Chapter 18 #2
“Not clearly,” Noah admitted. “Not like this. But… there was this kid in the art hallway. He always had charcoal fingerprints. He always walked fast. He sat in the back row of assemblies with a notebook.” His mouth curved into a smile. “He never looked directly at people if he could help it.”
Eli’s heart stuttered.
“I used to pass by the art room on the way to practice,” Noah said. “Sometimes I’d see him through the door, his head down, drawing, as if the world didn’t exist the same way for him as it did for everyone else.”
“You never said anything,” Eli murmured.
“I was stupid,” Noah said with a shrug. “I was also busy being my own kind of terrified. I was out-ish, but only the shiny, acceptable parts. I thought if I stopped to look too closely at anyone, I might lose my role.”
“The golden boy,” Eli said.
“Yeah, that.” Noah’s voice dripped with disdain. His gaze dropped to the sketch again. “And now I find out the quiet art kid I noticed in passing was…” He shook his head, smiling a little. “You.” He looked back up, eyes bright. “And that you spent at least one afternoon turning me into…this.”
Eli risked a glance down. The drawing stared back, his past-self’s shaky lines transforming memory into something solid. It was both embarrassing and oddly grounding to see his teenage heart on paper like that.
“I kept it because it felt like proof,” Eli told him.
“Proof of what?”
“That I wasn’t broken. That I could feel things. Want things. That there was someone out there who made me want things.” He exhaled slowly. “For a long time, this was the only evidence I had that I wasn’t just faking being me.”
Noah’s breathing grew ragged. He reached out and with extreme care, he closed the sketchbook. Then he turned his whole body toward Eli.
“Thank you for trusting me with that.”
Eli’s laugh came out shaky. “I almost didn’t.”
“I know,” Noah said. “I could see it on your face. You’ve been carrying this around for days as though it weighed a ton.”
“It did,” Eli admitted.
“And now?”
“It still feels heavy, but less suffocating now I’ve shared it.”
Something tender moved through Noah’s expression. “If it helps,” he said, “I think fifteen-year-old you had excellent taste.”
Eli snorted. “He thought you were some kind of god.”
“I was absolutely not.”
“Tell that to him.” Eli nodded at the book. “He disagrees.”
Noah smiled. “What about thirty-two-year-old you?”
Eli swallowed.
“What does he think?” Noah asked in a hushed tone.
Eli met his eyes and let himself really look at the man in front of him, his laughter lines, his worry lines, his flannel shirt speckled with sawdust, all of it.
“I think you’re…” He hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “Better than what he drew.”
Noah’s breath stuttered. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Eli said. “You’re not a fantasy. You’re…you.”
Noah’s smile went crooked and bright, as if Eli had given him the best compliment in the world. “And you,” he said, leaning in, “are trouble.”
“Retroactive trouble,” Eli corrected.
“The worst kind.” He brought his hand up to cradle the side of Eli’s neck. “Can I kiss you?”
“God, yes.” Eli laughed. “How many times do I have to tell you that you—”
Noah stopped his words with a kiss that started out tender, but then morphed into something deeper.
Our stories started long before we realized, and we’re only now catching up.
When they parted, Noah rested his forehead against Eli’s. “Okay, I have a weird question.”
“That’s your brand,” Eli said.
“Do you still draw like that?”
“Like…what?”
“Like you did then. From watching. From wanting.”
“Sometimes,” Eli said cautiously.
“Would you…” Noah’s voice quavered. “Would you want to draw me now? As…this. Us. Real.”
Eli’s heart was about to burst.
“Maybe. If you let me.”
“I’m literally asking you to,” Noah said with a smile. “So yeah, consent granted. Take your time. We’re in no rush.”
We.
The word settled into Eli’s bones.
Noah glanced back at the sketchbook on the table.
“This makes me feel less like everything in my life started with getting my heart broken and more like…some threads were always there. We just finally pulled the right ones.”
Eli leaned into Noah’s shoulder, the two of them sitting close, the sketchbook between them like a bridge instead of a secret. Outside, snow brushed against the windows.
“Eli?” Noah’s voice was low.
“Yeah?”
“Next time your brain tells you you’re forgettable,” Noah murmured, “remember this. I’ve been walking around this town for years without you, and it turns out you were there the whole time. On paper. In hallways. In the back row. In my goddamn future.”
Eli’s throat burned.
“Okay,” he managed.
“Good.” Noah kissed his temple. “Because I’m not planning on forgetting you again.”
Those had to be the sweetest words Eli had ever heard.
“Wanna have dinner with me?” Noah asked.
He grinned. “Only if you save the shenanigans until after we’ve eaten. That way, it might be edible.”
Noah chuckled. “I’m not even going to risk it. We’re ordering in. Of course, it might take a while to get here.”
Eli grinned. “I’m sure we’ll find something to do in the meantime.”
Noah opened the sketchbook to a clean page. “I have pencils. And I’ve always wanted to be a life model.”
Eli let his gaze drift lower. “I’ll need a bigger piece of paper.”
“Oh my. You know how to make a guy feel good, don’t you?”
It wasn’t until Noah headed into the kitchen, still laughing, that his earlier words truly sank in.
I reserve the right to tease you about it until we’re old.
Eli’s heart skipped a beat.
Would it be too much to hope that we’re old together?