Page 142 of Something Like Forever
“I guess so,” Tim saidwith a chuckle. “Still, it’s not so bad, is it? Being old mentogether?”
Ben looked into eyes thatwere still as bright as the day they met. Then he leaned closer fora kiss. After their lips parted, he smiled and said, “No. Not badat all.”
* * * * *
Tim picked up thepaintbrush with a shaking hand, but as soon as it neared thecanvas, it grew steady again. He wasn’t sure why. He couldn’t willit to stop shaking normally, but something about this activitycalmed his mind. Or maybe it was the decades of practice. He wouldask the doctors about it at MD Anderson tomorrow. One of them mightknow. For now, he was much more interested in putting the finishingtouches on this piece. He was just about to coax out a particularlydelicate line when someone knocked on the door, nearly causing himto mess up. After pulling back carefully, he looked over and said,“It better be important!”
The door opened. Ben stuckin his head, the brown eyes surrounded by crinkles, the hair wispyand thin. Tim had planned on staying crabby, but that wasimpossible when faced with the greatest love of his life.Especially when he had been revisiting so many memories as of late,it was nice to be reminded of the good things that were still apart of his present.
“Can I see it yet?” Benasked.
“No!” Tim said, bracinghimself to turn the easel if need be.
“So it’sa gift for me?” Ben asked with a knowing smile.
“Yes,”Tim said. To commemorate their seventieth anniversary, which theyhad already celebrated, but inspiration couldn’t be rushed. “If youdon’t stop bothering me, I’ll never finish it and you’ll never seeit.”
“Just a peek?” Ben put ona pouty expression that was intentionally adorable. It almostworked.
“I should be finishedsoon. Not much longer, I swear.”
“Okay.I’m making sandwiches for lunch. Do you want me to bring them outhere? We could eat together.”
“Thatwould be nice,” Tim said, already knowing it was a ruse to see thepainting, but he didn’t truly mind. He would probably be done bythen because he really was close. He just needed a little moreprivacy. “Go easy on the mustard this time. And try not to burnthem.”
“They’re sandwiches!” Bensaid. “How am I going to burn them? I wasn’t even planning on usingthe toaster.”
“You’ll find a way,” Timsaid. “You always do.”
Ben glared, but it wassoon replaced by a gleeful expression, his eyes moving to thecanvas again. “Am I going to like it?”
“I hope you’ll loveit.”
“Okay.” Ben still didn’tleave. “Do you like me?”
Tim laughed. “I love you,Benjamin.”
That did the trick. Bensmiled as if it was the first time Tim had ever said that to him.“I love you too,” he replied, finally leaving and closing the doorbehind him.
Tim turned his attentionback to the canvas, creating one line and another, bringing it alltogether. The finishing touches. He liked, when it came to paintingat least, how literal that was. Another dab of green, a touch ofyellow, and then… Finished.
Tim took a step back tolook at the canvas. If he walked to the door and opened it, hewould see a similar scene. An old house, every inch cared for andcovered in memories. Tim had delved deep into the past for thepainting. Parked outside of it was a slightly battered car, the oneJason had inherited from Ben shortly after he first came to livewith them. Inside the nearby open garage was a Bentley. Thevehicles made him nostalgic, but not nearly as much as the frontstoop, where a bike leaned against the house and two men stood nextto each other. One of them, muscular and blond, had his arm aroundthe shoulders of a smaller guy with messy brown hair. Jason andWilliam had helped fill their house with love, but they weren’t theonly ones to do so.
Tim went to the corner ofthe studio where he had hidden another canvas. A single paintingwasn’t enough to surprise Ben anymore, so Tim had completed two. Apair, one not complete without the other. Once they were side byside, he took a step back, pleased with the result. He hoped itwould make a good present. The longer they were together, the moreimpossible it seemed that Tim would ever find a way of trulycommunicating what he felt. His love for Ben was too colossal to beexpressed in words or any other artistic medium, but he had to keeptrying.
Tim moved to the sofa andsat, still studying his work. His eyes closed of their own accord afew times. One of the perks of being an artist was getting to takeplenty of naps. He liked to think they refueled his creativity.With his lungs so tight, as they had been of late, he feltespecially tired. Tim tried the old breathing exercises he had beentaught during his recovery, and when they failed to help, decidedto stretch out on the couch, knowing that Ben would let himself ineven without permission. What better way of being roused from sleepthan with food? Aside from sex. Maybe they would manage that too.Before he drifted off, Tim’s attention shifted to a differentpainting, one that never failed to make his heart swell withaffection. Chinchilla, his little princess. He stared at it as longas he could, and as his eyes shut, he swore he could hear herbarking in excitement, as if she was happy to finally see himagain.
* * * * *
Ben set the serving traydown on a small table outside the studio. A chair was to each sideof it. Tim would sometimes sit there on the cooler nights to drinka beer, Ben joining him occasionally, but he wasn’t willing to sitnow. Not when getting up again took so much effort. Instead heleaned against the shed to catch his breath. He was tempted toknock on the door and have Tim carry everything inside, but thatwould give him the opportunity to cover the painting. And besides,Ben might be hopelessly old, but he still tried to hide that. Hewanted Tim to see him as energetic and self-sufficient, to make himproud and keep him falling in love over and over again. He supposedanother ten years together wouldn’t be so bad. A lot of work, buttheir love had always been worth the effort.
Ben pushed away from theshed, picked up the tray again, and held it against himself withone arm so he could use his free hand to open the door. He tried todo so quietly, but a butter knife slid off the tray and clatteredto the ground.
“Can you grab that?” hesaid, hoping to distract Tim long enough that he could slip insideand see the painting.
As it turned out, he couldhave barged right in. Tim was on the couch, stretched out on hisside, taking a nap. Ben smiled, shuffled inside, and set the trayon the table. Then he turned around to consider the painting,concerned he was seeing double. Two paintings, not one! At first hewas disappointed. The work was beautiful. That came as no surprise,but the subject seemed so commonplace, since they spent most oftheir time at this house. Then he noticed the pair standing outsidethe home. Jason and William when they were still young, but best ofall, they were home again. This filled Ben with so much emotionthat he was tempted to rush outside to see if this wish had cometrue. Instead he turned his attention to the other painting. Thefirst had shown their house from the front. The second was the samehouse from the back, where they had made more memories. When henoticed the bulldog sitting on the back patio, a little gray catnot far away, Ben covered his mouth with his hand to stop himselffrom crying out. Seeing them again felt too good. Then he noticedthe two figures in the yard, facing each other while holding hands.He grinned at Tim’s dark hair, his upright posture, and thoseirresistible muscles. As for Ben, he seemed impossibly young. Heoften felt that way when not dealing with aches and pains orlooking in the mirror, but it was still nice to see himself thatway again. Those had been such rich times, so new and full ofturmoil, but even through the worst of it, they’d still had somuch.
Ben spun around, hischeeks wet. He needed to wake Tim up. This was always his favoritepart, when his art managed to move Ben to tears. He wouldn’t wantto miss it.
