There's a bit of experimentation going on, with my fic lengths. So here is a short chaptered fic for Rane!

All characters belong to the lovely CP Coulter, not me. I'm merely a humble fanfic-of-a-fanfiction writer~

Reed sat in front of his canvas, one hand holding a paintbrush, savagely swiping across the canvas in bold streaks of dark colors. The other wiped at his face just as roughly, pushing away the tears streaming down his cheeks. He refused to let himself cry over this. Shane wasn't actually his. They'd never actually talked it out and been together. Hell, they hadn't even kissed once!

And then there was Micah. He was so sweet and quiet. Almost the polar opposite of the exuberant younger Anderson brother, who's constant bouncing and bubbly attitude was something Reed had always liked about him. Micah, who ran away, rather than face Shane's father, who let Blaine take the fall.

Reed didn't blame him. He wasn't sure what he'd have done in that situation either. He knew Micah must have had good reason to stay away for so long. One brief conversation a day or so ago, and Reed couldn't even bring himself to hate the other boy. He was just...perfect for Shane. And the artist stepped back, letting them be together. Well, at least, he assumed they were together. He wasn't entirely sure, as he had been avoiding nearly everyone in Windsor, hiding out in his studio in the art wing, painting.

His paintings had grown exceptionally darker with each passing hour. Bright yellows and blues slowly faded to muddy green shades, with streaks of red and purple. Light happy golden brown and rich shades of pinkish whites suddenly grew dark. His paint had become much too thin and watery, letting drips run down the scratched canvas. The brush's bristles caught on the small rips left by a few heavy-handed palette knife strokes.

The were all abstracted, swirls of color and messy patterns. A few darkened figures emerged now and again, but were quickly swept away by another swoosh of the brush. Reed caught himself painting more carefully at one point, detailing a pair of eyes that had haunted his mind the past few days: those beautifully green-gray ones, framed by dark lashes, who looked in wonder at him as he...

Reed shook his head, dabbing at his face with his sleeve as a fresh wave of tears tried to sweep over him. The artist quickly smudged the eyes with another layer of color. He couldn't do this to himself. Even if Shane had never come out and said it, he knew. He'd lost, without even having begun to fight. Shane had chosen Micah over him.

A sudden burst of familiar laughter from outside caught his attention. He set down his paintbrush and walked over, wiping his paint-splattered hands on a cloth, before looking out the third floor window.. His heart plummeted. There was Shane and Micah, walking down the path, with the Anderson nearly doubled over in laughter, the glasses-wearing boy smiling broadly at him. The sound broke his heart. That should have been him out there. His eyes traced over Shane's figure, his hand reaching out to press against the glass, without his even being conscious of it. Reed's breath caught in his throat as his gaze lingered on the pair's intertwined hands. He bit his lip and pushed away from the window, racing back to his canvas, his hands reaching for two brushes at once.

The colors dueled on the page: the greens of his jealousy, the reds of his anger, the blues of his depressed state. They battled, certain shades overpowering the others in moments, before the covered ones fought back. Reed didn't bother to hold back his sobs now, the tears falling freely and blinding him. Still, he tore at the painting with his brushes, soon abandoning them to paint with only his hands.

His fingers clawed down the canvas, deep streaks of murky turquoise left in their wake, before he finally paused, the sobs silenced, his chest heaving, his face coated with tears and paint. The artist studied his work through glassy eyes, and reached forward to rip it from the easel.

Reed suddenly threw his painting across the room, something he'd never done, no matter how frustrated he was with himself or his work. The canvas flipped through the hair, a corner hitting the wall before it fell to the ground, the paint squishing against the dirty floor. The small artist stood shaking for a moment, just staring at it, before backing up until he hit the opposite wall, sliding down and wrapping his arms around his knees. He started to cry silently, his head resting against his forearms. The one thing he really wanted...the one time he'd finally figured out what he wanted...and he just couldn't have it.

Don't worry, my Ranebows. It's not over yet!