August was feeling better. He wasn't happy and laughing, but at least he wasn't curled up under his covers crying and contemplating his life. He was numb so to speak. Every day, he woke up, had breakfast, and did a quick composition in his sketchbook before taking a long nap. Then he usually watched the new in the evening when he woke up, or he had a light discussion with Lisa.
He was eating noodles from a bowl while sitting on the living room couch as he watched he'd TV when his phone rang. Not thinking twice, he picked the call, bringing the phone to his ear.
"Hello, Lisa?" he muttered, letting his eyes linger on the cartoon that he'd been watching. Watching cartoons had become one way to whirl away time.
"Hello, son."
August's throat felt dry when he heard the voice at the other end of the line. Why was his mother calling him now? Was she planning to mock him?
"Why are you calling me?" he asked, adjusting the bowl he had on his lap. "Haven't you done enough already?"
"I called to check whether you've changed your mind. Your room is still here, and your father is still putting up his offer—"
"Why are you trying to make it seem like I have a choice when you're trying to force me to make the decision you want me to?" August asked, yelling into his phone. His blood seemed as if it was boiling. He hated how calm she was acting. He hated the fact that his parents were trying to act as of they were decent people when they were sabotaging his life.
"August. It's for your own good—"
"No, it's not for my good. It's for you and dad's — it's for your company's good. I'm not in the equation and you know it," he found himself yelling in scorn. He picked up the remote that was sitting beside him on the couch before reducing the volume of the cartoon playing.
"You have a lot to say for someone who's going to lose everything," his mother said from the other end.
August ran a hand through his hair, sighing as he let his eyes linger on the brown cartoon mouse on the telly. "That's exactly it. I don't have anything to lose anymore. You can't threaten me," he said. When there was no response from the other end apart from breathing he continued, "Now that's settled, if you excuse me, I have a cartoon to watch," he said before hanging up.
A feeling of relief was meant to have washed over him when he hung up, but instead, it was worry that filled the void.
He worried about where he'd go when the next exhibition was a failure. Vincent probably didn't want him around. He adjusted his sitting position on the couch as he thought about it. He decided that it was better not to go back to Detroit at all. His parents might target Vincent if he did.
August bit his bottom lip, reaching for the remote beside to turn up the volume of the show. He continued watching it before he got tired and decided to make something warm to drink. He headed to the kitchen, boiling some water before using it to make some tea for himself. He headed to his make-believe art studio he'd been using since he got to New York with his mug.
He took a stool by the stand that was holding his recent painting. He took sips of the warm liquid as he cross-examined the portrait with his eyes. It was a painting of his father. He green painted eyes that were staring at him made August uncomfortable as well as scared. Funny, seeing as it wasn't just a painting.
A sad smile played on August's lips as he looked on at the painting of the man he called his father. The man with raven red hair, green eyes, and a permanent frown that played on his thick brows.
"I hate you," August let out in a croaked voice as his eyes blurred with unshed tears.
"I hate you so much," he mumbled again, watching as the dead disappointed eyes of the painting stared back at him.
August's brows knitted into a frown when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He dropped the mug he was holding on the stool of supplies beside him before fishing for his phone in his pocket.
Who is it this time? He wondered as he unlocked the screen of his phone. He frowned, finding a message that had been a sent earlier in the day but he was just getting the notification for it. His heart tugged against his chest when he saw who it was from. He opened it quickly before reading it.
From: Vincent.
Hello... It's been a while. I saw your message from before just a few hours ago. I'm sorry that I wasn't there right away to comfort you. If only I'd seen it sooner...
Enough about that. I got a ticket for your next exhibition. I obviously can't do anything to stop what's happening, but I at least what to be there with you.
I'm already in New York. The place is a bit too busy for me, but I'll live.
How are you doing? Are you sleeping and eating well?
2:51 AM.
He found himself blinking back tears when he was done reading the message. He hadn't noticed when he'd started sobbing. He was happy- extremely happy. The first sincere smile he'd worn for a while took form on his lips as he read through the message again.
He wiped his eyes with a palm in attempts to control the tears. He didn't care if his exhibition was going to fail, Vincent still cared about him- Vincent still loved him. There was nothing they could explain his joy at the moment.
