Chapter Forty-Nine Artistic Wings

Time passed like crystalline butterflies, too fragile and breakable to move too fast against the dead-set wind. They flew by slowly, gradually breaking free from their cocoons as the second hands of the clock arched with them. But I felt like I was stuck in tar, my feet unwilling to move. After I had passed through the white barrier of my door and was stuck inside my room, I was faced with many other uncertainties. My parents had been one obstacle to face, and now, though relationships were still tattered, I still had a string of hope to cling onto. My mother was coming, despite my father’s malevolent misgivings. He would stay stuck in this tepid atmosphere he had created for himself while my mother and I maybe even bonded beyond our hellos. This was different from before when she tried to drag me to church. We had something in common now: photography. It seemed weird, having a similar interest with the woman who idolized Martha Stewart and took God’s word for the correct and whole truth, but there was no rhyme or reason to anything at the moment. One brick could finish a building, while the others were only there as support. She was still my mother, mom even, and though we now had something in common, she could not help me with my next challenge.

I had nothing to wear. I somehow didn’t think my array of black band t-shirts and jeans would hold over too well at the function where art was not only supposed to line the walls, but bodies as well. Gerard had the whole artist chique down pat. He always wore his black collared dress shirts, his tight pants, and if he felt up for it, a jacket of sorts. He also possessed a surprising collection of scarves and sunglasses I had discovered in one of the many times I was forced to invade his closet for my own purposes. I could only image how he was going to dress up with Vivian that night. I cursed myself for leaving his place in such a hurry and not grabbing my favourite art shirt of his. That shirt embodied the whole sense of being while I was with Gerard. It made me feel like I was artistic, creative – like I was a real artist at a real art school. It made me feel like I belonged, and most of all, it made me think of Gerard. I liked wearing his clothing, if for the only purpose that I was closer to him. I could smell his distinctive hue of aftershave and cigarettes, sometimes fermented with paint fumes and wine. The smell trigger memories of lounging naked on his bed, painting for the sheer sake of holding a brush in my hands, and smoking pack after pack. It reminded me of morning, afternoon, and evening sex followed of by a shower with his European shampoo. I loved wearing his clothing because it felt like memories were lining my body, not fabric. I knew however, that if I showed up wearing any type of clothing that used to belong to the artist it would send off alarm bells inside people’s sick and twisted minds. I debated raiding my father’s clothing stash, trying to find something elegant to wear, but I snapped the idea out of my head as quickly as it was conceived. I really was getting desperate. Showing up naked seemed almost better than reducing myself to wear items that had touched my father’s tough and unforgiving skin. At least naked, I would be displaying another art form – the human body. Still, that option was a no-go. I needed to wear something, anything, even if it was another Black Flag t-shirt.

And then, in all this chaotic thought, I got a pretty good idea.

Stopping mid-thought and mid-way through the hangers in my closet, I turned my attention over to my door again. I propped it open and looked at the blue stained Black Flag shirt I had worn when I first met Gerard. The shirt itself, devoid of any acrylic material spoke of rebellion. Black Flag was a punk rock band. They talked about depression, drinking, and just getting completely fucked up because that was all there was to do with their life. The shirt itself was a manifestation of all I used to be. Used to being the key phrase. I wasn’t that punk kid anymore. I was an artist. And the shirt wasn’t really that shirt anymore, either.

With the blue paint splattered across the front, it changed directions. Instead of going downhill into depression and alienation, it was going up. Even the way the blue paint hit the shirt – the droplets and splash marks had an upwards stroke to them. I had no idea how that was possible, but I marveled in its presence. When the red shirt of the punk rock band was covered in this blue metamorphosis, it spoke of other, better things. It spoke of the beginning of an attraction, to both the artist and art itself. It spoke of a new beginning. It marked the first day of my new life back then, and since I was being reborn all over again tonight, I thought its message was perfect.

I un-tacked the object, hearing the thick cracking of paint in my hands over fabric. It was hard and sort of smelt bad, but it still fit me. The hard outer edges of paint scratched my skin as I pulled it over my head and I could feel myself wanting to itch at it constantly, but it was a good feeling. A familiar, but not so inviting feeling. The shirt reminded me of how far I had come, how much I had grown. The shirt, I thought, had shrunk at first from the paint adhering to the fabric and bunching it up, but then again, it could have just been me getting bigger and more mature. I had outgrown the shirt – in more ways than one. I liked the feeling, though it scared me just as much as it invited me in for more. I stepped back and looked at myself in the mirror, nodding. This was what I was going to wear. I didn’t care if people thought I looked weird or homeless, I was going to wear art, all over my body.

I left shortly after that, grabbing my bag and camera, just in case any more inspiration stuck me. I had to leave earlier than my mother, but she still assured me she would be there at nine o’clock sharp. She gave me a weak smile and a wave, cocking her head to the side looking at my shirt, but she didn’t ask questions. I figured she had too many clouding her head to even start with one right then. One person who did ask question after question was Jasmine, especially when I showed up at her house dressed the way I was.

“Frank?” she questioned, her voice nearly dropping out from under her. “What the fuck happened to you?”

