Blue Jasper

1. Flying Bird

"You must be Mr. Cartwright!"

A shrill voice of a woman pierces through Blue's eardrums as he finds himself in a crowd of unknown faces, wrapped in a blanket of wealth, champagne glasses twirling in their fingers, a scent of musk rose predominantly holding the possession of the thick air around.

"I am."
He masks a polite smile, fixing his bowtie in an attempt of ripping it off and stopping the act cautiously for the umpteenth time in the evening.  Shuffling his way through the crowd he finds himself following the shrill-voice-woman, her semi-petite figure hugged by a velvet emerald gown, her blond curls put up in a whispy bun.

"You can wait here before Sir comes."

The woman leaves finally giving him the peace that he craved. Enclosed in a room with golden walls, shiny furniture and sparkling dust hurts his eyes, the striking blue in his orbs shrinks with frustration as nothing in the goddamn  universe seems to stand on his side.

A creak of the door forces him to reopen his eyes. The 'Sir' has arrived.

"You better have something good to say you brat!"
Blue almost shouts at his best friend who approaches him for a warm hug. Partially complying with the welcoming hug Blue returns to scold the 'Sir-man' as he complains about every irritating thing of the whole arrangement.

"You will like what i have for you."
August, the best friend, drapes his hand above the other man's shoulder as they chat while moving towards the 'room of art'. The usual and very familiar path to the 'room of art' felt longer than usual to Blue. For unknown reasons everything is bitter where it should be better.

They reach the room after walking for what felt like hours, opening the door to the named room. The most prominent thing in the room of not-so-attractive decorations, white walls and discarded canvases, is a canvas, probably adorned with it's own unique story that stands alone in the middle of the whole establishment, covered with a crimson satin.

"That's what you have for me?"
Blue asks, the light in his eyes returning by Thurst of curiosity and excitement.  With a confirming nod from his best friend he steps closer to the canvas, his heart beating fast with excitement, drumming in his ears, breath shallowing, ears heating up to the point it can steam.  This is what happens everytime he is about to be graced by an art, a creation unique and heavenly, promising, manipulative. And this is what he lives for, this is what he is here for. He'll he doesn't know and doesn't care about what the whole gathering is. He got to experience the thrill again.

With gentle fingers he reveals the rugged surface of the mysterious canvas. The red satin falls on the ground as Blue stares at the painted canvas surface with awe, eyes glistening with passion.  Indeed he loves it.  An abstract, one that is similar to some others, yet unique and catchy. Something in the strokes of it pulls him inside, begs him to lose himself in the seamed strokes of the experienced paintbrush.

"Can I have it, Août?"
He calls for his best friend, using the nickname that they have been accustomed to for years.

"Unfortunately, No."
August replies, his smile apologetic, a grimace on his face.

Blue gulps down his disappointment, bites his inner cheek in agony and heaves a silent sigh untraceable to all as he turns to look at August.
"I understand."
He states not hiding his sadness, yet accepting the refusal for his best friend wouldn't deny if not for an unchangeable cause.

Two men stride through the corridor planning an escape route for Blue that won't bother him with the flock of people who are willing to kill to meet him.

"I'll get your car to wait on the stairs if it can."
August says, surprisingly in a half serious tone like he means it and walks ahead of Blue so he  can arrange the car before Blue reaches it.Still half disappointed, Blue walks with a grim form, head hanging low, hands resting in his pockets, his steps somewhat grumpy like a kid who was denied chocolates. He reaches the entrance of another grand hall, as he hears very faint traces of music from it, steps, gliding as if someone's dancing to the rhythm. Intrigued, he opens the door slightly, peeks through it and surprises himself with what his eyes visualise.

Swift steps flowing like a soft melody floating from an angel's harp, beads of sweat pearling the brownish toned complexion, body swaying like a lonely flower in the vigorous blow of wind, a faint hum of a song in background. A man swirls his way through an empty hall, his long painted white hair embraces his frame as he eases himself of every restrictions around him, his hands are set wide as if he is a bird flying through the immense, intimidating and bewitching vastness of the sky.

Sadly the walls exist, his voyage of expression in circles ceases as his frame collides with the wall, his body slides down with the support of the wall, legs trembling, chest heaving up and down in uneven motions as form of pants. He holds his head in his hands, tying his hair up in a bun and picks the remaining of himself up to continue his madness until exhaustion hits him like truth. Bitter, crude, destructive.

Sunlight now peeking through the translucent curtains in a vermilion hue, tours the huge, silent, empty hall in rays. The curtains drop from one corner as fingers slide down behind it. Blue leans against the wall, his dark short hair ruffles with force of it, his striking blue eyes gaze at the roof in daze, his mind still visualising the white haired man he has been staring at for the past thirty minutes.

Mystery screams through his whole act, frustration oozes out of his steps, an internal combat of exhaustion and relief plays in his expressions while he sways his toned, muscular figure through the dense wind of the hall, slashing it in the process.

The white haired man has his interest, he believes as he strolls carefree, wondering, intrigued.

To be continued.....