Finding August

Chapter Two

August chewed on his nails as he stared on at his present ongoing painting with his big brown doe eyes.

Will they like it? He wondered before slapping himself mentally for asking himself such a question. When did he start caring about what people thought of his art? It was probably streaming from his paranoia that he might just not succeed and the fact that if he didn't succeed he'd never see Vincent again.

That scared him.

Sure he was being sponsored and had obtained a large sum of money from winning the contest, but all that had been plunged back into creating more art to exhibit and to cover his accommodation fees in New York for the meantime. There was still a huge possibility that his exhibition would flop and no one would want to buy his art.

"How's it going?" a voice asked, pulling August out of his thoughts. He looked up to find Russell walking towards him. Funny, he hadn't heard him enter.

"Fine," August muttered, looking briefly at the painting of a native African woman against a background of music notes and vibrant colors before turning his attention to the paint palette he held in his left hand. The painting was in all words 'pretty' but it was void of the expression and deep meaning August's painting usually carried. Maybe this particular painting was a bad idea.

"It's looking good," Russell muttered as he came up behind August with noisy steps. He bit the inside of his cheek, running his hand over his full blond beard in a pose of concentration.

"Are you sure?" August asked as he let his eyes run over the painting. He never knew holding an exhibition was going to be so much work. Apparently, the twelve canvases he'd brought with him to New York were not enough to hold an exhibition. He'd been asked to produce more before the due date and had subsequently thrown himself into completing at least six more projects before the due date. It was a sharp contrast to the way he spent months on one painting or crafted paintings within hours fueled by bursts of inspiration.

He still had incomplete ongoing ones from two years ago. There was no inspiration to fuel him now, and time was not on his side to fuss over a painting he had to will himself to do out of need.

"Of course I'm sure," Russell said, giving August an encouraging pat on the shoulder. August scoffed. What would Russell know? He wasn't an artist himself or a critique, he was just the man that had been assigned to manage him.

August had been a little disappointed when he found out his manager was not art inclined in any way, not even a little.

A phone rang and Russell made to indicate that it was his. He picked it up, muttering greetings into the phone before placing his hand over the speaker to whisper his apologies to August. He left the room soon after to attend to the call.

August sighed when the door to the studio clicked shut behind Russell's retreating figure. He had four or so more paintings to push through. He wasn't used to this. His hand was tired, he was exhausted and was definitely devastated to realize he was not coming up with masterpieces but just above decent paintings. He was doing exactly what he'd been told to do; produce more art to beef up the exhibition. He didn't want to do that. He wanted to give his exhibition the highest possible success rate.

August paused painting the disgrace to his abilities and cracked his knuckles. He'd have to scrap the painting and come up with something else.

He got up from his seat, stretching out his hands before heading towards the open window. On getting to it he looked down at the busy street, his mind wondering to what Vincent might be doing at the moment.

He smiled, realizing Vincent was probably working in his tattoo parlor, needling beautiful and well thought out calligraphy, designs, and iconography onto people's bodies.

August considered Vincent an artist, maybe one of the best he'd come across. He'd even asked Vincent to show him the basics of tattooing but August dropped the practice almost immediately when he realized he couldn't handle cutting into people's skin.

Vincent had called him a wuss. August had just insisted that he was merely another soft-hearted humanist.

August's brown eyes clouded with unshed tears at the thought of Vincent. He missed him, he missed him so much. He thought about him every day. Everything reminded him of Vincent, from the distant sight of a tattoo or the slow mind-calming beat of indie music Vincent fancied so much.

August rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He had to be strong. He was doing all this for his and Vincent's benefit. Sure, they'd lived happily together on Vincent's steady income from the tattoo parlor, but August had begun to feel guilty as he watched Vincent try to make ends meet as he lent money to people who probably wouldn't pay back in ages, pay bills and provide for the unnaturally large extended family he had living outside Detroit.

It had been a gradual process, but August had started to realize that he had been part of the burden- that he had been weighing Vincent down. It was after that realization that he hurriedly packed up a small bag and hit the road with a little cash and his twelve canvases. He'd stumbled across the Ad for the national art competition when he was at the train station.

His initial plan was to go back to his parents and ask for money - ask them to support him and Vincent, but the ad had presented another path, another path he could take without involving the two people he hated most in the world. So with cold fingers, he pocketed the flier and submitted the quick painting he did on the topic titled 'time'. The painting was an abstract piece, a jumble of scenes that portrayed the time he'd spent with Vincent.

August was happy when he won, but he couldn't run flying into Vincent's arms until he was sure he was financially secure.

August sighed, fidgeting with the end of his shirt as he thought of Vincent. It was only a matter of time until he could pack his bags and leave the overcrowded city for the peace and quiet of Vincent's neighborhood. He hadn't disclosed his plans to Vincent because he was sure he would have shot it down. Vincent knew how much August hated his parents and although August could fully say that Vincent loved and supported him, he knew Vincent was skeptical about his art because he was born in an environment where art didn't make money.

August licked his lips as he searched his pockets for his phone. Reading the messages that Vincent sent to his social media had been his guilty pleasure. He'd disabled all features that hinted at when he used any of his social media last and put his interactions online to a halt so Vincent would never guess he went online. Reading the ever-growing stack of messages from Vincent assured August that he wasn't going the extra mile for nothing, it assured him that Vincent still cared for him and loved him, that if he was to call quits now and made a run for it back to Detroit and appeared in front of Vincent's door like the first time, Vincent would still take him in.

August sniffled sadly as he scrolled through the messages.

I miss you too. He thought to himself as he read through the new message stack of 'I miss you's and 'comeback's.

August bit his bottom lip, clicking the icon for his mail to perform his other guilty pleasure.

He wrote his heart out on the compose page before pressing the send button. It was okay, Vincent never opened his mail. August had been a witness to this, looking over Vincent's shoulder in awe as he opened the wasteland to search for a pin someone had supposedly sent to his email. He'd only ever opened it when he was asked to, and it wasn't even listed on his contact info. The few people that had sent him emails had just guessed what it would be.

August pocketed his phone after sending the mail. It contained his regular train of thought. He'd written to Vincent telling him he was okay, telling him how weird it was to wake up in bed alone and how he missed having him by his side.

Although the purpose of sending such emails to his mail was to make sure Vincent never read them, sometimes August wished he would.

August sniffled, blinking back tears before heading back to his easel to observe his very pretty yet remotely ordinary painting.

He groaned, taking it down. He had to make masterpieces if he ever wanted to see Vincent again.