You Have to Do It

Jesse, an artist prone to overthinking, finds himself entangled in the chaotic world of exhibition planning with Eddie, a man whose calm intensity both rattles and stabilizes him. As deadlines loom and coffee brews, their professional collaboration quickly veers into a charged, electric intimacy.

"Seriously, Jesse, you have to do it," Eddie said, his voice a low thrum against the buzzing hum of the old gallery heater. He leaned over the long, scratched oak table, his elbow nearly nudging the precarious stack of exhibition brochures I’d spent all morning arranging by color gradient. Why color gradient? Because I was spiraling. Because the thought of actual, coherent organization felt like trying to herd a flock of hyperactive pigeons into a single, labeled cage. My throat felt tight, a bit raw from too much instant coffee.

I coughed, a dry, pathetic sound. "Do what, exactly? Stare at this wall until it magically transforms into a perfectly curated narrative of my artistic journey? Because that's currently my plan A, B, and C." My gaze was locked on the far wall, a vast expanse of rough plaster that seemed to mock my every artistic aspiration. It was enormous. How was I supposed to fill it with… me? All of me? And make it look intentional, not like a garage sale of my soul?

Eddie chuckled, a quiet, deep sound that vibrated somewhere beneath my sternum, even from a few feet away. He straightened, then moved a hand to brush away a stray curl of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead. He had this way of moving, efficient and unhurried, like he always knew exactly what he was doing, where he was going. My hands, on the other hand, felt like they belonged to someone else, twitchy and unsure. They hovered over a box of thumbtacks, then darted away.

"No," he said, picking up one of the brochures, turning it over in his fingers. The smooth cardstock seemed to absorb the light from the tall spring windows, glinting. "You have to tell me the story. Not for the wall, not for the brochure, just… for me. Why these pieces? What do they say?" He didn't look up, but I felt his attention like a physical weight, pressing down on the frantic flutter in my chest. It wasn't accusatory, just… insistent. He always was.

My cheeks felt warm. Stupid. This was work. This was professional. Yet every time Eddie focused that singular intensity on me, it felt like a spotlight, exposing every frayed nerve ending, every insecure thought. "The story?" I repeated, stalling. I looked around the large, empty gallery, the dust motes dancing in the shafts of spring sunlight that cut through the tall, arched windows. Outside, a gentle rain had started, pattering softly against the glass, muffling the distant city hum. It smelled of wet asphalt and blooming jasmine from the potted plants Eddie kept by the entrance.

"Yeah. The story," he prompted, finally looking up. His eyes, dark and calm, held mine. There was a faint smudge of graphite on his left cheekbone, a leftover from an afternoon sketching session I’d interrupted. It made him look less formidable, more… human. But still, the calm. It was almost unnerving. I was a storm in a teacup, and he was the quiet eye of a hurricane, just watching. Waiting.

I cleared my throat again. "Well, these…" I gestured vaguely at a large canvas propped against the wall, its vibrant blues and greens clashing a little with the raw concrete floor. It was one of my more recent abstract pieces, a frenetic depiction of urban sprawl meeting nature. "This one is… it's about the friction. The way things resist each other but also, like, can't exist without each other." I trailed off, feeling lame. "It's a big metaphor, I guess. For… stuff."

Eddie tilted his head slightly, a small, encouraging gesture. "Stuff," he echoed, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Specific stuff? Or just… general stuff?" He took a step closer, his presence expanding, filling the small space between us. I could smell the faint scent of charcoal and something clean, like soap, on him. My spine stiffened almost imperceptibly. He always did that, just subtly invade my personal bubble, making it impossible to ignore him.

"Specific stuff," I mumbled, my voice suddenly tight. My gaze flickered to his mouth, then quickly away. "Like… like when you try to force two incompatible things together. Or when you realize they were never incompatible, just… misaligned." My internal monologue was screaming. *Just tell him about the art, Jesse. Don't make it weird. It's just art. And him. He's just Eddie.* But even *just Eddie* felt like a loaded statement. He made everything feel loaded.

