August stays in the room a few doors down, one of the many guest rooms that is maybe used once a year at most. The rooms are mostly for show, not that this is anything to be proud of. Most of the time, this house feels too large. He is likely sleeping right now, despite it not even being midnight. He seems like a good boy with a sturdy routine.
Theo drinks camomile tea alone in his kitchen. A small dose of caffeine lulls him to sleep after a good hour or so. By the time he wakes up, he expects August to likely be on his way home. After that, he will be alone again until whenever the frantic, aspiring artist can find a chance to return to his master. He drinks and paces around mindlessly, but then notices a slip of paper left on the side table where he usually sets his keys. He reaches for his glasses before opening the little letter.
–
Dear T. Engel,
The National Musuem of Art requests to end your contract early, as per the request of the Florence Group. A new exhibit will soon be replacing désolé, where your painting Memories of my dear Winter currently resides. The expected end date is in one month.
For further questions, please contact the Florence Group directly.
Thank you,
Robert T. Jules
Exhibits Coordinator
–
"Oh my great god!" Theo screams, ripping the paper in half.
He pulls at his face, his hair, his skin! Curse words fall out of his mouth like water. It took two years to land a spot in that museum, the best one in the country for his work. That is faster than most, but not fast enough for Theo. After all, there would be no better home for his paintings! There is no way the artist could endure such treatment. He gasps continuously, as if the world around him crumbles.
A headache overtakes him quickly. One that feels like his skin could peel off, as if his brain was swelling up against the tight constraints of his skull. He holds himself in the palm of his hands, his breath shaking. But yet, not one tear falls. Instead, a frown destroys his pretty face. The damn Florence Group, of course it is their fault! He curses their name, loud and without any mercy.
But then, a patter of footsteps comes from the stairwell. Theo has awoken August from his sleep, who hurries down to check on his master. Not that he could do much if the man was hurt. Knowing first-aid would be rather irrelevant given his profession's clientele.
August peeks into the kitchen, spotting scraps of paper all over the floor. Pacing back and forth is his master, growling in pain. He feels his heart skip a beat.
"Are you okay, Theo?" He shakes in fear.
Theo is quiet, but he stops moving.
August moves in a little closer. He scans his body for any lacerations, any blood on the floor.
"You are not hurt, right?"
"Only emotionally, my dear apprentice."
Theo suddenly falls onto the floor, the hair from his bun falling apart and all over his shoulders, painting him in a tangled web of black. He kneels at nothing, looking down at the floor. August winces, thinking how his knees must hurt from that fall. With a careful step, he approaches his master and places a hand on his shoulder.
"Do you need… water?" August isn't sure himself what more the man could use.
"Not when my eyes are filled with tears, I have too much water in me! I need ears instead, are you good at keeping a secret?" Theo asks, ready to spill.
August bites his tongue, "well, I have no one to tell secrets to. So your words are safe, I promise you that."
Theo raises an eyebrow, "no partner, no friend, not even a parent or sibling may know what I am going to say. You promise?"
August nods affirmatively, "like I said, there is no one for me to tell. It is just myself, Theo. No one else."
"Okay, then listen closely. I need to tell you about my days as a university student."
- Theo's memory -
Late at night, right outside the old art studio located on the third floor of the paint conservatory, two students squat outside the door. In their hands are two buckets of paint with lids left ajar. Their eyes peak through the door frame left ajar.
"How on Earth is Theo the top student of our class? He must pay the professors, his work all looks the same," grits a boy with a fox face. His blonde braid swings with his disgruntlement.
His brother sighs, pulling up the collar on his coat.
"He thinks he's so different, that what he creates is so unlike anybody else. He just uses… a lot of black. Like, we get it, you're a goth," he teases with him.
"Do you think he doesn't talk because he cares not to associate with us?"
"Probably! He's such a snob. Come on, let's make him talk."
With their pails of paint, the two slowly creep their way up to Theo. It is April, the end of the semester, and the end of their second year of university. Alone and in the middle of the night, Theo chooses to work while the studio space is empty. The large canvas he fears is too distracting, but then again, that is why he picked it out for his final project.
He sits cross legged on the floor, admiring the first layer of his work. He paints a young lady with a mischievous grin in all black attire. She appears to be in movement, as if it were a picture capturing her walking by. The background is messily sketched out to be a graveyard, likely. She has a strong nose, piercing blue eyes, and the silkiest black hair that hands bounces behind her. The movement is intense, as if she is ready to walk off the canvas and into reality, from fiction into the real world. Theo smiles, so proud of his creation.
"Hey, Theo! Up so late, working all alone, hey?"
Quickly, he turns around. To his demise, he sees William and Dennis Florence walking towards him with two buckets leaking of a bright, red paint.