32. Gabe

CHAPTER 32

GABE

I forget to look anywhere else but at Ellis the moment we walk into the student center. His nerves are apparent, but the smile that breaks out over his face when he sees all of us is brighter than the spotlights around each piece of art. When he sees me, I think he puts the sun to shame.

Yeah, so I'm a poet now.

I shake myself out of my mushy thoughts so I can force myself to blink. He's just too damn beautiful.

Like a moth to a flame, I make my way directly to him, ignoring everyone in my path. I wrap one arm around the small of his back and lift him against me, pressing a kiss to his pouty mouth before looking down into his fathomless blue eyes.

"You look beautiful," I whisper. He looks amazing, in a pair of ankle length fitted trousers and a black satin suit jacket. With his usual Converse sneakers, a simple white t-shirt, and the arms of the suit jacket rolled to his elbows, he manages to look both elegant and casual. His hair is slicked back in a way that makes me think of James Dean and it's making me feel all kinds of hot under the collar .

"Antoni's doing," he says, biting his lip to avoid smiling at the way I narrow my eyes at him.

It's not until his brother and our friends are pulling him away from me that I realize we've just been holding onto each other and staring for longer than is polite. I begrudgingly let him go, and after Elliot hugs and congratulates him, Ivy, Tyrell, Sean, Jamie, and Antoni converge. He hugs and talks with them all, but keeps tabs on me, looking up to find me watching him every moment.

Ellis' eyes widen as the rest of his friends join us. Behind us, nearly the entire baseball team makes their entrance, dressed in suits and looking at the programs handed out at the door.

"What are you all doing here?" he exclaims.

"Why wouldn't they be here?" Elliot asks. Ellis gives him an incredulous look, and I chuckle, pulling him into my side to kiss his forehead.

"They wanted to come," I tell him. "Elliot mentioned the exhibition, and they just showed up."

Ellis looks a bit shell-shocked as he accepts handshakes and shoulder pats from the team before they all disperse to walk around the gallery. I can see in the way he blinks after them how much it means that they came. He knows they're all getting on a plane early tomorrow morning to fly to Nebraska to play in the College World Series, because obviously I'll be going with them. He's going to meet us there, and then operation Bang The Bat Boy can commence. I didn't even come up with the name for the idiotic plans to sneak Ellis into the team's hotel. I just made sure he has a room booked nearby for backup.

Eventually, Ellis is pulled away to talk to someone from the student newspaper, and the rest of us are left to our own devices. We find Mr. and Mrs. Hope somewhere in the middle of the gallery. I'm moving through the exhibition faster than most .

It's not that I'm not interested, I'm just not an art guy. I can look at something and say it's great, or I hated it, but not actually have anything to back up those opinions other than it's what I thought. I know I love everything I've ever seen in Ellis' sketchbooks, but that could just be because it's Ellis. It could also be that half his drawings these days are of us in various stages of undress. And I love his paintings, but maybe it's just because I love watching him work.

It takes me a minute to realize that the first piece of art that really grabs me is his. A dark depiction of a faceless man, who at first glance seems to be eating a second, smaller figure. The more I look at it, the more I think maybe he's breathing life into the other figure, or kissing him? Or maybe it's all three.

Walking along the stretch of wall that is all Ellis' work is surreal. It hits me in the gut just how fucking talented he is. I mean, I know he is, but seeing it hung up like this makes me realize just how realistic pursuing art could be for him.

I smile when I see a black and white self portrait of Ellis' face and upper torso, a smear of vibrant blue paint stretching up from a splash along the bottom of the canvas. The smear turns into a hand that wraps around his neck. It's not even overtly sexual, but I know what else is mixed in with those paints, and I recognize that look in his eye. I have to put my hands in my pockets to detract from the interest my cock has suddenly taken in art.

Each piece is something really special, showing us pieces of who Ellis is on the inside. I even blush at the depiction of a shadow wrapped around a pale body wearing nothing but white briefs, a blindfold covering his eyes and mouth open in what could be ecstasy or pain.

There's even an actual portrait of me, which I knew nothing about. It's in the reflection of an eye, showing me sitting in the dugout, elbows on my knees, looking out toward the horizon. The title of the piece is, "All I See Is Him."

But the largest canvas in the middle of the wall is what's attracting so much attention, and it's what takes my breath away.

The canvas is taller than I am, and probably five feet wide. The background is layers of black and grey interspersed with tiny peeks of color. A rainbow stretches from the bottom left corner of the canvas, stretching across to the other side. It's faded or broken in some places, small symbols of all the times in his life he felt knocked down or invisible.

Slightly off center is another self-portrait. He's looking up at the rainbow, a tear that looks so real I want to wipe it off the canvas rolls off the edge of his eye. He's biting his lip, and it's hard to read the expression on his face. Somehow, I can see happiness, strength, the same look he gives me when he's flirting, hunger, self-consciousness, pain, and fear all at once. It seems impossible that someone could capture that much emotion in one expression.

And in his hand, he's holding a black blindfold.

Ellis' warm hand slips into mine, and he leans his head against my shoulder.

"What do you think?"

"I think I'm glad you removed the blindfold. From both our eyes."