fantasies

FELIX'S POV

"I'm a fraud. Everyone is gonna see that I'm a fraud." Gary said through the line, desperately. I could picture him pacing back and forth, his head gleaming with sweat.

I was on my way to Kingston Museum. I had promised Gary I'd be there earlier with him for support. He was completely losing it.

"Kent, listen to me, will you shut the fuck up man? No one thinks that of you." I tried to instill some sense in him.

"Felix so many people are gonna be here. The press is gonna be here, they'll ask me all sort of absurd questions like 'when did you start painting?' and 'when did you know you were an artist?' and shit like that."

"And you're going to answer with decorum and respect." I said, my voice calm. I had to transmit him my calmness, even though I was a little nervous for him.

This was huge for his career. He couldn't fuck it up.

"Ah shit..." he sighed on the phone. "Are you on your way?"

"Of course, I just turned on Denver Avenue."

"Great great, that's good." He exhaled, his breath shaky.

"What if they laugh at my work? It's too naïve, too personal, too annoying."

"Well, if they say that, let them. You know that isn't true." I said. He really was going through it. Poor guy.

"Just wait a few more minutes. I'm almost there. I got you."

Gary was my closest friend. I wanted nothing more but to see him succeed. I knew that once I got there and I straightened up his suit and gave him a pep talk, he'd be just fine.

Kingston Museum was in the city center. It was a couple blocks away from the bars and the nightlife. The juxtaposition between the two environments was comical: one the one hand, a place where you'd be surrounded by Art, class, and culture. One the other hand, the cheapest, most vulgar establishments where you'd lose composure and dance and drink the night away.

I made my way to the museum steps, buttoning up the blazer of my navy-blue suit as I walked, the chilly night breeze blowing my hair. Once I got to the top, I immediately noticed Professor Agnes accompanied by her husband. I greeted them and made my way inside, trying to find Gary.

The art room where Gary's exhibition would be held was decorated beautifully. The squared room was painted in stark white, providing no fighting colors with that of the art pieces. There were dividing walls scattered about the room, providing more hanging space for the pieces and creating corridors for the attendees to walk around.

"Here you are!" Exclaimed Gary once he saw me. He looked as pale as a sheet of paper. I decided to go get him a cocktail to calm his nerves.

"No no dude, I need to be as sober as a judge tonight.

We'll drink afterwards."

Soon enough, people started to arrive. Jazz music played in the sound system and fancy drinks were passed around by valets in white gloves.

A group of students came in through the doors. It was easy to identify them by their poor choices of attire.

These indie kids who thought vintage was cool... I also noticed Mr. Turner, his old man belly pressing against the buttons of his blazer. Maybe this was a field trip, or perhaps he had promoted the event in one of his classes.

That was when I saw Blair .

He was wearing a black suit, just. The fabric was slightly shimmery so, as he moved, the light hit his frame in the most appealing way. He was wearing an open black blazer over his shoulders, and I could tell the suit had a significant amount of chest exposed. On top of that, his legs looked stunning in black dress shoes.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I decided to give him some space. After all, Kent was just about to speak to some journalists, and I wanted to be by his side. This night was about him. I couldn't get distracted by some student of mine.

As I joined Gary, a glass of champagne in my hand, I watched Blair from the corner of my eye. He was walking around the museum with a tall friend, admiring the art pieces. He'd point, read the descriptions, laugh about something his friend had said. He was enjoying himself by the looks of it.

I wasn't even paying attention when the journalists walked away. Gary's family was close by and were waiting patiently to talk to him for the first time that night. He had been a busy man.

I had tried to keep that part of me locked away for so long, pretending it was just a phase, a past mistake. But standing here, watching Blair move so effortlessly through the room, the walls I built around myself were crumbling. It was becoming impossible to deny who I was no matter how much I wanted to.

"Will you excuse me for a second?" Kent said, gesturing to his family. He walked towards them with open arms, and I was left alone in the middle of the crowd, a glass of champagne to keep me company.

I walked leisurely among the paintings I had seen a thousand times before. It was crazy to think that I had accompanied these paintings from the moment of their inception, and now they were here, at the Kingston Museum.

I turned a corner and, either luckily or unluckily (I was still trying to decide), Blair was standing in front of a painting, this time alone. I approached him.

