Honest || h.s.

Two-Dimensional

AN: Sorry if this chapter ends up being short.

Do you like this AU, so far? :/ I'm not sure how anyone else will react to the story, to be honest. (Pun not intended.)

This part is dedicated to ingeniousstyles, because not only are they an exceptional writer, they're also a great person and probably my favorite Wattpad user right now.

x

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Harry.

Getting in was simple; the front booth was less trafficked with people, and they were only asking donations for admission to the show. I fished out normal museum price for both of us, ignoring Jackson's argumentative tone in front of me. 

"You paid for the other one," I shoot him a look as I receive a black admission stamp. 

Jackson rolls his eyes and leads me into the crowded room. 

Immediately we are swept into an aroma of good Indian food, trapped in an ocean of people modestly dressed and pretending to be posh. Around us are bright lights illuminating every corner of the large, cathedral-sized room. People line the makeshift walls where art hangs, both from the main presenting artist of the show and from predecessors of the same honor. One art piece, a simple, black and white painting, seems to stare me down as its crude subject poses with angry eyes at the edge of a beached boat. My chest in engulfed with a shivery feeling, even though I like the painting a lot.

I do my best to fight the slow panic building in my chest, ducking my head and shoving my hands into my pockets. I try to keep my eyes on Jackson's feet ahead of me--but colors keep catching my eye. Green, violet, orange, red, brown, pink, grey. A woman's heels shine in my direction, a man's coattail whips in and then out of my vision. Overwhelmed, my breathing quickens, like my pace, and I bump into my friend.

"I'm sorry," the words tumble out, and I frantically find his face, my brow crinkling.

Jackson just shakes his head, chuckling. "It's all good, H. Take a breather, mate, you look like you could pass ou--"

"Ladies and gentleman!" booms a loud, smiling voice into a mic from the stage on the other side of the room. I yelp quietly, eyes wild as I search for the speaker at the podium. When I find him, I take in his cheery features--thick mustache, bald head, squinting eyes, grey jumper. His name's Barry. He's a family friend. Used to teach me how to paint with acrylics, back in primary school. My lungs expand in relief.

"It's Barry," I mumble to Jackson, craning my neck to see over the sea of people as the man begins speaking again. Jackson smiles, patting my shoulder.

"I am pleased to host such a grand turn out at tonight's show. Thank you so much for your time, donations and, of course, for your attendance here tonight. We have a very special young lady here about to present her very own paintings, sketches, sculptures--you name it! She's a young, aspiring member of the art community, and we're lucky to have her in Cheshire. Before we introduce her to you all, I'd like to thank our sponsors for the evening's additions: Jal Frezi for the delicious catering, Hans Swelton for providing the live entertainment that will be joining us later tonight, Cheshire's Devine Tastes for providing the wine and cheese sampling tables, Great Escape Photography and Design for taping the whole event..."

He continues listing companies and rich people's names, thanking them in turn for their services that made the show possible. Jackson perks up at the mention of a cheese and wine table, and drags me to the side of the large room to sniff it out. I'm amused, and upon seeing Barry's familiar face, less perturbed by the atmosphere, so I let him lead me through groups of people, trying to manage my skittish nerves accordingly.

We scope out the table, and my friend dives in. I stand awkwardly off to the side as Jackson partakes politely but vigorously of all his favorite types of cheese. He's a fanatic. I mean, he could name every type of cheese solely from sight, smell, taste--any singular characteristic. I'm telling you.

"He's a fanatic," I repeat to myself, peering around at the swarm of people in the vast room. It has white floors, walls, ceilings, lights--paintings and other art gaze at me from every direction; people stand out in what they're wearing, how they hold themselves, how they speak to one another. I watch, rubbing my neck and chewing the inside of my lip. I'm not getting too nervous, that's a good thing. I feel less cramped than I did at first, and realize that the room isn't as crowded as I'd thought at first.

Someone dances across my field of vision from the opposite side of the room, and my attention snaps to the moving figure. It's blue-shoes girl. I tilt my head. My voice is curious, but quiet. 

"Hmmm, Skylaarrr."

She's running casually along the side of the room, but soon disappears into a door labeled for backstage entrance. My eyes follow her until she's gone, and I find myself vaguely interested in her gait and the swing of her long ponytail. 

"Skyyyylar," I test, running my tongue over my lip at the feel of the name. Someone next to me glances my direction with a raised brow, but I don't even notice, wondering where Skylar got those watercolor shoes. I spot the painting across the room, the black and white one from before, and feel the edges of my mouth lift in a smile. No, couldn't be...

Barry pulls me from my concentration as his voice lifts into a conclusive tone, and I glance back to him, immediately recaptured.

"...And again, thank you all very much for helping us make this happen," he grins at the audience. "Now, without further ado, and before I get carried away describing this truly, truly wonderful young woman, here is our featured artist: the girl you've all been waiting to hear from. Her art hangs all across the room. It's hard not to love her techniques. The big-shots have tuned in to her very best critiques... and she has graced Cheshire with her presence and her pieces tonight. I present to you all, Miss Skylar. Lillian. Tekile!"

The room bursts into applause. My brain is slow to catch on, but I clap along, watching as Barry ducks behind the curtain and the girl steps out. 

"Thank you all for coming," she smiles into the mic, her eyes dancing. Pride, joy, and admiration all fill her words and pulse through her sweeping gaze and nervous, fidgeting hands.

"Skylar," I mumble with finality. 

Jackson, face full of cheese, nudges me.

I barely glance his way, eyes fixated on the girl with blue shoes. I suddenly don't want her to be so new to me, anymore. She must feel ecstatic for this opportunity. I envision a black and white painting of this very moment, because she's smiling so wide and with such meaning, and things like that need to be captured in an art pieces and passed on into forever.

Suddenly I remember the first day I spoke to her. Immediately, my brain shuts off, and all the happiness in the room feels wrong and off-putting. My smile fades. 

You're being rude.

I would like to get to class, please.

And then...

You're definitely alive!

She must think me a freak. I don't know how to tell her I'm an artist, too. What is this? 

"You're a burden, Harry," I whisper, my breath escaping me. "Stop this wishful thinking."

Skylar starts into a speech of appreciation for the art community, and I want to listen, but I can't hear her over my damn thoughts, and I hate this. I hate this.

"Skylar," I mumble. "Skylar."

Nothing.

I grab fistfuls of my hair, marching straight towards the exit. A confused Jackson follows me after snatching up a plastic cup of champagne and another sample of brie. I want to punch myself in the face. I just keep walking, walking, until I'm out of the room and in the lobby and down the museum steps and at the car.

My breathing is heavy, my eyes sting. "Jackson, I want to go home, please."

Without question, he climbs into the drivers seat, and we are soon driving down the road in silence. 

I stare blankly out the window, trying to ignore the wetness of my eyes.

I fucking hate this.