I smiled on her porch, walking right in with an invitation. I had never been in her house before, but I felt at ease with myself. I gave a quick glance to the family photos that lined the wall, smelt the warm aftermath of a good dinner, and pet the dog that came forward to greet me as I ushered Jasmine into her living room to explain everything to her. I took note of nothing else after that moment but Jasmine. Even the paint peeling at the top of the ceiling and Jason walking by with a sneer on his face couldn’t get me to turn from the woman in front of me. Though her gaze had been incredulous and anxious at first, when she saw my calm demeanor, she began to feel as much ease in her own house as I possessed. I took her hands before I even realized what I was doing, and I felt her grip back during my story at the monumental parts, both good and bad. She sat in silence, listening intently and only butting in a few times to clarify a random detail. She was getting to be a good listener, and I was getting to be a good story teller, learning from the master himself. And just like Gerard, I was getting good at not shutting up. It took me almost an hour to tell her the entire thing, and before we both knew it, it was only a half an hour before I had to get down to the gallery and meet up with Gerard and Vivian again.

“Come on!” I shouted, unable to contain my excitement and nerves that were fighting themselves out in the middle of my gut. I dragged Jasmine behind me, her bangs flopping everywhere, her high pitched giggled resonating in my ear. She drove us both there, her stereo pumping music out through the speakers wildly, distracting us both from the other event that would be occurring that night.

“I’ll get to finally meet Gerard,” she said out loud to no one in particular as we pulled into the gallery parking lot. The sun had already set behind the Jersey business district, the thin lights of the town spread out against the darken sky like beads. Around the small rectangular white building were budding lights, hanging down like Japanese lanterns, lighting the way from dreary city life to vagrant artistic fancy. The big glass doors gave off an amber hue from the lighting inside, people’s shadows and the clacking of shoes against hardwood flooring filtering through the closed entrance.

“Yeah, I guess,” I uttered, not putting as much expression as everything else I had been talking about. Though I had agreed for the two people to meet, I had never actually thought much in advance other than that. I didn’t know how they would both react to each other, and I was almost afraid to find out. Jasmine wanted to meet him because I talked about this wild, crazy, and passionate artist so much, even before she had found out that he and I were an item. Even after that initial awkwardness had dissipated she still wanted to meet him for his carefree composure and his ability to train wild birds. She wanted to be kept by Gerard, just like I was.

I just didn’t know if I was quite ready to share him yet. I knew I only had a limited amount of time left, and it was falling away faster and faster. Gerard needed to work on keeping me, and getting me ready before he was even allowed to move onto another bird. Despite this lack of time on both our parts, Gerard had expressed an interest in meeting Jasmine as well. Why was that? I never talked about her as much as I did Gerard to Jasmine. All Gerard knew her as was the girl I had become close with, and then fucked one night, feeling insanely guilty after. Why would he want to meet a girl like this? I had not even told him the significance of turtle doves yet.

I looked at Jasmine beside me, watching her undo her seatbelt and get out of the car. She was so graceful and delicate, just like the bird she wanted to me. I glanced at myself quickly before I too got out, and all I could see was the harsh lines and ridges on my face. I wasn’t as delicate as Jasmine was. I was a guy; I didn’t have curves or mounds. I didn’t know why or how I could ever become this feminine bird. Even the way I was dressed wasn’t graceful. Fuck, I was wearing a paint stained band shirt over jeans. My breath suddenly caught in my throat and I didn’t know if I could do this anymore. I paused at the car for a long time, adjusting my bag over my shoulder. I was buying time, and I could see the concern in Jasmine’s eyes as she stood on the curb, her hands crossed over her chest, waiting for me. I couldn’t even look her in the eyes anymore. I stared at the ground, at a pebble, at a wad of gum, not knowing what the fuck to do.

“Frank…” she finally called out to me. I could hear the concern in her voice, the way her words wavered through the wind as they came to my ears. “Are you okay?”

“Uhhh,” I uttered, kicking my feet. I tried to push them forward to get up on the curb where she was, but they only ended up back in the same spot. I crushed my eyes closed and pressed my chin to my chest, not understanding why the fuck I was so nervous. I needed to do something, and since my tongue had started to swell and my feel had rendered me immobile, I decided to be brave and actually make eye contact. It pained me right away, seeing Jasmine’s once light eyes turned dark as she looked down at me, her blonde brows knitted together in the center of her forehead. Her hair was being blown around in small thin chunks by the wind, and she bounced on the balls of her feet, not knowing what else to do. I was about to say something, spill my soul about how I couldn’t do this anymore, when the movement of the amber light shifted by the doors caught my attention.

“Frank!” Gerard called, sticking his head out from the building. He was wearing sunglasses, which he pushed down off of his long and slender nose as he looked at me from outside. “Come inside!”

Despite his request, he made no efforts to come out and get me, just clucked his teeth together, chewing gum. I had never seen him with gum in his mouth before, and I became fascinated by the way his jaw and lips moved together. The act itself made him seem more pompous and arrogant that what he usually was, but it fit. He was in an art gallery again. He had to ooze on as much fake prestige as he possibly could. This clicking of gum and the nonchalance of annoyance gave him that look he needed. He cocked his head to the other side, snapping me out of my stare and motioned for me to come inside with his large hand before he disappeared within the doors. I was left alone, still immobile in place.

It took me awhile to realize what he had been doing by not dragging me inside with him. He could tell I was nervous, but instead of babying me, he was making me walk inside by myself. He had never babied me in the past, but he gave me help where he knew I needed it. He practically had to drag the lessons out of me some days. That was all apart of the learning process. This wasn’t about learning anymore. This was about doing. I needed to do this on my own. I felt a smile spread across my face, knowing that he was still teaching me, even if there were no new lessons. This may have been my night, but there were many things I had to work on.

