As they stepped inside the darkened, faintly echoing space, though, he let himself linger a bit longer, taking in the woven rattan shades that had replaced the standard-issue school blinds over the windows; the table against the wall with the rows of paper-cutting and screen-printing and laminating machines; the rack of thousands of crumpled, well-used paint tubes that took up an entire wall; the crinkled watercolor paintings pinned up all along one wall, some skilled, some clumsy, but enough collected that it would take more than a single year’s classes to account for them.
Anything to keep from looking at the man who trailed into the room behind him, closing the door with a small click of the latch and reaching over to flick the light switch.
Anything to avoid thinking about how Rian had purred Damon in a way that made Damon’s entire body knot up with a sudden wash of taut heat, hitting him out of fucking nowhere and making his blood pressure spiral—only to spike into a rush of frustration when, right after, Rian had just...
Smiled at him.
In that weird way that made him look like he was playing the part of someone else.
God damn, it was already getting under Damon’s skin.
Why the fuck did he smile like that?
Why smile at all, if you didn’t meant it?
Damon sure as hell never bothered.
So he focused not on Rian, but on how the room filled with little discs of spangled gold light; the fluorescent light fixtures in the room had been covered over, their square panels shaded with covers of thin stained glass. Swirling designs of delicate black wrought iron framed fragile panes of gold-tinted glass, until their light fell over the room like motes of faerie dust, gilding everything.
Damon found himself briefly caught—lingering over how the room changed in that light, haunting and captivating, only for Rian’s muted voice to drift over the space.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Normally it blends with the sunlight so it’s not so obvious.”
“I don’t mind it,” Damon said. “You made those...?”
“I did.”
“Thought you were just a painter.”
“Painter, sculptor, dancer, pianist, violinist, glassblower, papercrafter... I try many things, linger with none.” Rian let out a quietly humorless scoff that sounded like it wanted to be a laugh and failed. “Changing with the seasons, ever fickle.”
Something in that voice that spoke like honey but stung like pepper compelled Damon to look back at Rian.
He understood, then, why Rian smiled that fake, plastic smile.
Because he was smiling now—but it was a small thing full of soft, quiet hurts Damon felt he was never meant to see.
Because Rian’s real smile was lost, pained.
Because Damon wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to show that to anyone if he could help it.
And he didn’t think Rian would like that he’d shown that face to Damon...so Damon turned away, giving Rian a moment to compose himself, glancing over the room and looking for something, anything to fill the silence.
He fell on the largest clay sculpture left out to dry, set out on a back table of its own, far away from the rest. A wisteria tree spiraled up from roots splayed across wax paper, detailed with absolute artistry and care, its bark textured with tiny scored lines, its leaves shaped in delicate trailers so fine and slender it was a wonder they didn’t snap under their own weight. Everything from the arc of the leafy tendrils to the wizened gnarl of the trunk was so realistic Damon could almost see the colors that would be painted on later, bringing it to life from featureless gray.
He drifted closer to it, then stopped; as fragile as it was, he felt like he shouldn’t get too close, as if he’d crush it with his weight just by standing too near. “Did you make that, too...?”
“No.” Murmured, drawing closer as the whisper of Rian’s worn leather sandals grew louder, bringing him into closer proximity. “Chris did. It’s what he was working on this afternoon, before he left.”
That made Damon take a second look.
Fuck.
This kid was fucking talented, and he was wasting it on...what?
What the hell was he running away from, that he’d lied to both Rian and Damon?
Where was he going, when he claimed he was with both of them?
“It’s good,” he said thickly, because he couldn’t get those questions out just yet. “He’s good.”
“He is,” Rian agreed, drifting to Damon’s side. He had a way of moving that made his every step seem like a slow, quiet wave rolling to shore, with the way his gracefully loose clothing drifted behind him like a train; like a trail of dissolving magic in his wake. He stopped next to Damon, his eyes lidding as he looked down at the wisteria sculpture. “Wisteria symbolizes long life and health, to some. Or to others...victory against struggle. I wonder why he chose it.”
“Sometimes a chair is just a chair,” Damon said.
But he wondered that, too.
The silence held between them for several moments, laden and waiting—until Rian asked, almost too low to hear, raw-edged and broken, “What are we going to do?”
That we should have made Damon bristle more.
“I don’t know,” he said. “If we confront him, he’s probably gonna go to his parents, and that’s exactly what Walden doesn’t want, isn’t it?”
“It’s the why of that that I can’t accept.” Rian’s mouth creased. “How can he say that? How can he just go along with that, aiding these ghastly people in forgetting their own children? Treating them like nuisances and burdens?”
“What do you want him to do?” Damon asked. “Force them all to go to family counseling? Sit all of them down and teach them a good lesson? They’d pull their children out, and Albin would collapse.”
“Maybe it deserves to collapse!” Rian flared, bright spots of red bringing color to his ghost-pale face; the glints in his eyes were the same color as the golden spangles of light spilling down from above. “If this place didn’t exist, maybe they wouldn’t feel so comfortable shunting their sons off out of sight!”
“If this place didn’t exist,” Damon pointed out softly, “they’d just neglect them at home. At least here, we can try to do better by them. Try to give them...”
“Structure?” Rian flung at him, as if the word was some kind of curse.
“Family,” Damon finished.
Rian just looked at him with his eyes hot, his jaw tight—before he turned away sharply, reaching out to smooth his fingertips against the edges of the wax paper under the wisteria sculpture, making it crinkle and crackle as if snapping out the sound of his feelings.