Chapter One: Owen

The dollops of oil paint layed neatly on the pallete. Vibrant, pristine and untouched by the brush staying still right next to the colorful sight. The fibers of the brush looked as if never soiled, the only evidence of life on the instrument being the stains on the wooden handle and the coating of it peeling off in small areas. 

The canvas on the stand was the same - curated, prepared, ready to be embelished and brought to life with all the instruments beside it, but no luck. In the room coated by sunlight making its way through the big window to the right, where frames upon frames hung on the walls or layed against one covered in paint-splattered plastic, there was a man who couldn't move. 

Right in front of the stand, right in front of the blank canvas, right before the paint he had selected and the brushes he reached out for, the man couldn't bring himself to paint. The rays of light reflected the sorrow in his empty hazel eyes, and made a shadow of his foot tapping against the floor in anxiety.

He could hear them, the voices. The people and the pressure, the past praise and accolades and the disappointment and disdain that would follow at the smallest shift - he had made his way, hadn't he? His name was known and his paintings were constantly fought over. Had he known a slump could possibly mean a disgraceful exit, perhaps he may have never started in the first place.

Owen Adria, the name in the magazines and galleries, was human after all. For the man himself, it wasn't that hard of a guess.

Looking around his studio didn't make things any easier - even what he considered scraps were pieces he wished he had the ability to paint now.

"Should I send these ones?" Owen muttered under his breath, clicking his tongue, while staring at a landscape he had painted when he was twenty-five, three years prior. With a sigh, he shook his head and snickered. "This is fucking pathetic."

The minute Owen was deemed a prodigy, he dropped out of university. He didn't want that heavy of a crown constantly hanging over his head, just waiting to crush him - he always thought the higher the expectations, the higher the stakes. Such beliefs made Owen have the reputation of someone 'humble' in the art circuit but, in reality, all the troubled artist thought of himself was that he was a simple-minded coward.

He sat on the stool again and sighed, ignoring the sight of the blank canvas and going straight to the phone in his pocket. Dreading to see the pile of work-related e-mails and the constat nagging of his friends to set foot outside the studio, he scrolled through social media for some mind-numbing time, until a post made his eyebrow raise.

"Come get what you're looking for in Aurora Lounge. LGBTQ+ only. Private Rooms available including bottle of you choice. Privacy and discretion guaranteed" He read in a hum, still staring at his phone. "Shit reads like a motel, but it's a gay lounge bar."

Staring at the pictures on the screen, a million thoughts ran through Owen's mind - the place looked nice, it was true that he needed to go out of his house but he didn't have the courage to face anyone he knew, stimulation was needed for inspiration and he hadn't gotten laid in quite some time.

The hand that was holding his phone went down and landed on his thigh. He stared at his past glory, hanging on his walls. Looking within, to him, it was clear.

"Fuck it, this works."

The city at night always felt like a dream to Owen, even in his less than fortunate situation. And even if he was walking down, phone in hand with a GPS talking through his earbuds and felt slightly pathetic while doing so - nighttime just made the world look so much friendlier to the man. The lights, the groups of joyful people walking together, people walking their dogs or by themselves going home from work. Quiet. Peaceful. Nobody could see him.

A dream. One of the reasons the artist decided it was just dumb to buy a car.

The Aurora lounge wasn't far from Owen's apartment-studio, and it made sense - a trendy, centric, young and lively part of the city buzzing with life and gay people with some money to spend. Considering it looked like a high-end place, Owen was mentally prepared to spend way out of his budget. One time doesn't hurt, right?

That's what he told himself, although not that convinced.

"Am I really doing this for a fuck?" laughing quietly, he said, as he arrived at his destination.

The lounge was located at the top of an extravagant, tall building. At floor fourty, the place had a panoramic view of the city's skyline, accentuated by the dim-lit inside. 

Upon arrival, patrons were required to sign a non disclosure agreement to ensure discretion and privacy - it only made Owen wonder what type of people were frequenting this overly fancy gay bar, and what was happening inside.

He just giggled and signed. 

Being guided to the gay man's section, the now excited painter acted discreet, walking slowly to the bar and ordering a glass of far-too-expensive whiskey.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

If there was one thing Owen Adria was confident in was his appareance. Messy honey colored hair, bright hazel eyes, a slim but fit frame and a dashing, mesmerizing smile - gay bars were somewhat of a playground, and what he liked the most is that he barely even had to talk to get what he wanted.