He nodded slowly, still watching me. "Misaligned. I get that." He picked up a long, slender wooden pointer from a box and tapped it gently against the canvas. *Thwack.* A soft, resonant sound in the quiet gallery. "So, this piece here, with the aggressive angles against the soft curves… that's the misalignment?" His finger, long and sure, traced a line where a sharp, almost violent red met a fluid, undulating blue. My heart thumped a nervous rhythm against my ribs.

"Yeah," I breathed, trying to sound casual, professional. I failed. My voice came out a little too high, a little too breathless. "Exactly. It's… the tension. The push and pull." I found myself mirroring his gesture, my own finger hovering inches from his, not quite daring to touch. The air between us felt thick, charged, like static before a storm.

He lowered the pointer, his gaze still on the canvas, but I felt his peripheral awareness of me. "And what about these?" He gestured with his chin towards a series of smaller, more intricate ink drawings on the table. They depicted delicate botanical forms, but distorted, almost corrupted, with tendrils of machinery woven into their petals and leaves. They were darker, more introspective than the large canvas, born from a period of particularly acute existential dread.

I swallowed, the sound loud in my own ears. "Those are… a bit different." I finally picked up one of the drawings, my fingers brushing against the cool, smooth paper. "They're about… resilience, I guess. Finding beauty in decay. Or the artificial." My explanation felt inadequate, clumsy. How could I articulate the gut-wrenching feeling of creating those pieces without sounding like a complete mess?

Eddie stepped closer again, leaning slightly over my shoulder to look at the drawing. I could feel the warmth of his body, the subtle shifting of his denim jacket. The scent of him, charcoal and clean soap, was stronger now, a faint grounding presence against the rising tide of my own anxiety. It was distracting, horribly so. I focused on the intricate ink lines, pretending to be absorbed.

"They're beautiful, Jesse," he said, his voice softer now, a little less insistent. "Complex. You see the… the struggle, but also the strength." His words were simple, direct, but they landed with a surprising weight, loosening something in my chest I hadn't realized was so tightly wound. I risked a glance at him. He was closer than I thought, his face angled downwards, observing the drawing, a serious, appreciative expression on his features. A stray piece of hair still fell across his brow.

My breath hitched. Not a single tear, no, but a sudden, intense awareness of the texture of the paper under my thumb, the way the light caught the edge of Eddie's jaw. "Thanks," I managed, the word barely a whisper. I felt a blush creep up my neck, hot and unwelcome. I wished I could just be normal, just be the professional artist, not the guy who got flustered by a compliment and a warm shoulder.

"So," he continued, straightening up, breaking the spell. The sudden absence of his warmth was like a small, unexpected chill. "The exhibition. You want it to tell a story of friction, misalignment, and resilience. But how? What's the flow?" He picked up a battered notebook from the table, flipping through the pages, which were filled with my haphazard sketches and scribbled notes, interspersed with grocery lists and forgotten appointments.

I took a deep breath, trying to re-center myself. Right. Professional. Exhibition. "I… I thought maybe the larger, more confrontational pieces first, to hit them with the… the friction," I explained, gesturing towards the abstract canvas again. "Then move into the more detailed, intricate pieces. The ones that demand closer inspection. The resilience." I stumbled over the words a bit, trying to make my abstract thoughts sound like a coherent plan.

Eddie nodded, already sketching something in his notebook. He drew with a quick, fluid hand, a talent I both admired and envied. "I like that. A journey. From external conflict to internal strength." He looked up at me, a gleam in his dark eyes. "We could use the natural light from the windows for the larger pieces, really let them explode. And then dim the light for the ink drawings, make it more intimate. Spotlight them." He tapped his pen against the page, already thinking several steps ahead.

His enthusiasm was infectious, or maybe it was just him. My mind, which had been a tangled ball of yarn, started to unravel a bit, finding some order. "Yeah, that… that makes sense," I said, feeling a nascent excitement bubble up through my anxiety. "The natural light really brings out the texture in the acrylics." I found myself stepping forward, walking towards the large canvas, imagining the play of light. "And the smaller pieces… they really need that focus. You can miss so much otherwise."