He got up after a while, moving to take down the canvas of his father before heading to the other end of the room to drop it before picking up one of the unused canvases he's prepared. August's art was always the best when to was impulsive and the impulse to paint the man he loved was running through him.
He placed the new canvas on the stand, quickly mixing colors in a clean palette before he applied it onto the canvas with a wide brush. Within the next twenty minutes, Vincent was taking form on the canvas' fabric. August's hand moved swiftly as he created strokes and blended colors as he painted.
-
"You don't have to follow me," Vincent said as he leaned into the table so that August could hear his hushed tone. They were sitting across from each other on a stained wooden table at the corner of the local bar. The noise of people eating, drinking and chatting blended into the background with the song coming out of the bar's radio with a faulty signal. Vincent took August's hand, his dark one contrasting with August's lighter brown color that shone under the glow of the yellow light coming from the bulb hanging from the ceiling.
August shrugged at Vincent's words. "I just wanted you to spend time with your friends."
"But I'm not with them now, am I?" Vincent asked, making August look over at the counter. Chuck and two of Vincent's other friends were chatting noisily as they drank beer from glasses at the counter. The reason why Vincent and August where at a table was because August got dizzy from the smell of alcohol. He couldn't be around it, not to talk of drink it.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his sleepy eyes with a balled fist. "I just wanted you to go out and drink like they wanted you to..."
"You could have stayed at home," Vincent said, making August's brows bend in a frown.
"I don't want to be home alone," he admitted, making Vincent squeeze his hand in comfort. Vincent let himself look over August. August looked tired, and he took that as a cue that they should probably head home soon.
"I know, and that's why I stay at home with you," Vincent said. "Don't beat yourself over it. I don't even like drinking, but if you want I could ask them if we could visit a bar that was a little less..." Vincent trailed, looking about the bar before letting out a laugh. "Rough around the edges."
August nodded at the idea. He'd always wanted to spend time with Vincent and his friends but it was proving difficult. He wasn't interested in the things they did together, and he didn't understand most of what they said when they were together since their speech was heavy on slangs and inside jokes. He wasn't outgoing so he rarely ever left the apartment as it was. He thought it would have been a good idea to come out for once, but all he had for his efforts was a headache from all the noise and smells.
"August," Vincent called, making August look up at him. "You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. I like you as you."
August smiled slightly at Vincent's words before sitting up in his seat and reaching out for Vincent's second hand as well. He squeezed the both of Vincent's palms, watching as Vincent stared down at them briefly before looking up at him.
"I know that. I just feel out of place sometimes... And sometimes I feel like I'm a burden," August explained.
"I don't think there's anything that you'll ever do that will make you ever seem like a burden to me. I love everything about you and I'm also here for you... For better or for worse," Vincent said squeezing August's hand.
"For better or for worse..." August repeated as Vincent smiled.
"Yeah," Vincent said as he took one of his hands away from August's grip to feel the younger man's cheek. "I love you."
-
August had never painted as fast as he was doing now. He was almost done with Vincent's face. Vincent's eyes were already piercing August's light brown ones with great intensity. Vincent's curly hair was also coming along, but it wasn't done. August's smile widened when he finished painting Vincent's smile, feeling accomplished at how similar it was to the time when they were at the bar with his friends. It was as if he'd captured a picture of him at that exact same moment.
As August continued to paint, his worries seemed to leave him little by little as he made every new stroke. He even started humming one of the songs Vincent usually played when he cleaned out the tattoo parlor after a long day.
The fact that Vincent was here in New York meant that he was close to August- they were closer. August's smile widened when he wondered about when they'd meet. He decided to stop painting to try and call him, when it went to voice mail for the fifth time he settled with texting him instead. Vincent must not be on his phone.
Unlocking his phone screen he headed straight for the messaging app.
To: Vincent.
Where in New York are you? I want us to meet soon... I miss you. Call me when you have time.
3:37 PM.
He typed up before pressing send. He dropped his phone, returning to his painting. He never stopped humming the indie rock song, and he sang it well into the evening until he was done with the painting.
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