The couch had started to feel less like a safe harbor and more like a sticky trap. Three days, give or take a few hours of mumbled apologies and forced normalcy, and Rory’s body was humming with an energy that needed an outlet. His muscles, usually twitchy and eager, felt tight, coiled. He’d stared at the ceiling until the texture of the plaster felt imprinted on his eyeballs, listened to the fridge hum until it became a physical vibration in his teeth. It wasn’t the cozy kind of stillness. It was the frantic kind that hummed just beneath the skin, itching.
Declan had been… good. Too good, almost. He hadn’t pressed, hadn’t asked, hadn’t even hinted at the sudden, sharp, utterly embarrassing breakdown Rory had experienced. Just quiet. A steady presence. Coffee materialized. Meals appeared. Rory had felt wrapped in something soft and solid, but now, the softness was chafing. He needed to *do* something, anything, before he vibrated right out of his own skin.
He slid off the couch, the worn cushions sighing in relief, or maybe complaint. The carpet felt oddly lumpy under his bare feet. His broken backpack, still sitting by the door, was an affront. A monument to the day everything had gone sideways. He’d barely touched it, too ashamed, too raw. But the restless itch was growing, a physical demand from his fingertips. He needed to draw. He needed to scratch that itch before he started gnawing on the furniture.
With a sigh that was half-dread, half-determination, he nudged the backpack with his foot. The main zipper was still jammed, a defiant metal snaggletooth. He wrestled with it for a moment, then gave up, reaching through the side pocket. His fingers scraped against something flat and familiar. A sketchbook. Forgotten in the chaos. He pulled it out, a thin, dog-eared thing with a bent spiral binding and a faint smell of graphite and old paper.
His old art supplies. A messy tangle of them, actually. A few pencils, mostly 2B and 4B, their wooden casings worn smooth. A charcoal stick, half-used, its tips smudged. A kneaded eraser, grey and pliable, still vaguely smelling of play-doh. A sharpener, the plastic kind, caked with fine lead dust. And a small, tattered blending stump, dark with past experiments.
He brought them to the coffee table, a squat, sturdy piece of oak that usually held Declan’s meticulously stacked books and a ceramic coaster. He hesitated. Clutter. Declan was neat. Not obsessively so, but everything had its place. Rory felt like a human pile of dirty laundry, perpetually threatening to spill over the edge of the basket. Drawing felt like an act of audacious mess-making in this quiet, ordered apartment.
But the itch. The itch was a dragon, breathing down his neck. He carefully, almost surgically, cleared a small space on the carpet beside the coffee table. He started by placing the sketchbook down, flat. Then, one by one, he laid out his tools. The pencils, lined up like tiny soldiers. The charcoal stick, next to them. The eraser, a soft grey blob. The sharpener, then the blending stump. A small, tentative circle of creative chaos.
It wasn’t much. Just a few inches of floor. But it felt like he was claiming territory. Like drawing a line in the sand. Or, more accurately, in the beige carpet. What would Declan think? He imagined Declan walking in, seeing this small, messy invasion. A frown. A sigh. A subtle, polite suggestion that maybe the table was better. Or, worse, no suggestion at all, just a silent, judgmental stare that would make Rory shrivel.
He picked up a pencil, the 2B, already warmed by his palm. The paper in the sketchbook was a creamy off-white, slightly textured. He drew a line. A simple, confident, horizontal line. Then another, curving. He started sketching something abstract, something that mirrored the knot in his stomach, the coil in his muscles. Sharp angles, then soft, flowing curves. The whisper of graphite against paper was a comforting sound, a low, steady static that began to drown out the internal hum of anxiety.
The light was terrible, though. The living room was bright enough during the day, a soft, diffused glow from the large window, but as evening crept in, the corners of the room deepened into shadows. The single ceiling fixture cast a harsh, yellow light that made everything look flat. Rory squinted, his shoulders hunching over the sketchbook. He tried to ignore the strain in his eyes, the way the details blurred in the dimness. He was already imposing enough. Asking for better light would be a step too far.
He leaned in closer, his nose almost touching the paper, his breath misting tiny circles on the page. His wrist was starting to ache. The tension in his neck was a familiar companion. He worked, slowly, meticulously, trying to render the frustration and the yearning into something tangible. He forgot, for a moment, where he was, whose apartment this was, the silent agreement that he was merely a temporary fixture, like a particularly anxious potted plant.
He was deep in it, lost in the shadows he was trying to create on the page, the subtle shift from dark to light, when he heard it. The faint click of the lock. Declan. Rory froze, pencil still hovering over a cross-hatch. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. He felt a sudden, inexplicable rush of blood to his ears, a hot flush spreading across his cheeks. *He’s home. He’s going to see the mess.*
He didn't move. Couldn't. His breath hitched, a small, involuntary sound. He heard Declan’s keys drop into the ceramic dish by the door, a small, familiar clink. Then the soft thud of a backpack hitting the floor, not far from Rory’s own broken one. Rory could almost feel Declan’s eyes on him, on the small, messy circle of his art supplies, on his hunched, guilty form.
