Cold Hearts and Stubborn Minds

15

Friday

When I woke up the next morning I sighed, rubbing my eyes and pulling the blankets closer. Dylan wasn't there anymore, probably
Doing whatever it was he did in the morning. Flying, maybe?

I sat up slowly, yawning and brushing a hand through my hair, looking around and finally taking in the room as a whole.

The walls are glittering slightly, the rock a soft black color, like the night. The bed has a red blanket, a deep, rich red that's easy on the eyes, streaked with gold. He always has such nice stuff. I have no idea how.

I blink a few times and watch the candle beside me flicker. It's giving off a soft scent... Woody... Sandalwood, I realize.

I sigh again and rub my hands over my face. Last night feels like a dream, practically. It doesn't seem real. But it does, all the same. I can easily recall the feeling of his hands on my body, his mouth against mine. My lips were still tingling from that. And considering I'm in a cave, that makes it almost certain that it's real. Almost. I could've dreamt it.

The wall on the far side of the room is decorated with a series of swirls and lines and dots and shapes of all kinds. It's nice to look at, relaxing. I guess he got bored sometimes. I suppose this would be a good place to come in the summer, if you didn't have any candles burning. But how could he see in the dark to paint?

I rubbed my face again and groaned slightly, pushing the blankets off. This was all happening way too fast for me to comprehend.

I feel eyes on me in that moment and look towards the doorway. Sure enough, as I do, a shadow darts out of sight. He's avoiding me this time. Odd, but interesting.

The question is, how am I going to find him? He probably knows this cave inside and out.

~~

Maybe luck had something to do with it, a few hours later.

I turn a corner, wandering. It wasn't really a corner, more like a curve or slant, and I run my hand along it as I do so.

I sigh, my eyes adjusted to the dim light by now, seeing how the shadows clung to every ridge of the wall. I notice, though, that a shadow is off slightly.

It's shaped like a stretched out wing.

I smirk slightly to myself and then drop the expression, walking around the corner silently, my heart skipping a beat when I see Dylan, standing there and painting. I knew it would be him, but still.

I look past him, difficult as it was, the shadows seeming to outline every curve of his body, and at the painting on the wall. It's an eye, much like the one in his sketchbook, but much more elaborate.

It takes a moment for me to realize it, but Dylan is painting my eyes. Or, eye. I feel my cheeks warm as I realize just how much attention he pays to me when we're close enough that I can make out all the different shades of silver and curves in them. I do the same thing, I realize as well. I pay just as close attention as he does.

I watch as his hands moves, the brush creating strokes and blending colors. His feathers ruffle occasionally, and I wonder why.

The question was, do I interrupt him or not? I could faintly make out the curve of his jaw, illuminated by candle light, making his skin seem to glow a soft golden color.

I take a slow step back and then stop when I see him stiffen. Damn it.

"I know you're there, Ryan," Dylan says softly, and I notice a slight trace of want in his voice. He doesn't stop painting, just ruffles his feathers slightly and stretches a wing towards me.