He joined me by the canvas, standing a little too close, his presence a constant, low-level hum in my awareness. "Exactly. It's about guiding the eye, creating a narrative space." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We could even… put a bench here. For the intimate pieces. Encourage people to sit, linger. Really sink into them." He gestured with the pen, almost brushing my arm.

My skin tingled. I kept my gaze fixed firmly on the canvas, even as my internal compass spun wildly, pointing directly at Eddie. *A bench.* That was a good idea. A genuinely smart, thoughtful idea. It was always like that with him. He saw the practical steps, the elegant solutions, where I saw only a looming disaster. "A bench," I repeated, testing the word. "That's… that's brilliant, Eddie." I finally looked at him, unable to resist. His eyes were bright, his smile genuine, making the graphite smudge on his cheek seem even more endearing.

"Just trying to make your vision come alive, Jesse," he said, his smile widening a fraction, a small crinkle appearing at the corner of his eye. It was disarmingly charming. He put his hand on the canvas, a casual, steadying gesture. "So, for the smaller pieces, do you have enough? Or are you still creating?" His voice was back to that professional, grounded tone, but the lingering warmth from his smile still felt like a burn on my skin.

"I have enough," I said quickly, maybe too quickly. "I mean, I think I do. I have a whole series in my studio that I haven't even brought over yet. They're… they're pretty intense. A lot of detailed work. Took months." I found myself rambling, trying to fill the sudden quiet that felt too loud, too heavy with unspoken things.

"Intense is good," Eddie murmured, still looking at the canvas, his hand resting lightly on its surface. "Intense is what grabs people. Makes them stop." He looked at me again, his expression unreadable. "Maybe we should go look at them. Your studio's not far, is it? We could grab some more coffee on the way. My treat."

My heart did a confusing little flutter. Go to my studio? With Eddie? It was an absolute mess. Canvas scraps, dried paint tubes, half-eaten bowls of cereal, my emergency stash of sour gummy worms… it was the true landscape of my artistic process, and my life. It was far too revealing. And the thought of him seeing it, of him stepping into that chaotic, private space… it made my breath catch.

"Oh. Uh. My studio," I stammered, feeling the heat rise in my face again. "It's… it's not exactly tidy. It's more of a… creative explosion." I winced, hearing myself. *Creative explosion?* That was so profoundly cliché. So *me*.

He laughed, a genuine, delighted sound that filled the gallery and actually made me smile despite myself. "A creative explosion? Sounds perfect, Jesse. I've seen worse. Trust me. Besides," he added, stepping back, retrieving his coat from a nearby chair. It was a sturdy, dark wool, a little worn at the cuffs. "I'm a gallery owner. I understand the sacred chaos of the artist's lair. It's practically part of the job description. So. Coffee first? Or studio first? Time's ticking, remember. Only two weeks until opening night."

The urgency in his voice was real, but his eyes held a teasing warmth. He held my gaze, challenging me, waiting for my decision. Part of me wanted to bolt, to invent a sudden, crippling allergy to caffeine or public spaces. Another, louder part, the part that was a little bit masochistic and a lot bit intrigued, felt a strange pull. The idea of him in my space, seeing the raw, unedited version of me, was terrifying. But also… incredibly tempting. It felt like a dare. And Eddie, with his calm certainty, always made me want to take dares.

"Coffee," I said, the word coming out with more confidence than I felt. "Then the… creative explosion." I managed a small, nervous smile. He nodded, a satisfied expression on his face, and gestured towards the door, already halfway there. My hands were still shaking slightly, but for the first time all day, the pigeon flock in my chest wasn't entirely made of panic. There was something else there, too. A flicker of anticipation. A strange, electric hum that had nothing to do with the old heater.

As we walked out into the cool, damp spring air, the scent of fresh rain and blooming jasmine stronger now, I felt Eddie's presence beside me like a silent promise. He wasn't just helping with an exhibition; he was helping me untangle myself, piece by piece, and he was doing it with a quiet, undeniable force that left me both breathless and strangely… seen. And for some reason, the thought of him seeing the full, unvarnished chaos of my studio didn't feel quite as terrifying anymore. Not with him there. Not with that steady, reassuring warmth emanating from him.