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Leland could no longer remember when he first met Henry.
Their lives simply drifted into each other's orbits, circling around silently, until neither of them ever thought to break this strange, unspoken bond.
They knew each other only on the surface, yet deeply enough to see each other’s scars. Henry never hesitated to lay bare the deep-rooted emotions buried in his chest to Leland. At first, Leland couldn't quite fathom why Henry chose to repeatedly inflict pain upon himself, enduring lingering torment instead of ending it all at once to get the hurting over with.
Then, one day, Leland asked him upfront. Henry blinked a few times in disbelief before letting out a soft giggle—a sound Leland thought resembled the chiming of small bells.
“What kind of question is that? you want to kill me or some?”
Leland’s eyes widened at the playful tease. He shook his head vigorously, which only made Henry laugh harder, leaving Leland no choice but to pout.
………………
To Leland, Henry’s canvas was drenched in pitch black, a color too stubborn to fix. If you dropped any other color onto it, the black would completely swallow it up, stealing its vibrancy and replacing it with pure melancholy. Leland wasn't an artist, but he didn't like it. He didn't really know why.
“You should take better care of your own life instead of looking after someone else's.”
Don't love others more than love yourself. That was what Henry had told him one quiet dusk, standing on a sidewalk near a strip club and a small entertainment district in New York City. Leland never looked away; his eyes were always fixed on Henry, listening to the older man talk about life, death, damnation, and a better future for Leland. He didn't understand why his own future was even part of the conversation. All he knew was that he wanted to comfort Henry. This man carried so much sorrow on his shoulders that it almost made Leland sick with grief.
Leland had always been this way—all too perceptive of other people's sadness, feeling it so deeply that it hurt him instead.
When he met Henry, the man seemed like a vessel for bitterness, anguish, and despair, all trapped inside his cold body. Leland couldn't bear to watch it. So, he brought himself to sit beside Henry on the pavement, trying to talk to him as much as possible, though Leland didn't quite know why he did it either.
But when Henry offered a faint smile at the band-aid Leland had abruptly handed him—right after they had been talking about the wounds on Henry's wrists—Leland felt that maybe, just maybe, he finally understood.
He simply wanted to see Henry smile.
………………
Henry promised he would return on the night they spoke. He said Leland would always be able to find him because he never went far. Perhaps Leland just needed to say he wanted to meet again, otherwise, they never would.
“See you around.”
With those few words, Henry breathed out a sigh, flashing a wide, amused smile before vanishing into the New York night.
And he did return. This time, Henry was dressed in much brighter colors than before—a stark contrast to the black and gloomy shades he usually wore. Looking at Henry's clothes and style, even a non-expert like Leland could tell he was a true artist. Artists could craft art in any form; it didn't have to be confined to a blank canvas. Art was a human creation, an expression of creativity, emotion, feeling, and imagination. That was why it was so beautiful, precious, and irreplaceable. The depth of art was impossible to copy or steal, especially if the person trying to do so lacked a heart and a soul.
Leland openly complimented the colors Henry was wearing. Henry merely looked at him with a smile, resting his hands on his hips. He feigned annoyance, shaking his head with an exhausted sigh, as if he had been forced to dress up.
“Well, a certain kid around here keeps telling me I look miserable all the time.”
Leland burst into laughter. Before he knew it, the white-framed sunglasses that had been resting on Henry’s hair and the vibrant, beautifully patterned satin scarf tied into a bow around Henry's slender neck ended up on Leland for the rest of the day.
………………
They began to meet more and more frequently, until Leland grew accustomed to having Henry in his daily life. No, it was more accurate to say that Henry had grown used to being followed around all day by a puppy-eyed kid with messy hair.
Slowly, the black on Henry’s canvas seemed to fade. Every time they met, Leland noticed that Henry enjoyed dressing up in a wider variety of styles, as if it were a little game between them.
Henry would dress up, and Leland would act as the judge, scoring and praising his outfits and style.
It wasn't anything serious, but Leland couldn't help but treasure those moments. He was truly grateful for Henry’s presence.
He didn't know what it was. Henry told him he didn't need to be anyone's guardian angel, but Leland genuinely felt a deep desire to shield Henry from his sorrow.
