines and shapes looked smoother, yet more defined. The candelabra blended with the space, the angles and the dimensions were correct. The colors were more vibrant, and the speckles of light were more abundant.

And then, on the top right corner, the portrait of the dark man in the suit was replaced with that of a knight, his visor up, exposing his eyes.

My eyes.

"He sounded pleased with himself." Professor Agnes went on. I don't think I registered a single word she said. "It's not very imaginative, but it's pleasant to look at. I particularly like his use of light. I believe that's the theme he wants to focus on, and he should. He has potential, don't you think?"

I was still staring at the painting.

"Felix? Hello?" Agnes called, waving her hand in front of my eyes.

"Oh yeah, he has talent." I managed to utter. I was in shock at what I was seeing.

He drew me as a knight.

"You aren't seeing him by any chance? I bet he wants the painting back and I'm not going to see him for another week." Agnes said.

"He'll be in my class tomorrow morning."

"Ah, that's great. Would you do me the favor of giving it to him?"

Even if she hadn't asked, I would've wanted to.

"Of course."

We continued to chat about the exhibition, but my mind was elsewhere. Even after I shouted at Blair in my car, after I was horrible to him, he still thought I was a good guy. Better than good, apparently. A knight, to be exact.

It was corny and sappy and cringe-worthy to depict me that way. If anyone else had made that painting, I would have laughed at how ridiculous it was. But because it was him, it was completely different. On top of that, he had changed everything I had pointed out about his original painting.

Why did he do this? What was he trying to achieve? He clearly didn't want to show it to me or else he wouldn't have forgotten it in Professor Agnes' studio.

My stomach contorted painfully. I was overcome with regret.

I knew exactly what I was going to do to answer those questions.