“Was that him?” Jasmine asked me as I stepped up on the curb. I looked at her and nodded, the smile still beaming on my face. She smiled back at me and shook her head, taking my hand and walking with me into a whole new world. Once inside, I realized how fucking new it really was.

The walls were an alarming egg shell white color, not marred or stained by anything. In fact, it looked or at least smelt like the whole gallery had an extra coat of paint added to it before the exhibit. There was a small sign in the front hallway informing people of the special opening night for new artists, written in small font to add pretension. There was a desk in a slightly less jarring shade of white off to the side where a person was there to direct you in and give you a brochure. I took the small pamphlet right away, my fingers shaking as I made my way through the names and artists. Many people’s name I could not pronounce, adding a bit of foreign prestige to themselves that didn’t need to be there, marking vowels with accents. Names like Dominique, Jacques, and Christian showed up when the people who sported them had probably been born and raised in this town just like me and never even seen France beyond a postcard in an airport. Hell, some of them probably had never even left Jersey, which is why they were in a small venue here of all places. I finally located my name, at the bottom of the brochure hand written in on the pamphlet and then photocopied. I showed Jasmine and we laughed together at how it didn’t even look like I was supposed to be there. It was a mere chicken scratch against the winding and curly font used to represent everything else and I looked closer, I could tell it was Gerard’s writing. I beamed inside, but kept my mouth shut as I stuffed the piece of paper into my pocket. I was definitely going to keep it for some kind of memory. Maybe even tack it up on my wall next to the shirt I was wearing after I was done.

I had a feeling I was walking into a pretentious crowd, even before the questions about my shirt started. Just smelling the fake cashmere and boxed wine the people probably lived on was enough to make me throw up. It was bad enough seeing these people have themselves written up about in the brochure, trying to make themselves sound better than they were, but fuck, did these people actually believe it? It was one thing to lie about yourself or to over-exaggerate details on a resume, but to believe it and try to come off that your better than someone else just put a bad taste in my mouth. Sure these people were good artists. I walked by a lot of the works on the wall and some of them just took my fucking breath away. There was one picture of downtown, the tall buildings painted in a water color hue, their lines blending into the sky and making it look like one solid entity. Like the cityscape and sky and heavens were all the same thing, and contained on the page. It was amazing and totally caught me off guard, pulling me over to it while I was supposed to be walking down through the exhibits to find where Gerard had disappeared off to. Jasmine didn’t mind my veering nature and had even found some pictures of flowers and nature she liked and pulled us off course as well. We were both surprised that people in Jersey actually had some art talent. But fuck, some of the stuff I just didn’t get.

There was some abstract and normally, I liked that kind of stuff. In abstract you could find meaning in the way the colours vibe together, the way they fit together, and the picture they ended up making. I liked abstract for the pictures that you painted without realizing it. Like the dove Gerard and I had made against his mural when we had been more intoned with the act of painting with each other, rather than painting a masterpiece itself. Some of the best art happens when you’re not even trying, he had told me. And well, these people didn’t look like they had tried at all. This one picture basically looked like someone had thrown down a few colours and just slapped it in a frame. Gerard would throw paint against the wall, but there was so much elegance in the way he did it. Gerard didn’t just throw down paint to throw it down. He had a purpose, he had a meaning. He was teaching me about destruction when he did that, or he was just doing something different. This person’s work made no sense whatsoever. And they didn’t even use a good title to further my understanding. Untitled Number 952.

Now I could see why Gerard hated numbers so much.

People in Jersey also didn’t seem to think that I had much art talent. Though there weren’t many people inside the gallery yet, mostly artists and workers running the place, there were a fair share of stares and gawks from the people Jasmine and I passed. They didn’t seem to think that we even belonged there, and it wasn’t just my shirt that was throwing them off. It was our age. She held onto my hand or arm as we walked, clinging to me after we had been shoed away by a frumpy middle-aged man with a thin mustache when we had gotten too close to his work. They thought we were some punk kids, taking a wrong turn for their date. The hostess had even doubted that I belonged at first and almost not believed me that I was one of the artists in her neat and tidy little pamphlet, but she let me go past into the deep sea of pretension.

My pictures were in the back of the gallery since I had registered so late. Jasmine and I had held the best intentions as we walked at first to look and appreciate art, but eventually, we gave up trying to decipher if those people would actually let us look and just trudged to the back. We kept our eyes peeled forward, meagerly hoping Gerard would somehow pop up and save the day. Ever since the quick meeting outside, where Jasmine had not even been visible behind the door Gerard had pushed open, we had not seen the elusive artist. He had disappeared into thin air almost, and it extended my feelings of seclusion.

“Excuse me,” a voice called from behind us, and I turned around too fast, foolishly thinking that Gerard had found us. Instead, I came face to face with a tall, way too skinny man, a thin dark black mustache above his lip. His hair was just as jet black and clung to his scalp, too shiny from excess hair products. His skin was spread out over his rigid bone structure, giving him the appearance of a skeleton, and aging him significantly. He looked at least fifty, despite the dark hair, but couldn’t have been older than thirty-five. He looked down on Jasmine and I in more than just height. His nose and lips were twisted, his chin cocked up and eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat before he started speaking.