………………
They grew closer, to the point where Leland could comfortably hang out in Henry’s room. Sometimes they just sat around, sometimes they shared a few bags of snacks, and other times, Leland would simply watch Henry paint. Henry’s pale hand held the brush firmly before repeatedly creating some masterfully complex, incomprehensible symphony. The sound of the brush clinking against the glass might have been a timpani drum. The friction of the bristles against the canvas could have been a string instrument, like a violin. It was a private classical concert in their own little world, with Henry as the musician and Leland as the sole audience member.
Henry would always turn to look at Leland the moment he emerged from his world of imagination. It usually took quite a while because once Henry started applying paint to the blank space, he would sink into it. His creative mind operated automatically, instinctively knowing which color to use and which technique to introduce, just like a conductor.
Leland applauded silently in his heart when Henry decided a piece was finished and turned his attention back to the other soul in the room.
Sometimes, Henry wasn't all that serious about painting. He would sink into his drafting chair, leaning his back against Leland’s chest, sitting further away from the wooden easel and canvas than usual. Henry's slender arms, with sleeves rolled up, would stretch forward lazily. He would dab his brush here and there, freely adding color to the white space while chatting with Leland. The light pouring into the room didn't even reach them, creating a perfect, almost cozy atmosphere. Leland, standing behind to serve as a backrest for the artist, didn't feel hot at all. On the contrary, he loved it, because Henry was teaching him how to paint.
………………
Leland preferred spending time with Henry over going home, mostly because no one really cared whether he returned or not anyway. Well, maybe they did. But who would want to welcome a murderer? Even though he had been released, what he did remained a permanent stain on his life. It made his mother distance herself from her son even more.
As for his father, he had never cared about Leland’s life from the very beginning.
Lingering around Henry felt like a reason to make him stay, and Henry no longer had any desire to push him away. Instead, he gladly shared his room and the other side of his small bed with the boy.
At first, Leland was quite hesitant, but he had long since stopped feeling nervous about their physical contact, as it brought nothing but comfort. Consequently, their boundaries seemed limitless.
Today, Henry didn't go anywhere. He didn't get out of bed to paint like he usually did, nor did he come down to lounge on the floor with Leland. He just lay flat on his stomach, silently smoking a cigarette in bed. He looked entirely hopeless and devoid of any motivation to live, which gave Leland a sinking feeling in his stomach. It made him feel exactly as he did on the day they first met.
Leland’s presence made Henry shift slightly, though his eyes remained closed as if he were still resting. His pale hand rubbed his eyes gently before he motioned for Leland, who was standing still by the bedside, to come join him.
Leland was more than willing to comply. He always was, because Henry’s embrace was warm. Henry raised his arm that wasn't holding the cigarette, waiting for Leland to slide underneath and settle into his embrace, quietly seeking warmth from Henry's cool skin. Henry narrowed his eyes slightly, offering a sleepy smile as he flicked the cigarette ash at the edge of the bed.
“I want to paint, Henry,” Leland spoke up, breaking the silence. “Paint something for me to watch.”
Henry listened quietly, without opening his eyes to look. He merely rubbed his head against the pillow before turning his face slightly to glance at Leland.
“Hmm...” Henry’s pale blue eyes narrowed as he let out a sound, pretending to think hard. He did it because he knew Leland always anticipated an answer.
“Yeah... maybe.”
Finally, that arm wrapped a little tighter around the back of Leland’s neck as Henry drew a breath.
“Once I finish this cigarette, okay? Just a moment.”
That comforting tone, sounding as if he were soothing a throwing-a-tantrum child, always made Leland frown—even though he actually loved it. Being able to touch and be this close to Henry brought Leland immense peace of mind. It felt as though they had escaped reality entirely, living together in a world of imagination. Just the two of them in a square room, or something like that.
Leland didn't know why, but he loved this. He loved being close to Henry, watching him paint, lying down beside him, serving as a body pillow and the single anchor in Henry's life. Leland wanted to protect Henry, but he also liked patiently letting Henry decide for himself how he wanted to touch or hold him. For instance, on bad days, Henry might silently lean back against the headboard, opening his arms to welcome and bear the weight of Leland resting on top of him, gently stroking Leland's back with pure kindness. Two days later, he might suddenly decide he wanted to play with Leland's hair, turning into a hairstylist out of nowhere. Or sometimes, he might just want to pet something fluffy and decide to stroke Leland's head instead, simply because he was close by and the easiest to reach.