Jayce Talis

The gallery buzzed with the hushed voices of guests and critics. Jace stood by a column, his hands clasped behind his back, clenching and unclenching his fingers in anxiety. He answered questions from the guests, trying not to reveal all the secrets of his art.

"The shape is interesting, of course. But what does it mean?" asked an elderly lady in butterfly glasses.

"The disintegration of forms. It must be looked at from the inside out," he squeezed out, not looking at her, his attention already eluding him.

And at that moment, he saw it. Victor. Against the far wall, where one of his most personal works hung under the spotlight—the large-scale canvas "Vector V." Not a portrait. An Armageddon of emotions, spilled onto the canvas: the dirty gold of rage, the deep blue of melancholy, the sharp thorns of scarlet lust, woven into a recognizable, yet dismantled, silhouette. Victor stood motionless, holding a glass of champagne.

He slowly raised it to his lips, took a sip, and with a casual, infinitely graceful movement brushed a long strand of hair from his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. Something in Jace snapped. He silently, almost rudely, pulled away from his companions and crossed the room like an icebreaker, cutting through the waves of chatter. He saw no one. Only the dot—him.

He stopped a step behind her, his breath hitching. The scent of his cologne mingled with the scent of varnish and canvas. Jace exhaled hoarsely, almost inaudibly, but it was enough for Victor to turn around.

"You..." Jace began, his voice betraying him. He looked at the painting, then at the living Victor, his face contorted with pain and delight. He stepped closer, breaking any respectable distance, and his gaze was glued to the line of her neck, to the wet, champagne-stained sheen on her lips.

"Do you see?" His hand twitched involuntarily, as if wanting to touch the canvas or Victor's shoulder, but hung in the air.

"This...this isn't it. This isn't you. This is all wrong. I ruined everything. I... " He trailed off, swallowing the lump in his throat, his eyes, full of desperate pleading and obsession, boring into Victor's face, searching for an answer, condemnation, anything.