“I do believe you have made a wrong turn,” he enunciated, his noise twisting as he spoke. A strong uneven smell permeated my nostrils, making me almost choke. His cologne was layered on thick like his clothing, reaching up to his neck where the shape of his esophagus was exposed, so I could count each ring separately. The visual in combination with the putrid smell and the utter disrespect made me want to vomit. My throat began to close in preparation while Jasmine’s grip on my arm tightened, being intimated by the man’s conceit. I was surprised that Jasmine wasn’t fighting back in some regard, telling him to fuck off like she had the day with her brother, but just like me, she was in a world and a place she did not know the rules for. I barely belonged here and I was an artist. She was literally my hanger on.

Suddenly, before either of us could answer, move or do much of anything, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. The skin and bone person in front of us dropped their chin to normal level abruptly as well. Seeing the person behind us before we ever could, he nodded politely and gripped his collar with his hand, the skin so thin and see-through you could see the blue veins pumping what was left of a life into this man. He looked like a fucking ghost.

“Charlie,” the voice behind us called, and I immediately felt my back loosen, realizing Gerard had finally reappeared at exactly the right moment. He was nestled behind Jasmine and I, taking up the space in between our two bodies. He had each of his arms draped carelessly across our shoulders, his countenance focused on Charlie The Ghost in front of us. I looked up at Gerard, seeing the profile of his pointy nose.

“So good to see you,” Gerard enunciated, his voice dripping with so much compassion, it came off as merely sardonic. I smiled, feeling confidence drain into my body from the tips of Gerard’s fingers which he rubbed casually over my shoulder blade. I watched as Charlie’s expression dropped, the corners of his mouth furrowing.

“It’s Charles,” he corrected, adding a slightly French dialect to his name. Though Gerard loved France and all things that accompanied with, he never said his name with a French accent – even though it had its origins from that land. He was always Ger-ard, plain and simple. He would only say things in a French accent to enunciate them, and he would throw in the random phrase for special circumstances. It was a little quirk he had, and it was a part of him. This Charles or whatever tried too hard for his French appeal, and it merely came off as fake. Gerard knew this, saw this, and was baiting him with every chance he got. My insides swelled, having a good feeling I knew what was going to happen next.

“Do these kids belong to you?” Charles questioned, looking down at us and drawing his nose up, casting his deep-set gray eyes towards Gerard.

“You could say that,” Gerard replied, sly smile spreading to the corners of his mouth. He clicked his gum, the element still a foreign sound in my ears. His hand began to move on my shoulder more rapidly, nudging me forward slightly to Charles’ direction. “Frank here actually has an exhibit.”

Gerard smiled down at me and I looked away for the fist time, feeling a redness creep across my face. I was still getting used to the idea that my work was here in my own head. Fuck, I hadn’t even seen my pictures up on the wall yet. I always hated it when people bragged about me in one way or another. I could vividly remember all the way back to grade four when I got the highest mark in the class on a project and my mother would not shut up about it for two weeks straight. It didn’t help things that it was right around Christmas and family seemed to flow into our house every day. They all got to hear about how ‘Frankie was going to turn into the smart kid in his class’ and then I would be bombarded with more undeserved praise and cheek pinches. It was probably why I stopped doing my homework and just did what I needed to survive, slipping under the radar. I hated praise, if it was well deserved or not. Right then, however, I could see where Gerard was coming from and no matter how embarrassed I felt, I wanted to prove this Charles character wrong.

“Oh really?” Charles asked, cocking a thin black brow. His eyebrows were mere straight lines, lacking padding the rest of his body did. He probably got them professionally done, and it made me laugh inside even more. Gerard was pretty fruity, but I didn’t think he’d ever be caught dead in a beauty salon, getting his brows waxed.

“Yes, really,” Gerard said back to him, mocking his deep curious tone of voice.

I felt like I was bursting inside; I wanted to laugh at Gerard’s mannerisms, while also burying my face in the sand for the next words that came out of his mouth.

“Frank is the new photographer. His stuff is in the back, and I would take a look at it.” He glanced down at me, still smiling, but it had changed slightly. It was no longer spiteful or deliberately made. It was pure and simple; Gerard was proud. “It’s simply quite amazing.”

If I had not felt so embarrassed, and we had not been in a public place I probably would have kissed Gerard then and there. And then never let him go.

“I already have,” Charles chimed in, snapping both Gerard and I out of our gaze. Once he had Gerard’s attention again, he stopped talking, his chin still angled up, but his eyes cast down away from us, almost ashamed. Gerard saw this instantly, and placed that fake derisive smile on his face.

“And what did you think?”

“That they were quite good,” Charles said, the French demur gone from his voice, and his thick and clear Jersey accent coming through. He grew quiet and detached, his pretension still there, but slipping away as he went on with his thoughts of my art. My art. It was still a concept I was getting used to saying. “I thought they were some of the best photos I had seen in a while.” He sighed heavily after his admission, too ashamed and trying to cover up what he thought to be a faux-pas with his next words. “I thought they were your photos at first, Gerard.”

“Ha,” Gerard breathed out a heavy laugh, still triumphant for my minor defeat. I had to admit, it did feel good proving this Charles guy wrong, even if I had never met him before, probably would never again and didn’t really care about his opinion when I did. But the fact that I had gotten someone with such prestige to admit that my photos were good made my heart flutter inside of my chest. The only thing that made it better was that he thought it was Gerard’s work up on the wall.

