Page 112 of Pretty ’n Peak

It was conversation, but it wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to ask if Austin was excited as he was. If Austin would take him to bed tonight.

He wanted to tell Austin he was wearing the panties he bought him. A satiny red pair that hugged his cock and made him feel sexy and gorgeous under his jeans. His cock that was rapidly growing, and hopefully not too visible through the thick denim.

“What does it mean, The Other?” Austin asked.

Mateo drew in a deep breath, refocusing himself. God, he wanted to just throw himself at Austin, but he’d also enjoyed their long walks. Their conversations over meals. All of the time they spent together, talking and sharing bits of their lives.

“It’s this theme in Latin American art, that everyone has an Other, el Otro, inside of them. This person that they can’t express to society, someone wild and alive, that they have a love-hate relationship with. You can see the idea in all of Frida Kahlo’s paintings, which are mostly self-portraits. Or in poetry—like with Octavio Paz or Gabriella Mistral. Probably every modern Latinx artist has a piece of work that invokes El Otro or La Otra.” He shrugged. “There was just an art history professor here. She would know better than me.”

Austin reached toward him, then withdrew his hand. Was he finding it as hard to keep from touching as Mateo was? “So that third panel is your Other?”

“Yeah.” Though not quite. Not like some of the paintings he had at home.

Austin’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. The room was nearly empty. “You had flowers in your hair.”

“Yeah.” His mouth was dry. Austin had seen right through to the part he was aching to let out. Austin who had given him the purple flower that was tucked behind his ear.

He could see words hovering on Austin’s lips. Something like beautiful boy or all those sweet nicknames he’d heard before.

But Austin was fortunately more aware of their surroundings, because he broke the tension welling between them. “Will you tell me about more of your art?”

“Sure.”

He stepped up to the first piece to describe it, and then continued around the room, discussing his own pieces and others’. When they finished the first room, he offered his arm to guide Austin to the next location, heart fluttering at that small contact.

With Austin’s white cane held in front of him, there was no reason he couldn’t keep Austin’s warm hand tucked into the crook of his elbow as they wandered the galleries.

Eventually, Mateo started to relax, enjoying Austin’s simple presence. He was interested in the symbolism in the art, stretching Mateo to put things into words for his own work that he’d never tried to explain, and reaching to explain other pieces he saw.

He chatted with other people who wanted to meet him, Austin slipping back to participate or listen, but always reclaiming his arm afterward.

Mateo was surprised, walking through the exhibit, that he had more technical skill than a lot of the other artists. Though that wasn’t what art was about. It was about evoking emotion. Or making you think.

He thought maybe he did a pretty good job with that, too.

He’d never really seen himself as an artist. Just a guy who liked messing around with paint, at most.

As things were starting to wind down, they bumped into the event organizer, who informed him that his work was bringing in more money for the library than anyone else’s.

Mateo almost didn’t believe him, but Austin nudged his side. “Of course it is.”

“How much?” he asked, still disbelieving.

“Two thousand for the library.”

He swallowed. That meant two thousand for him as well. There were nine paintings, so that was… he couldn’t do the math in his head. But hundreds of dollars each. Over four hundred.

“And I didn’t even bid yet,” Austin chuckled beside him.

“Well, you’ve got time.” The organizer wiggled the phone in his hand. “Thank you again for your contributions, Mateo.”

“You’re welcome. Happy to support the library.”

The organizer walked off, so he turned to Austin. “You don’t have to bid on anything.”

“What if I want to? Can I bid on El Otro?” He made the r sound flat and American, but he’d remembered the words.

“I, uh…” Mateo had made it, thinking of Austin. That it had to be big enough for him to see it. That it should have their purple flower. But everyone else should see it too. It was supposed to be his. “I have another one at home.” The one that he’d made after this one. The one that he couldn’t show anyone else.