He didn’t look up. Couldn’t. His gaze was fixed on the charcoal stick, as if staring hard enough at it would make it disappear. He heard Declan take a step, then another. The sound of his footsteps, usually quiet and deliberate, seemed amplified, each one a judgment. Rory squeezed his eyes shut for a split second, then opened them, forcing himself to breathe. This was it. The quiet sigh. The polite cough. The moment he’d been dreading.
But nothing came. No sound. No cough. Just… silence. Rory risked a quick glance, his eyes darting sideways. Declan was standing a few feet away, by the entryway. He wasn’t looking at Rory directly. His gaze was sweeping over the room, the way he always did, taking everything in. And then… it landed on Rory’s small art setup. Rory saw the slight tilt of Declan’s head, the almost imperceptible flicker in his eyes. He didn’t frown. Didn’t sigh. Just… observed. Like he was cataloging an unexpected new species of moss in his living room.
Declan’s eyes moved from the sketchbook to the pencils, then back to Rory’s face, for just a fraction of a second. It was a look that Rory couldn’t quite decipher. Not annoyance. Not curiosity. Something deeper, perhaps. A moment of intense, quiet assessment that felt like a physical touch. Rory felt his skin prickle. He felt entirely exposed, like every nerve ending was vibrating under Declan’s gaze. He held his breath, waiting for the shoe to drop, the polite suggestion to manifest. But then Declan simply… turned. And walked away. Towards the back of the apartment.
Rory let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a shaky, silent exhalation. He felt a strange mixture of relief and crushing disappointment. Relief that he hadn't been admonished. Disappointment that he hadn't been… something else. Seen? Validated? He didn't know. He just felt a hollow ache. He knew it. He’d taken up too much space, cluttered the perfect apartment. Declan, being Declan, was too polite to say anything, but the message was clear: *this is not your space to mess up.*
He clenched his jaw, a bitter taste in his mouth. He should pack it all up. Disappear the evidence. Retreat back into the couch cushions and try to become invisible again. The restless energy, which had just started to find a channel, now felt like a dammed river, churning violently. He picked up the eraser, kneading it aggressively, twisting it into strange, sharp points. He stared at his drawing, suddenly finding it ugly, amateurish, a pathetic attempt to assert himself.
A few minutes later, Rory heard footsteps approaching again. He tensed, ready to spring into action, to apologize, to clean. He looked up, his face probably a mask of guilt. Declan was back. But he wasn’t empty-handed. In his left hand, held casually, was a tall, slender floor lamp. Not the harsh, functional kind, but one with a fabric shade, a warm, inviting cream color. It was from the spare room, Rory realized, the one with the dusty old desk and the boxes.
Declan walked over to where Rory sat, still hunched over his drawing. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there for a moment, the lamp held effortlessly, his gaze, as always, unreadable. Then, he bent down. Not to Rory. To the wall. He found the nearest outlet, a discreet one behind the coffee table. He plugged in the lamp, the soft click barely audible.
Then, with a gentle, deliberate movement, he placed the lamp on the carpet, about two feet from Rory’s little circle of supplies. He adjusted the shade, angling it just so. A soft, warm glow bloomed over Rory’s sketchbook, illuminating the paper, the pencils, the charcoal, in a way the harsh ceiling light never could. The lines on his drawing, which had seemed so muddled and dim, now stood out with a crisp, clear intensity.
Rory stared. At the lamp. At the light. At Declan’s hands, so careful, so steady, as he made the minor adjustments. Declan straightened up, his eyes meeting Rory’s for a moment. Still no words. Just that quiet, intense gaze. A flicker of something passed between them, a current, almost. Declan’s expression was unmoving, his lips set in their usual, thoughtful line, but in his eyes, Rory thought he saw… an invitation. A quiet, undeniable permission.
Declan gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Then he turned, and walked back towards the kitchen, the sounds of him rummaging through the fridge following a moment later. Rory remained, frozen in the pool of golden light, his heart suddenly thrumming with a different kind of energy. Not restless. Not anxious. Something warm. Something… profoundly, wonderfully soft.
He looked down at his sketchbook. The drawing, under the new light, didn't seem ugly anymore. It seemed… real. Possible. He reached for a fresh pencil, the slight tremor in his hand no longer a sign of fear, but of a quiet, overwhelming gratitude. He felt, in that moment, not just allowed, but encouraged. To spread out. To create. To simply *be*.