When I had walked through this gallery, I could see the beauty in the paintings and other works around me, as I could with the textbooks Gerard and I would pour ourselves over for hours on end. I could see splendor in art, and I had been exposed to many artists by this point in time. Granted, I was still no expert on the topic, but I knew way more than when I had first step foot into Gerard’s small apartment. Even with all this culture, however, one fact still remained the same, and I didn’t think it would ever change. Gerard was my favourite artist. I appreciated all the others, I understood (or at least tried to) them, and I even admired a select few, but no one could surpass Gerard in my mind. It wasn’t even just the fact that I was sleeping with him. I loved Gerard the artist, but there was a clear distinction from him and his work. They were a part of him, but segregated in the fact that this was what he chose to display of himself. I could look at it tangibly and without bias and I always loved what I saw.

His work was so delicate, yet deliberate. Each piece of his held a specific purpose. He painted to paint, because he needed to, but he also painted to tell stories. There was a clear narrative in each of his works, even if brushstrokes and acrylic were the ones dictating the tale. I could tell there was so much – sometimes too much – feeling in his work. He gave his all to his art, putting every last ounce of himself in there. He put so much into his work it sometimes killed him. He put so much into it that it saved others. That was the mark of a true artist, one that could bend and shape lives for the better with a simple array of colors over canvas. Most of all, Gerard didn’t care if his work adorned a gallery or not. He kept painting because that was what he was meant to do. He kept painting selfishly, for himself and his own life, his own personal way to grow. Inside that gallery though, I deduced that he also painted selflessly. He had to. When you save lives, you can’t just be in it for yourself because there will never be a constant reason to keep going. He needed to paint for others, even if it was never on display, even if no one ever saw it, he needed to keep it in mind.

I had seen his work. Other people had seen his work. This Charles person had obviously been a witness, and when the lines of distinction between Gerard’s work and mine were blended, I knew I was onto something. I was getting my into the art business, even if I had to crawl and follow Gerard’s large footsteps.

“Do you still paint, Gerard?” the other artist asked, wanting to move on in topics very quick.

“Oh, of course, Charlie,” Gerard stated, waving the hand he had on my shoulder in the air. He was mocking the other artist’s name again, and though he seemed shaken, he did not bother to correct. There was no correcting Gerard, even if he was wrong. I had come to learn that very fast.

“I live and breathe painting, Charles. You should try it sometime.” He winked at the other artist, who apparently wasn’t very artistic. Hearing Gerard’s jab, I let my gaze wander around to the man’s hands, studying them closely. I could see right away what Gerard was talking about. Charles hands were clean and unmarked. There was no sign of a paint brush or any kind of creative material coming close to it. I couldn’t read hands as well as Vivian could, but I still knew what artist hands were supposed to look like, supposed to feel like. Gerard had artist hands. I had held them in my own for ages and they fit with me. I could feel the texture of his skin, the small calloused bits, the rough patches from where he held the brush for hours on end. I could touch the smooth backs, where the paint seemed to act as a moisturizer, keeping him young and youthful. His nails were always bitten down to the nub, and any nail that was there was riddled with paint flecks. This was what art was supposed to be like. This was what passion written across nail beds and palms was supposed to feel like. Charles looked as if he had had a manicure as well as his eyebrows done. I laughed a little, trying not to draw to much attention to myself, but not being able to hold it inside any longer. Charles, though an artist at a show, was not one in the sense of the word. He was getting too focused on the physical while leaving everything behind. It was too superficial. There was beauty in everything – people didn’t need to manufacture it on demand. I wondered if all artists in this room were like that, and I found my favorite choice still remaining as Gerard.

“Well, if you still paint, how come you haven’t put on any shows recently?” Charles interjected, clearly offended by the remark. Since he could not defend himself, he deflected the attention much more readily.

“All of my art is too personal to share at the moment,” Gerard said with his sardonic smile fading away as he drew eye contact with me. I grinned again, knowing exactly what he meant. He was making art with me, in painting and bodily format and there was no way we wanted to share that. Even if there was no chance of us getting arrested or separated, some things were private and better left alone inside an apartment, within the confines of a dark bedroom.

“I see,” Charles stated, his voice drawing back to his overzealous elegance. He sighed making it very evident that he no longer wanted to continue the conversation, but was refusing to move from his spot. Gerard noticed, but decided to drag out our presence a tad bit longer. He tried to make more small talk with the pompous, prestigious artist, but as his body gradually turned away from all three of us, Gerard decided it was time to leave.

“Let’s go see your exhibit,” Gerard stated, releasing his hands from both Jasmine and mine shoulders. I had almost forgotten Jasmine was standing right next to me she was so quiet, Gerard’s presence ruling all in my mind. The detail-oriented Gerard had not forgotten about her, however. I was pretty sure he didn’t forget everything, and his memory stretched on for ages and ages, lifetimes piled on lifetimes.

“You must be Jasmine,” Gerard greet eloquently extending his hand for her as we began to descend down the rest of the art gallery. He presented himself cordially, bowing his head to her with a welcome smile plastered across his face. She smiled and nodded, blushing slightly at the chivalry she was not used to experiencing.

When I was with Jasmine, I had gone out of my way to make sure she was okay, but nothing compared to what Gerard was doing. He was acting like a knight in armor, come to escort the damsel in distress throughout the art gallery. I had merely offered to hold her bag for her or give her my jacket when she was cold. And normally, when I extended my kindness to Jasmine, she would reject it stating that she was a big girl. Contrasting her normal disposition, she took Gerard’s hand and let herself be lead. I stood and watched the display in front of me for a while, feeling my stomach twist and turn, not knowing what to do about the situation. Gerard and Jasmine – two people who had seen me naked and at my most exposed – were walking arm in arm two steps ahead of me, seemingly forgetting that I was still in the picture. I felt my heart drop out of my chest, and I feared that Charles would step on it, thinking it was a piece of trash and not deserved in the gallery.

