We Are Bulletproof

"...and this is a piece by a Spanish painter, Angel Miguel Albares..."

The group moved as one toward a bleak, dark painting hanging by a corner of the gallery. Soft voices murmured, mused over the deliberate slashes cutting swathes through a landscape of blacks, blues, purples and greens.

"There is a fragility in the deliberate use of cold colors here. It seems evocative of the artist's sadness, quietude and contemplation of self."

Angel glanced up from studying the key in his hand as the voice of the guide continued on. He went largely unnoticed, seated by himself on a bench off to the side with his hood drawn over his head. The gallery owner was a friend of his father's and had requested both his paintings and his presence here, on opening night. Unlike the other pieces with price tags dangling off of their plaques, Angel's work was not for sale. They were mostly filler, he thought--something interesting to look at but not necessarily things one wanted to hang up on a wall.

A well-dressed couple glided past, the woman's hand perched delicately on the man's arm. Angel spared them a glance; the woman smiled politely at him as their eyes met and he immediately lowered his head. The key was warm in his palm.

"How much does this painting cost?" A man's forceful voice cut into the guide's introduction of the next painting.

"Ah... I'm sorry sir, that piece is not for sale."

"Preposterous. Everything has a price. Ask the painter. Money is no object."

Angel shook his head silently and then shifted away uncomfortably when someone sat down beside him, not really paying them much attention as the argument waged on over his showpiece.

Attachment

For my collection
Yes or yes? >w<

@Julio de la Rosa

"Hello?" Angel fingered the case of his phone nervously. The person on the other end said 'hello' back and asked what he wanted. "Um. Can I... Is it possible to request a... private booking?" His other hand slid down to the laptop sitting on the countertop and he flicked through the profiles of dancers listed on the club's website.

"I want... Julio de la Rosa. Tonight, yes." His gaze flicked over the expertly taken photographs of Julio, all of them intense. Sexy. Smouldering bedroom eyes and body on display. He looked almost like a different person here than the gentle, smiling man who had made paella for him and saved him when he needed a hero. Señor Milagros...

"Oh. The address is..." He gave his name as Steven S. when asked, as a nod to their evening together. Angel couldn't stop himself from smiling too, when he thought about Señor Milagros and Steven Seagull. Then he flicked through the image gallery again and nibbled on his lower lip anxiously when the person on the end told him to wait while they checked Julio's schedule. Was he willing to pay for transportation to and from Portland? Yes, of course. And how long did he want to book Julio for?

"Is... three hours okay?" It probably wouldn't take that long to give him a painting but... but maybe they could talk or something. Did Julio mind if he stayed only to talk? Angel knew he would be getting tips if he danced but he could... he could tip Julio too. Money wasn't really a problem for him. So it was all settled, and the person gave him a contact number; he thanked them politely and hung up.

And then he sort of collapsed over the pristine white marble counter top, exhausted and relieved. That was a whole ordeal for Angel! Who knew it was so stressful? But it was done now and he had maybe two hours to kill before Julio got to his apartment all the way in the bustling city center of Portland, Oregon. The nightlife here was supposedly all right; Angel wouldn't know. He could see all the lights across the city from the penthouse he lived in but had no desire to join the people down there.

So Angel drifted around the place listlessly. Occasionally he checked his painting, which took the better part of a week to complete. He really poured all of his time and effort into it (and into learning sign language) and he thought it looked good. Julio's mother was dancing in it, wearing a soft blue dress that was less strictly costumey and more fantasy. It flowed around her legs, flew behind her like wings as she soared through the air with her hair streaming behind her. Free. Lighter than air. Joyous. Her smile had elements of Julio's smile, Angel thought—beautiful and genuine. He focused on her eyes too, trying to make them seem as alive as her pose.

Hopefully Julio liked it. Hopefully he didn't find it weird that Angel called him all the way out to Portland to meet but... Angel didn't think he wanted to go back to Hazleton for a while. Not even to see Logan. After what happened, he shut himself away in his apartment and just painted. The night terrors came back; the horrible ringing kept coming and going. He'd gone to see his psychiatrist who prescribed new drugs which left him feeling oddly disconnected with the world, but those weirdly were also his most productive, artistically speaking. Like he could somehow tap into a whole new stream of consciousness when he lost track of his old one. Weird.

Eventually he passed out on the white leather couch for a nap—that was a theme around the entire place, white, but it honestly felt like an insane asylum with everything so stark and clean and pristine. All he needed were padded walls.

As soon as the bouncer let him in, Angel slunk to his usual seat at the back of the room. Half-hidden in shadows he slipped around people--mostly half-drunk women, half-hugging the walls in a bid not to be seen. When he got to his table, he sat with his back to the wall and slipped a hand into the messenger bag resting on his thigh.

After rummaging through it a couple of times he peered inside, brushed aside a bus ticket from Portland and then cursed softly under his breath. No pencil. Usually he had one in there along with a sketchpad, headphones and his meds--the essentials. Shit. Maybe he took it out and forgot it, or he plain never packed one.

With a sigh he sank back in his chair, disappointed in himself. He thought tonight he could get a better sketch of some of the dancers but without a pencil he couldn't do much. The show was ending up on stage. Lights came on, music died down. The announcer said the name of the next stripper and Angel sat up a bit straighter, craning his head over some tall woman blocking his line of sight. This table was empty for a reason--it offered a shitty view of the strippers but it was the least noticeable as well.

Maybe tonight wasn't a total wash-out... if Logan was dancing. Not that Logan knew who he was or anything but he knew who Logan was and that was the important thing. Angel slipped his dark hoodie up over his head when he noticed some women eyeing him. He sank down in his seat, waiting for the last stripper to exit the stage and for some of the women to clear out. A bunch of them swarmed the bar in search of drinks and Angel sat up taller again when the lights dimmed and new music came on.

In terms of sheer enjoyability, it was... The music was not enjoyable. There was too much bass and it was too loud, there was no real rhythm to it except for the pounding drum beat. Yet he felt his pulse quickening when that familiar, tall, handsome figure stepped onto the stage.