A Promise Fulfilled [WattyAwards#2012]

Chapter XV: The Ending -¢єиѕσяє∂-

Chapter XV: The Ending -¢єиѕσяє∂ νєяѕισи-

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"Sometimes the things that are felt the most are expressed between two souls over the distance and over time...where no words abide. And others may speak freely, live with one another freely, express themselves freely- just like everyone else, but then there is you... you have no words for proof of reassurance, no tokens of professed love, but you have something. Something worth keeping."

― C. JoyBell C., Saint Paul Trois Ch Teaux: 1948.

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When Dex got home from work that night, Timmy had started to paint again. He had spread his canvas out on the kitchen table, the paint at his fingertips, with soft music playing from the stereo in the living room. Haley was sprawled on the couch, thumbing through a magazine and bobbing her head along with the beat. Dex hung up his coat and dropped his bag in the hall, and she glanced over at him before giving a small wave. Dex returned it.

Timmy didn't look up until Dex had joined him in the kitchen, but when he did, it was with a beaming smile that showed his dimples. "Hi."

"You're painting," Dex said, unable to articulate anything else. Because he could remember the first time he saw Timmy paint, last year already, New Year's Eve, and how by that second time, Dex was already falling for him. He could remember the feel of Timmy warm against his back, the slick slide of paint between his fingers, the rough drag of the canvas, remembered painted trees, and people, and thoughts and memories, and snowflakes and french-fries and walks in the park, and how he'd been so screwed up and f*cked over by his own expectations, drowning himself in drink, and how Timmy had reached in there and plucked him out and made him remember what it felt like to dream, because suddenly he dreamed of Timmy and what they could be together.

Last time, though, Timmy had painted people in sickly yellow. Now, he painted flowers with the pads of his fingers, in blue and purple and red and green. New life. New beginnings.

"Yes, I'm painting." Timmy reached for a light blue tube of paint and squeezed some out. "I felt like it."

"That's good." Dex smiled at Timmy, who grinned back at him. It was so easy, like this, and Dex wished he could make Timmy smile forever.

"Paint with me?" Timmy asked, offering a tube of yellow, and Dex would never be able to say no to that. So he sat, and he painted, and Timmy smiled at him all the way through it.

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It was Friday when they got the call from the hospital, asking Timmy to come in the next day for his appointment. Timmy talked to the nurse, pacing nervously the entire time and biting at this lip. "Is it gone though?" He asked her multiple times, and Dex watched his face as he listened to the answer. When he finally hung up, he turned to Dex and Haley, seated together on the couch, and smiled weakly. "She said it's good news," he said. "She hasn't seen the scans herself, but she says the oncologist says it's good."

Haley folded double in her seat, hand flying out and clutching at Dex's. "Oh thank God," she whispered, and then she was up from the couch and squeezing Timmy tight, and they were both tearing up as they held each other, swinging gently from side to side. Dex sat back and let the information soak in-good news. It was good news.

Timmy was going to live.

And suddenly, there was a whole new future for him to dream.

But why did it feel like nothing has changed?