Gerard returned some of my faith in my vital organs as he cocked his head back to me, giving me a wink and motioning for me to follow. I did, somewhat reluctantly, wishing that I could hold his hand the way Jasmine was.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Jasmine,” I heard Gerard state as I appeared over next to his vacated side. He noticed my presence with a smile, and held out his arm for me to link onto it as well. I took it, and tilted my head in to hear the small conversation they had started. Rose was working its way across Jasmine’s pale cheeks, not used to having such abundant attention paid to her by an aging fag artist.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Gerard,” Jasmine reciprocated, baring her white teeth in a grin.

“All good, I assume?” Gerard questioned the younger woman, sneaking a glance at me. I couldn’t get over how relaxed he seemed about the whole situation. He was walking his way into a twisted and freaky love triangle and grinning through it all, asking questions and making casual conversations. In the middle of an art gallery. It didn’t make sense to me, and my nerves of how it all would turn out prevented me from smiling back. I just followed along, my fists balled up inside my pockets, eyes on the ground. It was only when we turned the corner that I pried my eyes away from my shoes and took sight of the last exhibit on the list.

It took me awhile to recognize the photos on the wall as my own, mostly because of the blinding white wall they were set against, and the fact that they were in a real life art gallery. It was once thing to be told the facts straight up, but to see a visual to it all was something amazing. I had seen these photos all afternoon, either through negatives, through the red light of the dark room, or in frames scattered all over Gerard’s apartment. There they were mere figments of imagination and dreams, but now fuck, they were real. They were on the wall. This was my dream, and it wasn’t just being played out before my eyes, it was being played out for anyone and everyone who came to see. Not just Gerard, Vivian and Jasmine. Not even for Charles. Everyone could see these now. It made my heart stop in my throat, lodging there for a few minutes. Everyone could see my soul, everyone could touch it. It was all too surreal.

I walked forward, completely removing myself from Gerard and Jasmine. I needed to see this up close, I needed to touch them to see if it really was. Vivian and Gerard had set up my pictures so beautifully. They were in different sized frames, angled odd and lining the walls up and down, creating a staircase effect in some areas. I ran my ringers along the shiny silver borders, letting it all sink in. It suddenly didn’t matter that I was leaving Gerard and Jasmine alone to talk. They could talk all they wanted to, they probably wouldn’t find out anything they already didn’t know. Jasmine knew I was fucking Gerard, and she was okay with it. It may be a little weird around them, but she seemed to be enjoying the eloquence to which Gerard carried himself. Maybe she could understand why the forty-seven-year-old artists had been appealing in the first place.

I wasn’t sure how long I stared at the photos; time had returned to that crystalline butterfly period, their wings branching out and flying all throughout the gallery, smashing into the wall but not making a sound. Maybe I wasn’t a dove, I thought to myself suddenly. Maybe I was a butterfly, and I was going through a metamorphosis with Gerard. I had been in a cocoon all my life, and it was only now, in this small gallery that my artistic wings were being spread. I liked the metaphor, but it didn’t fit right. A butterfly was not me, it wasn’t who I was or embodied. I wanted to fly, and though butterflies did that, it just wasn’t the same. I needed wings – real wings, something that I could touch and it wouldn’t break. Butterflies were too fragile, too feminine. I thought a dove was feminine enough. If someone touched a butterfly, they could easily break their wings and stain their fingers. I didn’t want to shatter under such pressure. I couldn’t shatter. I had been through so much, though I knew I wasn’t unbreakable, it was certainly taking a lot for me to crumble completely. No, I was not a butterfly.

I moved myself along the rows of pictures, meeting with the one of Gerard’s dove, her wings spread out elegantly. I had named the picture ‘Freedom’, the word written in big black and bold letters. I found myself smiling as I looked, noticing myself in the background, the reflection off the window. Yeah, I was a dove, I thought to myself. My camera had told me I was. But the butterfly thoughts still cascaded in my memory. I couldn’t entirely shake them. A butterfly, metamorphosis, and wings (no matter how breakable) were all so important in my transformation. Maybe being a butterfly was what it was like to be an artist, I thought to myself, fingers still tracing along the blinding white eggshell walls. The butterflies’ wings were so crazy and colorful themselves, it was like throwing a bucket of paint on something. My creativity had been snuffed out for the longest time, either down the wrong path or completely removed by drugs or alcohol. When I had met Gerard, I began to breathe and eat again, preparing for my cocoon. I absorbed all the artistic knowledge I could and now, finally it had paid off. I was a butterfly – flying away free, only in the sense that I was an artist. I had my work on the wall, in a gallery. I was an artist; I had bright wings to show. They were easily breakable and that was shown by my complete and utter doubt in my work. Being an artist, I couldn’t tell the strength of my own work because my opinion was subjective. I had to wait and see what others thought until some kind of strength and resistance in flying could be formed.

I had never wanted to be a butterfly, it had just sort of happened. I wanted to be a dove; that was me, that was what I embodied. The act of being a dove was myself being ready wholly and physically. Completely. In order to get to that final winged state, I had to go through his metamorphosis too. Everyone had to come in small steps, small stages, and in many, many layers. I was getting there, I realized. My wings were still too shaky, still too breakable and fragile, but I was going to fly soon.

