“Somehow, I’ve managed to write some really good songs lately. I mean, nothing will ever top Best Arse in the Castle from my fifth year. Not sure if you ever even had the pleasure of hearing that one.” Reggie had that habit, just making sing-songy little joke numbers about every day situations between those times he actually buckled down and got serious. But lyrics also weren’t his strong suit and anyone that knew him knew that. He played a mean guitar and he could sing some pretty killer lyrics that other people wrote, but unless a bolt of lightening hit, he wasn’t writing the next Sgt. Pepper and he knew it.
“I’m almost disappointed this isn’t head to toe paint splatters, to be honest. It would fit your image way better.” Seeing August not covered in paint was almost more jarring than seeing him with little splatters here and there on his clothes or his hands. His friend was a living painting, bringing his joy and passion to life and staining himself in the process, and Reg thought that was the one of the most beautiful things about him. “One day, when I’m a famous rockstar, you’ll have to let me play at the opening of your very own fancy art gallery.” The back of his hand lightly bumped against August’s and a slow grin spread over his face as he let his eyes linger on the milling crowd. That small comfort of brief contact, extended as Reggie just outright reached over to link their pinkies together, washed a wave of relief over him that felt great. Comfort was all that bled from August as far as Reggie was concerned.
“Family photos? Are there little babie August pictures in there I can steal for blackmail?” He teased lightly, his free hand lifting his drink that was placed on the bar and bringng it to his lips to hide a smirk. “I’ll be there. Beer and pizza, and I’ll bring my guitar. Maybe I’ll write Painted Love 2.”
“Why are you surprised?!” August asked in disbelief, pint of Guinness halfway to his lips. “You are talented—it’s part and parcel, being able to write good songs, isn’t it?” Even if Reg didn’t think he was going to be a songwriter for the ages it seemed important to note that the Beatles had four members, and that George Harrison was just as important as the Lennon-McCartney duo. He took a sip of his stout and then laughed warmly. “I thought about it, I really did.” He had ultimately decided against wearing any of his other clothes due to their less-than-presentable manner, and try as he might to remove all traces of paint from his skin, splotches of blues and reds still sat comfortably in the crevices of his fingers and around his nails. There wasn’t a spell or trick he hadn’t tried to remove it, and even after ten years of painting he still hadn’t found the answer.
He looked over to his friend, now, and smiled. His suit, an electric blue three-piece, accentuated his eyes and smile, and the way his hand grasped his beer glass, condensation gathering at his fingertips, would have been a great study sketch. “The people would be more excited to see you more than the art.” He replied, and meant it. He had complete faith that one day Reggie would make it as a musician. He had plenty of time. August had been twenty-five before somebody had bought one of his paintings, and he still remembered it so vividly: it was all flourishing greens and effervescent oranges and so many thank you’s his mouth hurt from talking. He had owled his parents immediately and they had been so proud. August the Colourful! Look at you—congratulations! he remembered his dad saying, and the genuine happiness for his son hadn’t been lost on August.
As Reggie linked their pinkies together, August felt like everything that had gone unsaid between them was suddenly relieved. He flexed his pinkie slightly to squeeze Reg’s: a quiet touch in a room bursting with people healed the rift and reassured August that there was no bad blood to be had. ”I’d love that. You know my door’s always open, anyway. You’re always welcome.” He knew Reg knew this, but it never hurt to say it again. Just in case.