He was wearing a woody, lilac cologne.

"What do you think of this piece, Mr. De Montmorency?" I said from behind him.

He jumped, startled. I sensed something else in his reaction. Surprise, apprehension, discomfort perhaps? Whatever it was, he shook it away too quickly.

"Good evening to you too, Professor Reynolds." He replied with a cocky smile. "I wasn't expecting to see you here tonight."

"I wasn't expecting to see you. Isn't it past your bedtime?"

He gasped, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Dr Reynolds, I don't believe for a second you think I have an early night on a Friday. Fridays were made for having fun."

"And for field trips apparently." I said, earning an eyeroll from him. "As your Professor, I must bring your focus back to the purpose of your visit. The painting, what can you tell me about it?"

He crossed his arms, huffing. His eyes scanned the piece attentively. The surrealist oil painting, all in strong shades of grey, blue, and red, depicted a man, his chest transformed into a bookshelf. His arms were ripping out pages from some of the books from the bookshelf.

"Well," he started "The duality of the colors could indicate the state of mind of the man who is clearly having an identity crisis, ripping out pieces of himself, disregarding everything that make him, him. Mr. Kent gave us a presentation earlier in the week talking about his self-doubt throughout the process of making the collection. The meaning of the painting is pretty obvious."

I thought about his words, taking a sip of my champagne.

"Well," he continued. "Did I get it right?"

I looked down at him, frowning. "Are you asking me if you got it right?"

"Yeah. Firstly, you clearly are friends with Mr. Kent so you know for sure what his intentions were, and secondly, you know so much about Art. You told me so when you drove me home, remember?"

He knew exactly what to say to get on my nerves.

A valet walked pass us with a tray of brand new glasses of champagne. Blair reached for one, taking a sip.

"Mr. De Montmorency, understand something. It doesn't matter that I know the artist personally or that I understand Art. Your interpretation is just as valid as mine. That is what makes Art so universal, no?"

He pondered my words, resting his weight on one of his legs, his hip popping towards me.

"I guess so." He conceded. "What's your interpretation, Dr Reynolds?"

He made eye contact with me for the first time that night. I brought the champagne to my lips.

"For me, this piece is about the stories we tell ourselves about us, the things we believe we are. The way we think about ourselves, the narratives surrounding our persona, all those beliefs which have been written from the moment we were born can have a huge impact on our perception of who we are. The man in the painting is freeing himself from all the labels he put on himself, from the narratives of being a loser, of not being deserving of praise, of not being good enough, of being the underdog. We, as artists, must destroy these preconceived ideas about ourselves. Only then will we be truly free to create. We won't be held back by anything."

He was silent for a second. It seemed like he was stunned by my comment. I couldn't blame him. I had thought about the meaning of that piece for a while when I first saw it in Gary's apartment.

"Or maybe he is an Art History student who had to memorize very useful facts for his final exam and now he is getting rid of that information to make space for new knowledge."

I let out a genuine laugh.

"Blair why do you keep crossing the line?" I asked, trying to sound severe but failing. I still had a smile etched on my face.

"Because you let me."

My smile disappeared from my face instantly.

"What did you just say?" I took a step closer to him, lowering my voice. I became hyper aware of the people surrounding us.

"You heard me." He crossed his arms in front of him, defiant. "You keep letting me."

Don't look at his chest, perv.

I leaned closer to his ear. I wanted to make sure no one heard what I was about to say to him.

"I wonder what stories you tell about yourself, Mr. De Montmorency. Do you think you're clever, do you think you can say whatever you want without consequences? Do you think you're charming, interesting? Do you think you look good in that suit tonight? Do you think you're all grown up?"

I stepped back, my eyes burning into his. "Keep telling yourself those stories, see where they lead you. But be careful not to end like this man: having to rip his own narratives because he realized everything was a lie."

He held my gaze. He didn't even flinch. I was expecting him to lower his head in embarrassment or at least break the intensity. He did none of that.

Of course he fucking didn't.

"Seems like the only one filled with fantasies is you."

He turned his back to me, walking down the corridor of paintings, calmly and composed.

A shiver ran down my spine. What did he exactly mean by fantasies? Did he mean stories, or...?

He chose his words too well, every single damn time.