@splatteredfingers
The event invitation had said “semi-formal”. Théo has never had any idea what that meant. (“It means, don’t look like garbage.” Nat had emphasized, with an exasperated tone. Then added quickly, “And for fuck’s sake, don’t bust out the Canadian tuxedo.”) Wait. Did he normally look like garbage? And what was wrong with wearing an outfit made of the sturdiest fabric around?
So he meets his sister halfway, and wears something that isn’t stained with engine grease, and doesn’t consist entirely of denim (even though he doesn’t know why it should matter, because everyone was going to be looking at the paintings anyway).
It’s a small gallery. Théo is happy to note that there’s a decent amount of alcoves and partitions to hide behind, should he suddenly feel the need to take a break from people. Not that he knows anyone here. Nat is making the rounds with a glass of champagne in hand, and it’s apparent that she knows damn near everyone. Or at least it had always seemed that way with how effortlessly social she was.
Théo hasn’t touched his glass, but he still holds it, as he didn’t really have time to refuse it before the server rushed away. Champagne is not his jam, but he feels like it might be for people who have money. Not that he has anything against them. He hopes the whole gallery will be bought up, since the money’s going to charity. He’d have to be some kind of monster to hold their dollars against them when they might help someone out.
He can see a pocket of people making their way towards his area of the gallery, and decides he needs a new hiding place.
In a quieter hallway, then. Large canvases hang with soft lighting on them. Théo is unnerved by their realism, the stark wetness of bright eyes, the reflection of glass. He’s never known how to appreciate art, to be honest. He doesn’t know techniques or art history. But he can’t tear his eyes away from the pieces. The skin looks like a photograph, and for a moment he leans in close to check. But it’s paint, all right. He bends slightly to look at the artist’s name.
Daxton Rogers. Acrylic on Canvas.
Théo makes what feels like eye contact with one of the paintings. The woman in the piece stares at him with accusing eyes. There is something frightening about how real she looks. He takes a step backwards, right into another man, spills his champagne down the front of his own shirt and curses quietly under his breath. “…Sorry.”