The Yellow Rose of Texas

The Victoria and Albert Museum

*** SPOILERS AND SWEARING ***

Cover Credit: @vkelleyart (Instagram)

Alex navigated the V&A museum, trying his hardest to match Henry's pace: a soft-footed trail laid before him, perfected through years of wandering the museum halls. Ivory walls illuminated under the lights of an empty corridor, the statues frozen still in the quiet moment before the storm. The V&A was designed to let in natural light, but the two silhouettes had arrived in the dead of night with only the harsh, white, institutional lighting bearing down on them. Even still, the rooms radiated splendour. The ceiling flickered as they moved from room to room, a spatter of stars peeking through every hidden crevice of the scooped skylight. Alex was reminded of the night skies of Texas, camping in the woods with June and his parents. He had slept in an open grass field, the white of the galaxy spinning him off to sleep in a lucid haze of possibility. Now, stumbling through the V&A museum, Alex couldn't shake the irony of how artifacts acquired from years of British colonialism would make their way under a star-spangled banner. What could he say? He had an eye for symbolism.

They arrived back where they started, a vast atrium artistically arranged with dozens of white marble pieces, upright in pseudo-motion. Neptune and Triton grew swirling beards that danced under the nimble fingers of Bernini. Henry turned back, his blonde hair swishing to the side, cheeks glowing in anticipation. He continued on, leading them to the entrance of a concealed alcove where an intricately crafted choir screen stood, receding into a tight hollow. It was darker than the rest of the room, the architecture styled in the sacred domes of Brunelleschi and the swooping Baroque arches of the Vatican. Alex held his breath, enraptured at the sight.

"The Santa Chiara Chapel." Henry introduced, somewhat giddy. "My favourite part of the museum. It's secluded, so I always felt safer here, more private in a way. In the chapel, it was as if the crowds would never be able to reach me, and I could escape just for a little while before I reassumed my life. When I was younger, I used to fantasize about coming here with someone I loved and dancing the night away under the eye of the Blessed Mother Mary. You could say that voyeurism thrilled me at a young age. Mum and Bea always preferred the murals, but this chapel would always draw me back. I was quite an incessant child. Either way, I suppose it was just a phase of youthful delusion."

He hesitated, then pulled out his phone, fingers fumbling with the keys. A couple of seconds later, he placed it on the floor and the familiar melody of "Your Song" floated out of the tiny speaker. It was soothing to the ear, a contrast to the silence of the evening tide. The clear voice of Elton John hit the chapel walls at angles, echoes bouncing off in a prime acoustic mélange. Alex could feel his chest swell.

"You're not going to ask me if I know how to waltz?"

"Waltzing is overrated."

Taking Alex by the hand, Henry absorbed the music in his body, swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the keys. It reminded Alex of the day Henry had played for him in the palace, the lines of his face smooth and relaxed in a rare moment of peace. Eyes closed in the kaleidoscopic light of the holy enclave, Alex could feel a weight lift from Henry's shoulders. He wished he could capture it, freeze the Prince of England in mid-stride to create a symbol of eternal bliss. They stood there for 4 minutes, though it felt shorter, clinging onto each other in the soft shadows of the chapel walls. The song faded away and Henry opened his eyes, brows high in a wistful daze.

Alex stared into the blue sea of fate, deep and warm in the low light. He reached over to ruffle a patch of golden hair when, suddenly, the song transitioned from the light touch of piano to an upbeat banjo strum. Alex was caught off guard, but the edges of Henry's lips turned up, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.