“What on earth are you wearing?” a voice called from my side, rousing me from my thoughts. I turned my attention over to Vivian, still dressed in the same outfit as before, her make up wearing away with stress and time, a shocked expression on her face. Her eyes ventured down to my shirt, bulging with its horrid appearance, at least in her mind. My eyes followed her train of vision, but I merely smiled as I ran my fingers along the hemline, flecking of paint chips. I looked behind me casually and notice I was leaving a small trail of blue flecks against the almond color of the floor boards. I cringed, about to answer, before two more bodies appeared next to me.

“Art, Viv,” Gerard countered, placing a strong hand on my shoulder. Jasmine was no longer clinging to his side, but standing next to him, an inquisitive look on her face, her hands behind her back. I smiled at Gerard, knowing that he remembered the day this shirt came from. He looked back at Vivian, stating his point once again. “Frank is wearing his first art project. Isn’t it wonderful to see how much he’s grown?”

Vivian huffed, rolling her eyes at Gerard. “It is, but not everyone else will see that,” the red head explained, trying not to crush me or Gerard’s sprits but succeeding either way.

“Fuck everyone else,” Gerard shot out with more vehemence than what he meant.

Vivian sighed again, closing her eyes and running her hands through her hair. She looked so tired just then, the stress of an art show that hadn’t even started yet really hitting her hard. Gerard noticed and eased up a bit, wrapping Vivian in a hug. She let the older man scoop her up, a small smile brimming on her face as he whispered something in her ear. They talked for a bit in hushed tones before she pecked him on the cheek and then walked away giving us all a small wave.

“Was that Vivian?” Jasmine asked me, leaning in close to my ear so the others couldn’t hear. I furrowed my brow at Jasmine at first, not realizing that she was still a complete outsider. I felt bad, deducing that she was probably going to be so lost the entire night, but I had no idea what to say to make it any better. I could barely give her a nod before Gerard turned back to us, a smile on his face.

“Come here, Frank,” he started, his eyebrows raising high. “I have something for you.”

He scarcely gave me time to step a few feet forwards before he took off his jacket and flung it loosely over my shoulders. It landed with an oomph, the fabric heavier than I thought it would be. It was still warm from his body, and much to my delight, still smelt like the man before me. This wasn’t any jacket. It was the black one with threads of white running up and down the fabric, a dove on the lapel. I had never worn this article of his clothing before – mostly because Gerard kept it with him at all times. He owned what I thought to be the most jackets I had ever seen, but this was clearly his favorite. He had had it since forever he told me; it was the first piece of clothing he had bought when he moved to New York – even before art school. It was too big for him when he first bought it, done purposely so the extra layers would keep him warm at night while he still had yet to receive heating in his place. The jacket now seemed to have shrunk with years of wear and tear, or Gerard had gotten bigger (perhaps a little of both). It still fit the artist well, but the ends of it came up past his waist when he raised his arms too high, just barely noticeable. It stretched across his strong shoulders, making it a bit tight, but Gerard was stubborn and refused to stop wearing it. Until, tonight however. His coat was on my shoulders now, hanging off haphazardly. I could feel the soft silk inside that lined the coat on the back of my arms. It was cold even though Gerard’s body heat had warmed up everything else. The jacket was a weight on me – but it wasn’t dead. It was an alive and refreshing weight, but one I still didn’t know what to do with. I had yet to stick my arms through the holes, wondering just what the artist had in mind. He stood before me, his black button up shirt clinging to the contours of his upper body, a small bit of girth spilling over his tight black pants, caught by the tucked in shirt. He touched his belt buckle warily, making sure everything was still in order now that he was more exposed than before. He looked so much smaller without his jacket, like a barrier had been removed and was now slinking off me slowly. He looked at me with a half-smile on his face, a crafty look in his eyes.

“Go on,” he insisted, raising his eyebrows and bobbing his head forward.

Despite the request, I stood stationary, only aware of the heavy sensation on my shoulders. Gerard sighed at my lack of mobility and came forward, giving me a playfully smile as he moved around to my back, taking the coat and helping me thread my arms through it. I snapped out from my catatonic state momentarily, helping him with my limbs. He brushed his hand along the nape of my neck as he adjusted the collar, making my blood quake with the final touch. He walked in front of me once my arms were through, his strong hands still poised on my shoulders, running their way down the front of my chest, bringing the collar forward and flipping it around me. He worked on straightening out the jacket, his body dangerously close to my own for public, so close I could feel his body heat and smell his minty breath from his gum. He ceased chewing on it incessantly and kept a placid and serious face, smiling weakly only once he was finished.

“How do you like it?” he asked, his eyes widening to take in my response.

“It’s umm…” I said trailing off. I didn’t know how to respond. This was his jacket; something he was proud of and never let anyone touch that was draped over my shoulders. This almost didn’t seem real.

“Is this because of my shirt?” I asked, an idea coming to my mind. Perhaps his little chat with Vivian had been about covering up the blue stained shirt. I felt my heart sink a little, wondering why Gerard would want to cover up the thing that brought us together, when he had only boasted about it a few seconds ago.

