Arin never expected Lucien to be quiet for so long.
The man who normally teased him like a playful puppy had been unusually withdrawn since morning. No spontaneous hugs. No hovering near the kitchen like a giant shadow while Arin cooked. No questions, no touching, not even that endearing sulking that Arin pretended to hate but secretly waited for.
It was well past midnight when Lucien finally broke the silence. "I want to show you something," he said, voice low.
Arin looked up from his book, arching an eyebrow. Lucien's tone wasn't playful. It was heavy, almost nervous.
Lucien led him into the spare room—the one he had insisted on keeping locked until now.
The moment Arin stepped inside, his breath caught in his throat.
Hundreds of pages lined the walls, pinned up with care. Others were stacked on the desk, curled at the edges like they'd been handled too many times. A dim lamp cast a faint golden glow, flickering like candlelight over every inch of the room.
It was a gallery. Not of art, but of pain.
Lucien walked over to the desk and began carefully spreading some of the drawings on the floor. "These are the old ones," he said. "I used to draw in secret. In shelters. On the street. Whenever I had paper."
Arin knelt beside him and picked one up.
It was a boy crouched in the corner of a room, arms around his knees, eyes wide with terror. Behind him loomed a monstrous figure made of shadows, belt in hand.
Arin turned to the next page.
A child with bruises scribbled onto his skin, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Another sketch showed a teenager with split knuckles and bloody lips, fists clenched around cash.
"These are you," Arin whispered.
Lucien gave a faint nod. "Most of them."
Arin felt something twist in his chest.
"Why didn't you show me these before?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Lucien didn't answer. He handed Arin another drawing.
It took him a second to register what he was looking at.
It was him.
Arin.
His own face, bloodied, one eye swollen shut, mouth open in a scream that had never made it past the paper.
Arin's lips parted. "When did you draw this?"
Lucien sat down beside him, knees brushing. "After your birthday. I dreamed you died. You were on the ground, covered in blood. I couldn't reach you."
Arin held the page tightly. It shook in his hands.
Lucien continued, "It's how I see people I care about. Always bleeding. Always slipping away."
"You think I'm going to leave?" Arin asked.
"I think you'll break before you let yourself stay."
Silence fell between them like ash.
Arin looked again at the sketch—his image, twisted by pain but still recognizable. The artist hadn't just captured his face. He had captured the things Arin hid even from himself. The fear. The guilt. The exhaustion.
"You see too much," Arin said softly.
Lucien offered a faint smile. "You hide too much."
There was something raw in his voice. No teasing. No charm. Just truth.
Arin let the pages scatter between them. He looked up at Lucien, searching his eyes. "And what is all of this supposed to tell me?"
Lucien's jaw tensed. "That I'm not just someone who wants your body. I want your mess. Your silence. Your darkness. Even the parts you hate."
Arin looked away. His eyes burned.
Lucien reached over and gently took Arin's hand.
"I draw pain, Arin. Because I've lived it. And I see it in you. But I want to show you something different too. Maybe... maybe I can draw us smiling one day."
Arin choked out a laugh, small and rough. "We'd both look ridiculous."
Lucien leaned closer. "Then I'll draw that too."
They sat there, on the cold floor of a room filled with scars inked in pencil.
And for the first time in a long time, Arin didn't feel the need to pretend.
He let Lucien hold his hand, let him brush his thumb over his knuckles, let his shoulder rest against Lucien's.
The silence wasn't suffocating this time.
It was healing.
But Arin couldn't stop glancing back at that sketch. The bloodied version of himself.
He wasn't sure if Lucien had drawn a nightmare.
Or a prophecy.
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