The Art Of The Heart by Dan Skinner

Author:Dan Skinner [Skinner, Dan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cerberus Inc.
Published: 2014-06-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Five

The morning after, Zac awakened smiling. That had never happened to him before. The storm had passed and sunlight struggled to find its way through the shutters. He saw the lines of it on the opposite wall. And from some sleepy corner of his mind he thought that strange. He turned to look at the window and the shutters that were still fastened securely. Something wasn’t registering properly with him and he sat up quickly, hoping the rush of blood would clear his thought process.

He was in his pajamas. They were buttoned to the last button as was his habit. Nothing in his room was out of place. His bed sheets had been tucked neatly about him and his sketchbook was lying at his side. His fingers were stained with lead from the pencils. His door was shut. He could hear the sounds of people moving about downstairs. Had he fallen asleep after he finished drawing? Had everything he thought had happened been the fantasy-driven illusion of a dream? He wouldn’t have that. He couldn’t have that. It was the most important thing that had ever happened to him.

He touched his lips. He didn’t want to believe the kisses he experienced hadn’t been real; the words he’d heard something conjured from his own need. He rose and slid his window open, tried the shutter. It was still latched from the inside. He turned to look at his bed. There were only the creases where he had slept, seemingly undisturbed in any other way.

Disappointment dropped upon him like a wet canopy. His smile faded. Barefoot, he padded to his door and opened it just as Rory walked past it. The young man turned to smile at him.

“Mornin’ there Two-Tone. Breakfast is just about ready if you wanna join us all. Bring your lantern down when you come.” And he was gone down the stairs.

Closing the door, he leaned against it, feeling sadness clot his thoughts. He’d gone from waking with a smile to wanting to cry in a matter of moments.

“All a dream,” he sighed, morosely. A dream that had felt more real than any other in his life. His body suddenly seemed heavy, weighted down with his disillusionment as he carried himself back to his bed and sat.

It was all still so fresh in his mind. He looked at his fingertips smudged with pencil. Picking up the sketchbook he opened it, flipping quickly through to near the end of the book. He stopped at the last scene he remembered drawing. Eros falling on his own arrow and seeing the boy in the bed. His hand hesitated to turn the page.

Finally he flipped the page. And there it was, the beginning of his dream. Eros’s seduction of the boy. Their kisses. Their intimacies, all drawn with the detail he’d mistaken as reality. Everything was included, even the heart-shaped mole at the corner of the superhero’s mouth. The scenes were erotic, but tasteful. What did not show in the sketches he remembered feeling, tasting, experiencing.

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