I’m Back
Chapter nineteen
I’m Back
The taxi ride from Knightsbridge to South Kensington felt like it took hours.
Blake sat in the back seat, his leg bouncing with nervous energy, his eyes fixed on the gray London streets blurring past the window. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and reflective, the city washed clean.
He paid the driver before the car had even fully stopped, shoving a handful of notes through the partition, and bolted out the door.
He ran up the steps to the flat, his pulse thundering in his ears. He fumbled with his keys, his hands shaking so badly he dropped them twice before finally managing to unlock the door.
He pushed it open, stepping into the hallway.
“Andre!” Blake called out, his voice echoing in the quiet space. There was no answer.
Blake walked quickly through the flat, checking the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom. It was empty. The air was stale, the surfaces covered in a fine layer of dust. It looked like no one had lived there in weeks.
Panic flared in his chest. Where was he?
He pulled out his phone, his finger hovering over Andre’s name in his contacts, but then he stopped.
The painting. The paint had still been tacky.
He hadn’t painted it here. He had painted it at the studio.
Blake turned and ran back out the door, taking the stairs two at a time. He didn’t wait for another taxi. He ran toward the Underground station, his long legs eating up the distance, his breath coming in sharp, burning gasps.
He took the District line to Embankment, then the Bakerloo line to Waterloo, his mind racing the entire way. What was he going to say? How were they going to fix this? He didn’t have the answers. He only knew that he had to see him. He had to be in the same room as him.
He emerged from the station and ran down The Cut, dodging pedestrians and umbrellas, his eyes scanning the familiar storefronts until he saw the heavy wooden door of the studio building.
He still had his key. He unlocked the street door and took the narrow, creaking stairs to the top floor.
He stopped outside Andre’s studio, his chest heaving, his hand resting on the doorknob.
He took a deep breath, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.
The studio was freezing. The air was thick with the smell of oil paint, cold stone, and stale coffee. The floor was covered in discarded canvases, rags, and empty paint tubes.
It looked like a war zone. And in the corner, on the small, narrow cot, Andre was asleep. Blake walked slowly across the room, his footsteps silent on the paint-splattered floorboards. He stopped beside the cot, looking down at the man he loved.
Andre looked terrible. He was wearing a thick sweater that looked two sizes too big for him, his face pale and gaunt, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
His hands, resting on top of the thin blanket, were stained with the same colors that made up the painting in Blake’s hotel room — indigo, crimson, gold.
He looked completely, utterly broken.
Blake felt emotion surging through him — a mixture of profound grief for the pain they had both endured, and a fierce, protective love that eclipsed everything else.
He stood there, watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of Andre’s chest, and the tears he had been holding back finally broke free.
They spilled over his lashes, tracking silently down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away. He just stood there, letting the reality of the moment wash over him.
A single tear fell from his chin, dropping through the cold air of the studio, and landed softly on Andre’s cheek.
Andre stirred.
His brow furrowed, his dark eyelashes fluttering against his pale skin. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the dim light of the studio.
He saw Blake standing over him.
For a long moment, Andre didn’t move. He didn’t speak.
He just stared, his eyes wide and unfocused, his mind struggling to process the image in front of him.
He thought he was dreaming. He had dreamed of this exact moment a hundred times in the past few weeks, waking up to the cold, empty reality of the studio.
He reached a trembling hand up, his paint-stained fingers hovering inches from Blake’s face, afraid that if he touched him, the illusion would dissolve.
Blake caught his hand.
He wrapped his fingers around Andre’s, the warmth of his skin shocking against contrast to the freezing air of the room. He pressed Andre’s palm against his cheek, leaning into the touch, closing his eyes.
“I’m back,” Blake said simply.
The words hung in the air, quiet and final.
Andre let out a broken, shuddering gasp. The illusion didn’t shatter. The warmth was real. The voice was real.
He sat up, the blanket falling away, and threw his arms around Blake’s waist, burying his face in his stomach. He clung to him with a burning need, his body shaking with the force of his sobs.
Blake dropped to his knees beside the cot, wrapping his arms around Andre’s shoulders, pulling him tight against his chest. He buried his face in Andre’s dark curls, breathing in the smell of him, the familiar, intoxicating scent of oil paint and skin.
“I’m sorry,” Andre sobbed, the words muffled against Blake’s jacket. “I’m so sorry, Blake. I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” Blake whispered, his own tears soaking into Andre’s sweater. “I know you are.”
They held each other in the freezing studio, the silence broken only by the sound of their weeping, two broken pieces of a whole finally slotting back together.
Andre pulled back slightly, his hands coming up to frame Blake’s face. He looked into the blue eyes he had painted a thousand times, searching for the anger, the disgust, the rejection he knew he deserved.
But he only found love. It was bruised and battered, but it was there, steady and undeniable.
“Viens ici,” "Come here," Andre whispered, and leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t a gentle, tentative kiss. It was a collision. It was craving, hungry, and violent, fueled by weeks of starvation and agony. Blake kissed him back with equal ferocity, his hands tangling in Andre’s hair, his mouth opening to the familiar, intoxicating taste of him.
