Brushstrokes of Desire

Ethan sat on the edge of his bed, fingers absently tracing the worn fabric of his sheets as his mind spun in circles. Outside, the screech of a distant seagull pierced the quiet morning, a reminder that the world was moving, even if he wasn't.

Sunlight filtered softly through the blinds, dancing across his cluttered nightstand, a half-finished protein bar, a mug with yesterday's coffee, and his phone, stubbornly silent. No messages. No "Good morning" from Mia. Just a blank screen.

"Figures," he muttered, tossing the phone back onto the bed.

His stomach twisted. Not because she hadn't texted. Well, maybe a little. But mostly because of that dream.

He rubbed his temples. Why did that happen?

It was just a dream. A collection of neurons misfiring in weird, unexplainable ways. Except... there was nothing random about it. The images were sharp. Vivid. Uncomfortably real. Especially Daniel's face that look of vulnerability, like he was inviting Ethan into something secret.

He glanced down, noticing the telltale signs: the damp sheets, the ache in his groin, the warmth still simmering under his skin.

"Awesome," he said dryly. "A full-body embarrassment to start the day. Classy."

He limped slightly as he stood a reminder of the damn leg injury that had benched him for weeks. No gym. No walks with Mia. No anything with Mia, really. She'd gone radio silent after their last minor argument something about communication, or the lack thereof.

So yeah. She was MIA. And in her absence, apparently, his subconscious had decided to hold auditions for other emotional entanglements.

Ethan shook his head. "It's just pent-up frustration. That's all. Mia's busy. I'm healing. I'm not... confused."

The words rang hollow.

...

Twenty minutes later, Ethan stood in front of the mirror, towel slung over his shoulders. The hot shower had helped, kind of. His reflection didn't lie, though: flushed cheeks, still slightly sweaty, and eyes that refused to meet their own gaze.

His phone buzzed.

He lunged for it hoping for Mia.

It was just his roommate, Tyler.

TYLER: "U left ur toast in the toaster again. It's a fire hazard. Also ur sheets smell weird. Did u die in there??"

Ethan groaned. "Not dead. Just mortified, thanks."

ETHAN: "I'll wash the sheets. Also, don't text me about toast like you're my mom."

TYLER: "Don't toast like a caveman then."

....

He grabbed his sketchpad and bag, forced some cereal into himself, and limped out the door. The walk to campus was familiar, gravel crunching under his feet, the smell of fresh-cut grass and student-budget coffee wafting through the air.

But the one thing not familiar? His heart beating like a drumline at a parade.

Because Daniel would be there.

...

The art building smelled like paint thinner and pencil shavings. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Students murmured around him, sipping energy drinks and flipping through sketchbooks.

Ethan entered the classroom and there he was.

Daniel.

Leaning over an easel, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with charcoal, brows furrowed in concentration. Like some kind of tragic poetry professor meets tortured artist. The guy had no right looking that focused on a Monday morning.

Daniel looked up. Their eyes met.

Just a nod. A polite, professional smile.

No change. No awkwardness. No clue that Ethan had spent the night dreaming of... well, that.

Ethan exhaled slowly and took his place.

"Morning," Daniel said, his voice calm as ever. "Leg doing better?"

"Yeah," Ethan replied, trying to sound casual. "Still limping like a pirate, but getting there."

Daniel chuckled. "You should get a parrot. Lean into it."

Ethan grinned in spite of himself. "Yeah, and shout 'Arrr' every time someone sketches me wrong."

The lightness of the exchange was a relief. But underneath it, Ethan felt the buzz, that quiet, uncomfortable pull toward something he didn't yet understand.

...

As the session began, Daniel paced the room, giving calm instructions while students sketched.

Ethan posed shirtless, per usual and tried not to notice how Daniel's gaze lingered just a fraction longer than usual. Was it in his head? Was he imagining it?

Charcoal scratched paper around him, students murmured about shadows and anatomy. A faint classical track played from a speaker in the corner, something cello-heavy and overly dramatic, like his inner monologue had picked the playlist.

His thoughts drifted.

What would he say if he told Daniel?

"Hey, just FYI, I had a dream about you and now my body hates me."

He snorted out loud.

Daniel looked up. "Everything okay?"

Ethan coughed. "Yeah. Sorry. Just remembered... something stupid."

Daniel tilted his head slightly, curious then went back to a student's sketch.

Kill me, Ethan thought, cheeks burning.

....

The session eventually ended. Papers rustled, stools scraped the floor, and the smell of graphite clung to everything.

Daniel approached as Ethan stood up, stretching carefully.

"Good work today," Daniel said. "You held the pose longer than I expected with your leg."

"Pain builds character," Ethan replied.

Daniel smirked. "Or limps."

For a moment, they stood there a silence settling between them. Not uncomfortable. Just... loaded.

Daniel's gaze softened, like he wanted to say something more. But he just nodded.

"See you Wednesday."

"Yeah," Ethan said, too quickly. "See you."

...…

Outside, the air was crisp and cool. He tugged his hoodie up and walked, each step measured, each breath a mix of relief and frustration.

Mia hadn't called. Daniel hadn't asked. Nothing had changed.

And yet, everything had.

His body was still buzzing with questions.

What was Daniel to him?

And did he want to know the answer?