Gathered on wings

Chapter 1

"Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time"

- Thomas Merton

Present Day

"Yes, I'll be there," Harry said quietly. "I know it's important."

As he spoke, Harry wandered into his walk-in closet. Trailing his fingertips along the sequins, lace, and silks, he slowly looked through his wardrobe.

"What do you think I should wear?" He bit his lip as his eyes landed on his lingerie drawer.

Scoffing, he moved to cradle the phone between his shoulder and ear and drew out a delicate pair of lavender knickers. "I know you don't care what I wear, Niall."

Laying the tiny piece of lace and satin back in the drawer, he smirked, "But some people might feel otherwise." 

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The boisterous sounds of the reception hit Harry full blast as he pulled open the heavy gallery doors and made his way inside the brightly lit space. The usual high-end art crowd was there, but tonight there was a different kind of buzz. The artist everyone was there for had become the darling of the New York and London art scenes––their large-scale installations were drooled over, their paintings sold in the seven-figure range, and their sculptures were coveted by collectors. Yet, no one knew anything about the artist, outside of their art and their name: Comrade.

Their art's 'fuck the establishment' vibe thrilled the bourgeois crowd who fooled themselves into thinking they were in on the joke. Some of the pieces were political. Some of it was controversial. All of it made you think. Rumour had it that he donated the vast majority of what he earned from his art––as if to make a point about better ways to spend your money. People often said Comrade was the new Banksy. But it was more like, if Stormzy and Banksy had a baby, they would be Comrade.

Walking slowly through the exhibition, Harry sipped his champagne and internally rolled his eyes at the pretentious snippets of conversation he caught.

"With regard to the issue of content, the metaphorical resonance of the negative space notates the distinctive..."

"It's difficult to enter into this work because of how the internal dynamic of the spatial relationships..."

As much as he disliked most of the people at these events, Harry knew he was lucky to have finagled an invitation. This wasn't your usual Friday evening for an MFA student––Niall was right, tonight was important. Harry was newly single and not having a current 'benefactor' was weighing on him. So far, his boyfriends had been the key to paying for his tuition and having his art displayed in the homes of dozens of society's most influential. But he wasn't going to be young and beautiful forever, so connecting with as many gallery owners, art dealers, and art patrons as possible––before he was too old to be wanted as someone's arm candy––was his top priority these days. He was never going back to living hand to mouth; he had plans and he was going to make them happen. Anyway, he'd got this far through raw talent and by sheer force of will––even if some people whispered that he'd slept his way to every accolade. Dating wealthy, older men wasn't a crime. It was a preference . 

Still, Harry felt his ears burning, not entirely impervious to the gossip.

"That's Christopher Kincaid's ex. I've heard quite a few juicy things about him..."

"Did you see who's here? Probably on the prowl for his next sugar daddy..."

Shaking off his irritation, Harry moved from one piece of art to the next, occasionally stopping to air kiss and make small talk with people he recognised. Eventually, he ended up in front of a large installation. Made out of thousands of clear plastic cups arranged in varying heights, it seemed to be undulating across the floor. Smiling to himself, Harry became aware that the person next to him had moved close enough to brush against his arm. While he was serious about his art, and knew networking was key, Harry wasn't above flirting to make that networking happen.