The kiss ignited a fire that burned away the cold, the exhaustion, the lingering ghosts of the past month.
“Enfin,” Finally. Andre breathed against Blake’s mouth. “Enfin, enfin, enfin.”
Blake pushed Andre backward onto the narrow cot, following him down, their bodies pressing together in a frantic, urgent tangle of limbs. They tore at each other’s clothes, their hands clumsy in their haste, hungry to remove the barriers between them, yearning to feel skin against skin.
Nothing in their history had prepared him for what followed.
It was raw and emotional, stripped of all pretense. There was no gentle buildup, no careful exploration. It was a primal, overwhelming need to reclaim what was theirs, to brand themselves onto each other, to erase the memory of anyone else who had touched them.
Blake moved over Andre with a fierce, possessive intensity, his hands gripping Andre’s hips, his thrusts deep and punishing. Andre arched his back, his nails digging into Blake’s shoulders, his voice breaking as he cried out Blake’s name over and over again, a litany of devotion and surrender.
They were both crying, the tears mixing with the sweat on their skin, the physical pleasure inextricably tangled with the profound, overwhelming relief of reconciliation.
When Blake finally came, he collapsed against Andre’s chest, his body shuddering, his breath tearing through his throat in harsh, shattered gasps. Andre wrapped his arms around him, holding him tightly, his own climax washing over him in a wave of pure, blinding light.
They lay there for a long time, tangled together on the narrow cot, the paint-stained sheets tangled around their legs, the cold air of the studio cooling the sweat on their skin.
Blake shifted his weight, rolling onto his side, pulling Andre flush against his chest. He rested his chin on top of Andre’s head, his hand tracing slow, soothing circles on Andre’s bare back.
“The painting,” Blake said quietly, his voice rough. “It’s beautiful.”
Andre closed his eyes, pressing his face against Blake’s collarbone. “It was the only way I knew how to talk to you.”
“It worked.”
Silence stretched between them, comfortable but heavy with the weight of the things that still needed to be said.
“It’s going to take time, Andre,” Blake said, his voice gentle but firm. “I love you. I’m here. But the trust… it’s broken. It’s going to take time to rebuild it.”
“I know,” Andre whispered, his hand coming up to rest over Blake’s heart. “I know it will. I will spend the rest of my life earning it back. I promise you, Blake. I will never, ever hurt you again.”
“I know it wasn’t intentional,” Blake continued, needing to say the words aloud, needing to clear the air completely. “I know you were high. I know it was a mistake. You’re a good person, Andre. You just… you made a terrible mistake.”
Andre swallowed hard, the shame still a bitter taste in his mouth, but the crushing, unbearable weight of it was gone. Blake had forgiven him. Blake had looked at the worst thing he had ever done and chosen to love him anyway.
“I will fix this,” Andre said, his voice steady, a fierce determination replacing the despair of the past month. “I will show you every day that you are the only thing that matters to me.”
Blake smiled, a small, tired, genuine smile, and pressed a kiss to the top of Andre’s head.
“Okay,” Blake said softly. “Let’s go home.”
They dressed slowly, the urgency of the earlier passion replaced by a quiet, tender domesticity. Andre found a clean sweater in the small wardrobe by the cot. Blake pulled his jacket back on, wincing at the cold.
Andre walked around the studio, turning off the space heater, closing the windows. He stopped in front of the pile of discarded canvases in the corner — the dozens of failed attempts to capture Blake’s face.
“You painted all of these?” Blake asked, coming up behind him, looking at the scattered images of himself.
“Every day,” Andre said quietly. “I couldn’t get you right. Nothing captured what I was feeling. Until the US Open painting.”
Blake reached out, pulling one of the canvases from the pile. It was a study of his hands gripping a racket, the tendons taut with effort. It was beautiful technically flawless, but Andre was right — it lacked the emotional depth of the larger work.
“Keep them,” Blake said, setting it back down. “All of them. They’re part of the story.”
Andre nodded, his throat tight.
They locked the studio together, walking down the narrow stairs and out onto The Cut.
The evening air was cool and damp, the streetlights casting long reflections on the wet pavement. They walked in silence toward the Underground, their shoulders touching, their hands finding each other in the dark.
On the train, Blake leaned his head against the window, exhaustion finally catching up with him. Andre sat beside him, their thighs pressed together, watching the stations blur past.
“Andre,” Blake said, his eyes still closed.
“Yes?”
“The painting. Don’t sell it. Ever.”
Andre smiled, a small, private expression. “I would never.”
They emerged from the station in South Kensington, the familiar streets quiet and empty. When they reached the flat, the smell of bread from Pierre’s bakery slipped through the floorboards — the early morning prep already underway.
They climbed into bed together, fully clothed, too exhausted to do anything but hold each other. Blake pulled Andre against his chest, wrapping his arms around him with a fierce, protective grip.
“We’ll figure it out,” Blake murmured into Andre’s hair. “Day by day.”
“Day by day,” Andre echoed, his eyes already closing.
They fell asleep like that, tangled together in the bed they had shared for four years, the silence of the flat settling around them like a benediction.