Vincent felt squashed in the crowd outside the Gallery building. He'd replied to August's text the same day it had been sent, telling him that they'd meet up at the exhibition, seeing as they were a little far from each other in terms of location.
Vincent looked about the place. It was early in the afternoon and the sun was shining brightly as people talked amongst themselves. He felt out of place in the crowd of artists, critiques, and observers. Vincent was sure he wouldn't fit into any of the conversations from the small snips he heard as he walked past people who were talking.
He noticed that even with the bad critiques there still seemed to be a lot of people attending August's exhibition.
Or maybe they were just here specifically because of the bad critiques his last exhibition had received.
Vincent thought to himself as he headed to stand under the shade. People did that. They loved drama and we're always kin to be at the center of it, and Vincent had doubts that people in the visual art world were any different.
Vincent's mind wandered to the phone calls he and August had been having. They had been awkward at first because they'd both tried to explain their own side of the story, and at the same time, they weren't sure what to say to each other. There was a lot to say, granted, but none of them knows how to put how they felt into comprehensive words. After a few more calls they started to chat normally, and August explained why he'd left in the first place, while Vincent had gotten to tell him about what he'd been doing back in Detroit.
"It's starting," Vincent heard a passing voice say. He turned towards the entrance, and sure enough, people were beginning to file into the gallery.
There was someone at the door checking who came it. The red-haired woman took Vincent's ticket from him, examining it before letting him in. He immediately made to hold on to his bare arms when he walked into the gallery. The place was cold, courtesy of the standing air conditioners placed in multiple corners. He let his eyes wander about the gallery until he was ushered into a group by an attendant. The person stayed with them for a while before allowing them to move about as they pleased.
Vincent's eye looked at the paintings hanging on the walls. Each and every one of them being obvious creations of August. His unique blend of contemporary styles shining through in each piece.
"They're good," Vincent heard someone say from behind him. He turned a little to find a pale tall man tapping his blond beard with his fingers as he gazed at the landscape painting Vincent had been looking at just moments ago.
"I'm wondering what the critiques were talking about."
"I think they're good too. For example, this one has a nice composition and a wonderful color combination," the man beside the blond haired man said as his eyes wandered from the painting he'd been staring at to look at Vincent. "What do you think?"
Vincent felt flush at the attention he was getting when he realized that he'd been staring. He turned his gaze to the man and then towards the painting, giving the landscape done in shades of red and bold strokes a look over. "I think it's great, but I'm no artist," he said in a low tone. His words might have sounded indifferent but his heart was burning with pride as he looked up at August's work.
"I'm an artist and I think it looks great," the pale man from before said as he put his hands into his trouser pockets. It looked like the cold was getting to him too.
"When do we get to meet the artist? Can we talked to him personally?" the man asked no one in particular as the bald man standing beside him rolled his eyes.
"If you're here to get a phone number, I never should have followed you," the bald man said, making his blond friend laugh. Vincent's brow rose in confusion as the bald man shook his head.
"You're going to creep him out. What makes you think he's even gay?" the bald man said out of the blue, making the pale man chuckle.
"Okay, you got me," he laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Maybe I think the artist is a little cute, okay?"
Vincent found himself walking away from the two men. He felt sick to his stomach- outraged. He knew August was attractive and drew attention to himself without knowing it, but hearing someone openly talk about his attraction to his boyfriend annoyed him beyond means.
He tried to calm himself down with the assurance that he'd be meeting August soon. His frown soon softened and was replaced with a smile as he came across a painting he'd watched August do in Detroit.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Vincent heard a voice say from behind him. He turned, raising a brow at the sight of the lean dark-skinned woman who was now looking at the painting he'd been observing with a superficial grin. "It's a pity he's not made for this."
"What do you mean?" Vincent asked, frowning at the woman. She had dark curly hair that she'd styled into a fashionable bun. Her dark skin made a beautiful contrast with the cream white dress and sandal heels she was wearing. There was something about her appearance that caught Vincent's interest. Though for some reason she reminded him of August — actually, she was a carbon company, just two shades darker.
"Who are you?" he asked, letting his curiosity take over him as he abandoned his previous question.
The woman laughed, raising the transparent plastic cup filled with orange juice to her lips before drinking. Vincent waited for her to stop, and she eventually did before giving him a small smile. "I'm August's mother. It's nice to meet you."
"You don't look old enough to have a son who's twenty plus," Vincent said. He watched the woman shrug as she took another sip of her drink. Vincent wasn't sure what irked him more. The fact that she was acting carefree or the fact that she was holding on to the plastic cup with a raised pinkie finger.
"When you're wealthy you can afford to maintain youth..." she trailed before looking past Vincent and towards the painting. "Tell me, do you support this nonsense?"
Vincent turned back to look at the painting. "Support August's art? Of course, with everything I have."
"I don't like gold diggers," the woman said out of the blue when Vincent turned to face her with a confused look. "Leave August alone. He doesn't have anything to his name unless he comes back to live under our terms. He's not fertile ground."
"And why should I care if he's fertile ground or not? I just love him," Vincent said. The woman frowned, and Vincent caught her looking at something from the corner of her eye. He followed her gaze to find August standing a distance with a small crowd.
"Augus—"
"Shush!" the woman muttered in a hushed tone as she pulled him by the wrist to a secluded corner. She let go of him, raising her free index finger to her full lips to ask him to keep silent when he opened his mouth to talk.
"I'll make a deal with you," she said, dropping the plastic cup she'd been holding in the nearby waste bin before searching the purse that had been under her arm. She went through it, pulling out a new looking checkbook and a pen. She started scribbling, making Vincent raise his voice in alarm.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm giving you money. What does it look like?" she asked, pausing briefly as she looked up at Vincent with a confused look. "If you leave the gallery now I'll write in as much as you want on the check."
"I don't want your money," he sighed, shaking his head as he looked over her shoulder in search for August only to find that he was nowhere in sight. He'd just been there a few minutes back. How far off had the woman dragged him?
A smile made its way to his lips when he spotted his curly haired boyfriend a distance away after looking about for a while. His heart tugged at the mere sight of him. He looked tired, but there was a smile on his lips as he talked to an observer by the painting he was standing in front of.
"Let's try something else." Vincent looked down at the woman who'd spoken. She was now holding on to the sleeve of his dress shirt. "If you leave the gallery now, I'll make sure the exhibition goes well. August can have everything he's wanted if you just stepped out of the picture."
"And why should I trust you?" Vincent asked as he looked down at the arm the woman's well-manicured nails were digging into through the sleeve of his dress shirt.
"Do you really want August to experience what my husband and I are capable of? If you love August enough you wouldn't want him to go through whatever we have planned," the lady said, making Vincent's brows knit into a frown in thought.
She had a point. He was simply here as damage control for when the exhibition fell apart. Things didn't have to fall apart now.
Vincent let his gaze settle on August again. He looked happy — happy because they were probably going to meet again, but Vincent could read the stress and regret under his smile. Was there a need for August to feel that way?
"I'll leave," he said out of the blue, making the woman's hold on his arm loosen. He looked towards her shocked face, she probably hadn't been expecting him to agree with her. "I'll leave, but you have to promise to leave August alone."
"I promise," she said immediately as she let go of his hand. "You're doing the right thing."
Vincent nodded at her words before letting out a sigh and making his way through the crowd. As he was walking by Vincent could feel himself being watched. The feeling was intense. Maybe August had been watching him, or maybe it was his subconscious asking him to stay.
Staying isn't an option now. He thought as he walked out the gallery's doors.
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