Chapter Text
For the hundredth time, Thomas bangs on the bathroom door.
“Rafayel, do I need to ask security to bust this door down?”
As usual, there is no response. Just silence from the inside, and kettle whistles coming from Thomas as angry smoke escapes from his ears.
“Rafayel - do not make me gentle parent you-”
“I said I'll be there in a minute!”
“You said that THIRTY MINUTES AGO YOU- Ah, Ms. Fitzgerald! Lovely dress you have.”
Thomas, through a forced smile and gritted teeth, greets a woman as they suddenly appear from around the corner - Katherine Fitzgerald, silver hair the only evidence of her old age, renowned owner of the Dusk Winery, and a very, very wealthy individual. Out of sheer politeness, no doubt, she smiles, eyes peering over her small pair of glasses to look between Thomas and the bathroom door.
“Thank you, my dear. I was looking for the ladies’ room, and it seems I have found it,” she responds coolly, and Thomas can only pray she keeps it that way. But, of course, life can never ever go right when Rafayel is involved. “Is everything alright? I thought I heard some commotion over here.”
Bless her soul, Thomas wryly thinks, because she genuinely seems concerned for the unknown man-child throwing a tantrum behind the locked door. The man who had a prestigious art auction start an hour ago, and slipped away in solitude half an hour in. Thomas deserves a raise after adding “babysitter” to his job description.
“Everything is alright, ma'am. Just- uh- my nephew is acting up right now,” Thomas quickly stumbles through, and he swears he can hear a snort from the other side of the door. He feels his blood boil. “Yes- you know how kids are- being extremely childish for his age, but he can't help it!”
Thomas laughs, selling the part, which invites Katherine to join in.
“Ah, yes, yes, I remember when my kids were growing up - goodness! The hard time they gave me, such rascals,” she says, waving her hands as she reminisces. “Well, I'll leave you to it- oh, and where is Rafayel, if I may ask? My husband and I must leave soon, I apologize, but we were hoping to make an offer to your esteemed artist before we depart.”
Thomas feels a surge of both relief at the sound of a potential buyer, and dread knowing the man in question is sulking on the floor of a museum bathroom. With another, practiced smile, he nods gratefully.
“Ah, he stepped out to take a phone call but I assure you he will be back before you leave,” he reassures.
After the swift end to the conversation, and ensuring the woman's bathroom is fully closed, Thomas drops the smile and turns to bang on the door again. But he doesn't get to, as Rafayel swings it open and stands there, a scowl on his face.
“Really? I'm the one being extremely childish?” he demands in disbelief, crossing his arms. “You're the one making a ruckus and disrupting a poor lady's journey to the restroom - not me!”
Thomas doesn't even respond - hell, he tunes it all out completely, opting to pull him out of the bathroom by the shoulder before the door slams shut again. After ensuring Thomas is in between the bathroom and Rafayel, and getting past the artist's slew of complaints, Thomas places his hands on the other man's shoulders.
“Rafayel - respectfully - get it together.”
That seems to make Rafayel’s voice stop, and his mouth finally closes. Thomas takes a deep breath, dusting off some of Rafayel's stray violet strands off of his suit.
“I know it's been rough for you - I know you didn't want to do this gallery, or come here or, make the paintings-”
“Oh, so now you want to acknowledge my struggles-”
“ But, it is extremely crucial for both of our careers for you to get through this night. Mostly mine, because I'm the one covering for your ass right now.”
Rafayel huffs, arms tightening, eyes casting aside. “I know. I just…”
A beat passes, and as if nothing happened, Thomas watches as Rafayel's back straightens, and some inexplicable familiar confidence returns to his eyes.
“Watch out for number nine for me, will ya? He gives me the creeps.”
Without another word, Rafayel walks off towards the hall, leaving Thomas stuttering.
“What? Number nine? One of the bidders?”
Rafayel’s silence as he disappears around the corner is the resounding ‘yes’ to his question.
Thomas sighs. He really doesn't get paid enough for this shit.
The lights dim. A sea of tuxedos and cocktail dresses fill the floor, the chatter buzzing and energetic as a single spotlight illuminates the piece of the evening, the case covered in a velvet fabric, perched exquisitely on a marble pedestal. The host of the night steps up to the podium, tapping the microphone.
“Settle down, everyone.”
Rafayel idly watches from the side of the stage under the mask of the shadows as the crowd simmers and their eyes refocus on the hidden prize. Paddles at the ready, waiting for the main event to be revealed. He sighs, already checking his watch, knowing time doesn't move as fast as he wished it did.
After the audience finally becomes quiet, the auctioneer continues. “It is with my greatest honor, ladies and gentlemen, to formally begin the Chandler Foundation of Arts’ Annual Art Auction. This year, I am even more excited than ever to proudly introduce our staple piece for the auction - Rafayel’s newest painting, a masterpiece freshly born from the artist who was courteous to join us here in person tonight.”
The auctioneer gestures his hand to Rafayel, and the audience claps in a chorus. He smiles at them, waving politely.
“Before we begin, allow me to thank our sponsors…”
Rafayel feels a tap on his shoulder, and turns to see Thomas.
“I've got eyes on Number nine, in the back. What do you want me to look out for?” he whispers.
Rafayel shrugs. “I don't know. I just didn't like his vibe.”
Silence passes for a second. “Are you serious?”
“I'm always serious, my dear manager.”
Rafayel hears a deep sigh from beside him.
“Goodness- okay, well, I'll…try to detect ‘bad vibes’...I guess.”
Thomas doesn't even bother to get a response, turning on his heel immediately to walk away from potentially blowing up.