“No!” Gerard insisted, chortling and waving a hand in the air. He placed it back on my shoulder, his fingers tracing my hairline inconspicuously as he gazed into my eyes, trying to get his point across. We were a little too close, a little too intimate for the art gallery, but people here were used to alternative lifestyles. They probably only thought Gerard was my teacher, giving his student a pep talk before the big event happened. And essentially, that was all it was. Only Gerard was giving me more than a pep talk; he was giving me a huge chunk of his life.

“I want you to have the jacket, Frank,” he insisted, his fingers rubbing the back of my neck and sending chills up my body.

“What? Just for the night?”

“No,” Gerard said again, chortling a bit less after this remark. “For good. I want you to keep it for yourself.”

“ What?” I repeated, my voice cracking even more and Gerard’s smile widening with each breaking octave. I couldn’t believe what was going on. This was Gerard’s jacket. Not mine. I couldn’t take it from him, even if he was giving it to me as a gift. There was something off about it, wrong about it. I knew he loved me, we were a couple, and there was that whole ‘whatever mine is yours’ thing in relationship, but this was different. Way different. It was one thing for me to come to his place all the time, eat his food, and just act like it was my home. He had paid for my art exhibit and helped me get it all ready. It was also another thing for me to give me his dove, which he had done that day too. I felt my breath catch in my throat. Gerard had already given me so much in a twenty-four hour span, I didn’t think there was much else left to give.

Gerard sighed, running his hands up and down my arms, picking away a random string of lint on my left shoulder before his eyes met mine again. He was no longer playing around in a carefree manner; his eyes were dark and serious, but in a bittersweet way.

“I want you to have the jacket, Frank,” he stated slowly, nodding his head solemnly. “This is your show. You deserve this.”

There was a wholeness to his eyes, the way the pristine white shone off the background that seemed so much brighter than the blinding walls, only it didn’t strike out my vision. It made me see clearer.

Gerard was giving me his jacket, but it was so much more than that. He nonchalantly flicked his finger over the dove that was on the label, his eyes remaining on me, pushing his hint forward more and more. I had just come out of my cocoon to be an artist, to be a butterfly. I still had a long way to go in terms of being a whole person as of yet. I had spent hours in front of my closet, not knowing what to wear. I had stumbled in the parking lot, not wanting to even go inside. I had been looked at and cast down by other artists, new and old, saying that I wasn’t good enough. I had even started to believe it. I had faced so many challenges, and nearly fallen down and cracked more than just bones with them. And the show hadn’t even started yet. I still needed to face so many demons and challenges outside of the ones that were trapped within the too-white walls of the room clouded with pretension and cigarette smoke we were in. Though I had gone through a hard time earlier that night, I had prevailed. I found my art project shirt to wear, I eventually made it inside, and we had defeated Charles, getting him to admit that my photos were good. Amazing. Astounding? Perhaps. I still had a long way to go, but Gerard was going to help me out the only way he knew how; by giving me a piece of himself.

I sighed, the oxygen feeling like laughing gas through my system. A smile painted its way over my face, though it hurt to move my jaw. I looked at Gerard, whose eyes had become cunning again. His hands were hot against my skin, even through the thick fabric of the dove jacket. His face was too close to mine and his body even warmer and more inviting. I wanted to kiss him right then, a kiss to say thank you and tell him I loved him in so many more ways, but we couldn’t do that. Not yet, at least. I didn’t know who I was going home with that night, but I was going to try my hardest to have it be him. I needed to talk to him some more – even stay up the whole night just reciting words after word, telling him anything I could think of. But until then, I just felt him come forward and wrap me in a warm hug. We both closed our eyes, our bodies being engulfed by the other and the jacket we still both clung onto desperately.

“I’m proud of you,” he said sincerely, whispering into my ear. I clutched him tighter, knowing that that single statement alone was probably better than all of the ‘I love you’s in the world.

“I love you,” I said anyway, the quietest of sounds coming from my mouth. I didn’t think he had heard me at first, and I wasn’t going to push saying it any louder until I felt him squeeze me back hard again.

“You too,” he said in the same quiet voice. My heart fluttered, knowing that he said it because he felt it in that moment, not because he needed to reciprocated the call. Our hug may have only lasted the few seconds it took to get the words out, but it felt like a lifetime. I was glad we were at the back of the gallery, away from any prying and judging eyes. There was just Jasmine, and even her I had forgotten about in the moment. I only took note of her small silhouette as Gerard and I dislocated and my heart had sunk. I realized she must have felt so awkward and misplaced. I had avoided staring at her directly at first for fear of the hurt I would have cause, but when I did gather the courage, all I saw was her smile. She almost looked as proud and sappy as Gerard and I appeared, casting small gazes to each other after the embrace was over.

“Thank you,” I said again, feeling the trim of the jacket in my fingers. The material was a little rougher than I had expected, but it was a good sensation. I couldn’t just brush over the fabric haphazardly. I had to feel and grip it.

“No problem,” Gerard insisted earnestly, giving my arm a final squeeze before he moved away. He seemed so bare without his jacket, his long arms cloaked in black and folded over his round stomach, trying to produce the other layer he was missing. He gazed over to Jasmine and smiled, which sent another river of red running through her cheeks.

“If you need this during the show,” I started again, accepting my gift but still feeling slightly overwhelmed with its possibilities. “You can take it back. It is yours, after all.”
“No,” Gerard stated soundly. “It’s yours. ”

He gave me another weak half smile, before taking in a sudden breath and looking around.

“And besides,” he stated, cocking and eyebrow at me. “It’s about to get a lot warmer in here. Your show is about to begin.”

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14