The little AU: Vignettes: Angel, falling: October, 2004
The little AU: Vignettes: Angel, falling: October, 2004
slashfairy
G
~~
He pulls his pea-coat up tighter around him, unconsciously colder because the boy in the painting is so exposed. The gallery itself is not heated, but isn't drafty, either. Private galleries are better kept than public ones; this one's quiet, unobtrusively lit, large enough to let him enter the painting in a vain attempt to lend the boy, the angel-man, some of his heat.
Solomon Simeon, his host says, handing him a glass of whiskey and walking down the long hall beside him as the brown? eyes follow his departure sorrowfully. "Died a pauper, but painted from a wealthy heart."
They enter the dining room, a dinner party to support some cause he'd almost given up believing in after Cannes but had scheduled this meeting for long before that. He's tired already and dinner's not even served, but he sits down and is soon quietly animated, explaining his thoughts, clarifying his position, making other people comfortable in explaining theirs. For a little bit he forgets how cold the angel is in his mind, but his heart is still chilled, dry leaves and the smell of distant fires blowing through it from someplace behind the angel's wings.
"Think I'll go stretch my legs," he says, smiling, to his host. He takes a glass of whiskey with him but doesn't drink any, just makes his way back to the gallery, seeking the angel's eyes, fearing they'll never meet his.
His cell, carried reluctantly, rings. "Hello? Yeah, nearly done. Yeah. Tonight?" He looks at the angel, one last time, runs though what he knows about where his angel is, and sighs. "Yeah, yeah. I can do that. Templehof, 1 AM. No, I'll get a taxi. Ok. Yeah, see you."
His goodbyes made, his taxi called, he glances at the fog-shaded moon and whispers to it "Look after him, will you? I'll figure it out, I will. I just need to settle someplace so I can think. I know what I want, I'm just not sure it's what he needs, or how to work it out..." He thinks that Morocco is not so far from Germany, but can't work it out any further than that. Tired, drawn, he leans against the taxi window, listening.
In the gallery, the wind blows through the trees, pulling at the angel's wings, tugging his wrap, tossing his curls, carrying unsighed wishes into the night air.
Many, many thanks to trueriver who's become one of my art mentors, and whose post yesterday pulled this story up tonight. Thank you, honey.
slashfairy
G
~~
He pulls his pea-coat up tighter around him, unconsciously colder because the boy in the painting is so exposed. The gallery itself is not heated, but isn't drafty, either. Private galleries are better kept than public ones; this one's quiet, unobtrusively lit, large enough to let him enter the painting in a vain attempt to lend the boy, the angel-man, some of his heat.
Solomon Simeon, his host says, handing him a glass of whiskey and walking down the long hall beside him as the brown? eyes follow his departure sorrowfully. "Died a pauper, but painted from a wealthy heart."
They enter the dining room, a dinner party to support some cause he'd almost given up believing in after Cannes but had scheduled this meeting for long before that. He's tired already and dinner's not even served, but he sits down and is soon quietly animated, explaining his thoughts, clarifying his position, making other people comfortable in explaining theirs. For a little bit he forgets how cold the angel is in his mind, but his heart is still chilled, dry leaves and the smell of distant fires blowing through it from someplace behind the angel's wings.
"Think I'll go stretch my legs," he says, smiling, to his host. He takes a glass of whiskey with him but doesn't drink any, just makes his way back to the gallery, seeking the angel's eyes, fearing they'll never meet his.
His cell, carried reluctantly, rings. "Hello? Yeah, nearly done. Yeah. Tonight?" He looks at the angel, one last time, runs though what he knows about where his angel is, and sighs. "Yeah, yeah. I can do that. Templehof, 1 AM. No, I'll get a taxi. Ok. Yeah, see you."
His goodbyes made, his taxi called, he glances at the fog-shaded moon and whispers to it "Look after him, will you? I'll figure it out, I will. I just need to settle someplace so I can think. I know what I want, I'm just not sure it's what he needs, or how to work it out..." He thinks that Morocco is not so far from Germany, but can't work it out any further than that. Tired, drawn, he leans against the taxi window, listening.
In the gallery, the wind blows through the trees, pulling at the angel's wings, tugging his wrap, tossing his curls, carrying unsighed wishes into the night air.
Many, many thanks to trueriver who's become one of my art mentors, and whose post yesterday pulled this story up tonight. Thank you, honey.