ShadowPlay

Strange Meeting

"Fuck!" Gerry exclaimed as his hand recoiled from the hot coffee he had absentmindedly slipped his fingers into. He threw off the sensation with a shake as he cursed his own absentmindedness.

The rabbit trail of thoughts for his next painting dissipated with the increasing pain, tugging him back to reality.

Zoned out, as usual, he thought, letting out a wry chuckle despite himself. He quickly iced his injured fingers on the coolness of his freshly refilled water bottle.

Pulling his gaze away from the rapidly forming blisters, he surveyed the coffee shop around him. It was different than your run-of-the-mill hipster hell hole. Gerry doubted anything in the shop had actually changed since the 1990s. While it was the middle of the day, the shop barely let any light in, made even darker by the deep emerald shade of green that covered the walls. There were no overhead fluorescents either—relying upon various intensely warm colored floor lamps scattered in random places throughout the shop. Two and four-person tables lined the perimeter while islands of stained rust-colored couches flowed through the center. The worn floorboards creaked under the steps of its patrons, welcoming them to this place that escaped time's grasp. Art of every medium and style crowded the walls, strewn about haphazardly. The pattern was almost overstimulating but still addictively hypnotic. If Gerry looked too long, he could feel himself getting lost.

A cold chill ran down his neck, jolting him as the feeling of being watched crept in. Some of the patrons were still staring from his earlier outburst. With how he dressed, he was used to being stared at. But this was...different. He threw an icy stare in their direction, and they quickly scurried back to whatever business they were previously attending—all except for one.

The lanky frame of a younger man, perhaps in his late twenties, leaned casually against a pillar in the to-go waiting area. His bare arms were crossed over his chest, revealed by a cropped, spiraled tie-dye tank top. The corners of his mouth had begun to curve slightly upwards, spreading into an unsettling smile as his bright green eyes bore into Gerry amid swaths of golden wheat, shoulder-length hair.

Gerry's breath caught in his throat momentarily as he scanned this stranger looking at him intensely—not in disgust or judgment like he was used to, but with a sort of unhinged glee.

Gerry's brows furrowed, trying to place what he was feeling. Anger? No. Disgust? No. Uneasy? Maybe? He still wasn't quite sure what to label the tightness that enveloped his chest, squeezed at his throat, and caused his heartbeat to race. Why was he feeling like this?

He shook his head and slid his gaze back to his sketchbook, heaving a sigh as he noticed the causality of his earlier preoccupation.

"Shit," he hissed through gritted teeth as he dabbed napkins on the now coffee-splattered paper.

The ink was smeared beyond recognition—remnants of whatever muse he had begun to capture were now lost to the fading memory of his daydreams.

"Fuck" he whispered, sinking his head into his tattooed hands in exasperation.

"I'm an artist too, you know," crooned a voice from across the table.

"Jesus Christ!" Gerry exclaimed as he recoiled, tilting a little too far back in his chair. The shock sent his center of gravity off balance and him careening backward.

The stranger shot out a long leg under the table in his direction and managed to wrangle in the wayward chair, bringing Gerry upright once more.

Gerry's face washed over with relief and then contorted in anger. "You scared the ever-loving shit out of me," he growled.

"You're welcome," the stranger said with a light lilted laugh, "for saving you from certain death by chair."

"I wouldn't exactly call that saving, seeing how you're the one who decided to BAMF to the seat directly across from me. Especially because one, you're a complete stranger, and two, I don't invite strangers to talk to me let alone sit across from me," Gerry hissed thinly.

"BAMF?" the stranger stifled a laugh. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It's the sound effect given to Nightcrawler in X-Men whenever he teleports somewhere," Gerry grumbled. "Haven't you ever looked at a comic book before? Wait. That's not the point. I'm not continuing this. End of conversation," he sneered and started angrily shoving his belongings in his bag. Gerry waned as his burned fingers clamped onto his sketchbook and dropped it.

"Ruined anyway," Gerry fumed and left it on the ground, hurriedly striding out of the coffee shop.

The stranger stared after him, amusement plastered across his face. He let out a low laugh as he scooped up the sketchbook and thumbed through the pages.

"Property of Gerard Keay" he mumbled to himself as his eyes scanned the pages. "Very interesting indeed," he smirked, snapping the leather-bound notebook shut. 

(AN: If you made it this far, thank you so incredibly much for reading. This started as an exercise to get me out of a creative writing funk and it worked. There are more beautiful things to come and I hope you stay along for the slow burn of a ride. <3)