Expensive glass of whiskey forgotten, Owen found himself in a private room, straddling the lap of a man that looked like some sort of CEO. Names? Who cares. Occupations? Reputations? Irrelevant. It took one look and the touch of a hand for the artist to end up breathing heavy in another man's mouth.

He knew where it was going, so there was no need to speak - hands were moving fast, hasty, and expensive clothing layed crumpled on the private room's floor. Owen's soft, bare back touched the velvety fabric of the sofa, letting himself feel what he had gone all that way to feel. Hands on his skin, the rush of someone else's desperation for his body, the electricity of being kissed, caressed, licked, bitten. The echo of joint moaning, the dizziness of pleasure, the temporary intimacy of strangers enthralled in one another and the whisper of sweet nothings that only occur in the heat of the moment.

The sound in the private room was straightforward and telling - the slap of skin, the creaking of furniture and the vocal sounds of pleasure. 

Owen was swept in the moment - before he knew it, he was bent over the table, and it was okay as long as it felt good. His brain was mush from the cock inside him and his hand on his own. It wasn't usual for him to act in such a way, but his life wasn't working as usual either. So when the man whose name Owen didn't know offered to continue the ordeal at his place, he didn't think of a reason to say no.

Clothes were on again but the evidence in their hairs, flushed cheeks, swollen lips and dazed eyes gave everything away. 

Still, as the pair was leaving hand in hand, Owen could feel a pair of eyes intensely tracing his steps.

Morning come, Owen was prancing through the quiet streets. He left the man's lavish apartment before he woke up, and decided that perhaps another way of making his brain flow was a walk. The chill of the morning breeze was soothing, his step was calm and the sunlight peeking through the sway of the trees gave a relaxing warmth, his pale skin receiving it gladly.

The night prior had given the painter some food for thought, and a stinging back pain. Perhaps, pleasure wasn't an answer - he had felt quite a lot of it, but didn't feel the need to run to his studio and start painting as it usually happens when he's inspired. It was surely a good release to think of other ways, but nothing more than that.

Owen Adria felt as if an investigation had ended fruitless. 

It had been a while since he had gone out to walk, and the sleep-deprived hazel eyes looked around the shops only to find some new ones, and some of his favorites gone. He walked leisurely, scanning stores and cafes with a slight smile on his face.

Until his feet stopped walking.

"What the fuck?" he gasped in disbelief, feet losing balance and eyes wide open. "Why is that there?"

Inside an Art Coffee Shop, hanging proudly on the exposed brick wall, was the first piece Owen ever sold. A wave of sadness and nostalgia crashed through him, mouth agape and eyes going watery. His breath was unsteady, his mind jumbled, his stomach in a knot and he didn't understand why - many of his pieces were around, why was that one any different?

It was a college project that he sold out of luck, and the start of his career. A simple impressionist landscape in warm pastels, now in the painter's eyes, so amateurish. But, there it was. Presented as if a masterpiece in a new, random art cafe.

Something was telling him to run home. To leave. To not reconnect with that past, to not ask, to go home and sleep. But something bigger was telling him to go with the excuse of getting a coffee and scope around, see if there was another one, see if someone would give him the attention and validation he so badly was craving and needing.

Legs moving on their own. A small bell rang and a warm greeting entered his ears.

He walked towards the counter, and order whatever coffee he could remember at the moment. The place was cozy, with vintage furniture, and art on every wall. Art magazines, paintings, sculptures, all of it - a museum in a small coffee shop. 

Still looking around, Owen sat down on a chair far back, placing his cup on the table in front of him. He sighed - there were luckily no more of his pieces, and also not many people. In his mind, in an art cafe, the possibilities of someone recognizing him were way higher.

Maybe because the place seemed new, it being fairly empty gave him the courage to get up and look at what pieces they had.

Until, from somewhere in that cafe, the same piercing gaze that followed him in the lounge the day prior was tracing his steps again. He looked around and only saw a man with a notebook, head down, focusing solely on it.

At the sight of something so mundane, the pit of Owen's stomach lit on fire.

The dark hair in a small ponytail at the nape of his long neck, the two strands framing the defined, stoic face, the round glasses sliding slowly down the bridge of a sharp but small nose, and the plumpness of his lips, slightly agape in concentration.

His breath hitched, and he knew it wasn't desire or love at first sight - it was deeper. It made his blood feel electric. His body light ablaze. His brain stop thinking.

The man's head lifted. Their eyes met. 

He smiled.