“-and of course, it is my greatest honor to acknowledge the talented artist who created this fine masterpiece, and invite him on stage to unveil it - Mr. Rafayel Qi!”
The roar of applause makes Rafayel jolt, and a grin plasters onto his face. With great reluctance feigned by fixing his lapel, he settles his hands behind his back and walks up the steps to enter center stage. He smiles brightly at the host, bowing slightly and shaking his hand with practiced poise and politeness. As the crowd settles down, he turns to face his beloved fans and past clients and soon-to-be clients.
“Thank you, all. It is truly my honor to be invited here this evening, and an even bigger honor to be the subject of the Chandler Foundation of Arts’ Annual Art Auction,” Rafayel expresses, a hand over his chest, feeling his own heart beating. His eyes rake over the audience, everyone’s eyes solely focused on him. He flashes his dazzling smile - not too overbearing, not too modest. The epitome of humble confidence.
“This piece truly means a lot to me - well, all of my pieces mean a lot to me, I promise. Please, don’t ask me to pick a favorite child, that would simply break my heart.”
A shared rumble of polite laughs and chuckle erupt through the room. Rafayel continues on without a hitch.
“But this one - this one was more than just a painting for me. It was…an experience. A journey. And I hope it is one that you all are able to-”
A glint of red catches Rafayel’s eye. It pierces through the sea of black and white attire. A set of pure, crimson eyes captures his own, in a single glare. The head of swept white hair, and the number on his breast pocket - Bidder #9.
The sudden silence of his own voice getting caught in his throat makes him cringe.
“-to see! To feel, and journey through the art yourself to find your own meaning through it.”
The sickening pit in Rafayel’s stomach is fully noticed by himself, and his eyes glance at the red eyes in the crowd still staring him down, then dart to the velvet covering his painting’s case. A sense of deep foreboding courses through him, his nerves alight, his natural instincts for danger suddenly alarming. He feels his hands clench. Threatened? No, not exactly. Afraid, perhaps. Afraid something has slipped under his radar.
He must have stared for a beat too long, because the host awkwardly steps into his line of sight, smiling politely, yet with eyes that speak of concern. Rafayel nods and smiles, playing it off cool as if he was just reminiscing.
“If I could repeat the journey, I definitely would. Not everyday you sit in front of a canvas for weeks straight with a sore back and cramping fingers, am I right?”
The audience once again chuckles, glossing over his odd rhythm of speech. Rafayel grins and claps his hands, ignoring how sweaty they feel under his white leather gloves.
“Alright! Well, let’s not wait any longer, then.”
The host steps aside to make way, as Rafayel approaches the case. He prays to himself that his damn painting was still under the velvet cover - that the suspiciously good-looking man with red eyes isn’t as shady as he thinks he is - and that he can seriously get this over with and get home to his cozy bed and doom scroll on social media.
Rafayel pinches the top of the velvet blanket, inhaling a breath.
“I present to you…”
He lifts the cover in a swift motion, undressing the glass case - revealing the familiar golden frame, and multicolored seascape. Rafayel lets out the breath he was holding.
“... Forgotten Sea .”
A wave of delighted and curious murmurs wash across the audience, quickly transforming into a cluster of applause. Rafayel beams at his artwork, admiring his own painting with glistening eyes. A deep seascape in brilliant sunlight, with a golden shore that reflects specks of rays. And the red of the ocean. That bold, dark red that engulfs what once was blue. Spreading like wildfire. Rafayel sees it, sees it all in his own eyes. The red of the sea.
“This is…truly unique, Mr. Rafayel!” The host says with glee, breaking Rafayel’s attention away from the painting. He smiles at the host, bowing slightly.
“Thank, Mr. Johnson, that is such high praise coming from you,” he returns, turning back to the audience. His eyes manage to find the spot in the crowd he’s been staring at the whole night, and his smile fades.
The man with the red eyes is gone.
As if on cue, a resounding BANG lands right next to his ear. Rafayel gasps and ducks. Screams erupt. The lights go out and Rafayel can’t hear anything but the ringing in his left ear and people frantically running to flee.
Rafayel, heart pounding against his ribs, feels a cold sweat prickle his skin. People are tripping over each other, gasping and shouting, their faces illuminated by the emergency lights that flicker to life, casting long, dancing shadows. Caught in this stun, he fumbles to his feet, only to be knocked back down to his knees by none other than Mr. Johnson.
“Mr. Johnson!” Rafayel exclaims, trying to push him off of his arm, but he is simply dead weight. His blood runs cold when he notices the dark liquid spilling out of his head, and the wide, glazed eyes that aren't closing. Rafayel screams in shock, fully shoving the man off of him, scrambling back. As Mr. Johnson’s back hits the pedestal, Rafayel finally looks up at the glass case. It's shattered in the front, collateral from the bullet - or, perhaps, Mr. Johnson was the collateral. As he hones in on the painting itself, he feels more horror course through him, worse than looking at a dead body.
The lights flicker back on, revealing the scene of devastation. People weep and huddle in fear, but not Rafayel. He is stunned in place. Before Rafayel’s very eyes, the once vibrant, immersive painting now stood in tatters. Violent lacerations litter the canvas. The red sea, fragmented, torn, destroyed, and splattered with Mr. Johnson’s blood. Rafayel sat there, frozen, staring at the wreckage, his breath catching in his throat. The months of hard work, the embodiment of himself and his life, was gone within just two minutes.
And as Rafayel surveyed the chaos of the room, he couldn’t get the image of those two red eyes out of his head. As red as the bloody sea.