Chapter One
It wasn't that Angel hated art fairs— well, actually, on some level, it absolutely was that Angel hated art fairs. He couldn't stand all the gawking. They gawked at him, they gawked at his art, and they gawked at the price tags, wearing expressions Angel wouldn't like to try and interpret. So, it wasn't as if Angel had any objections to this art show in particular, but rather to the institution in general. This particular art show wasn't too terrible as an example of the genre, and Angel had done it the previous two Aprils with Paul, the owner of the small gallery he'd been showing at since he moved back to New York to begin his career in art therapy. This fair was precisely what he liked about art: making it accessible, making it something open to everybody. Angel didn't dislike the idea of the fair at all; it was just that he hated being on display as if he, too, were pinned to the wall and tagged.
“Buck up," Travis ordered, nudging Angel in the side. Angel still hadn't gotten accustomed to this Travis— the Travis who was now part of the cast of Summergirl and who wore suspenders and more product in his hair than any other person Angel knew. Travis was such a method actor, it was unbelievable. Last year, when Travis had been part of the Buccaneer Princess cast, he'd walked about everywhere in billowing shirts and leather vests, speaking in an accent Angel was fairly sure was mostly his own invention. The best part had been the long, shaggy hair that Angel had teased him about mercilessly. Today, though, Travis’ hair was neatly cut again in designer spikes, his narrow hips encased in jeans that looked practically painted on. New York, especially in the art scene, was a melting pot, but still, Travis might have been the gayest person Angel had ever met.
"And look at that beautiful specimen over there," Travis broke in, as if he were reading Angel's thoughts. Angel dutifully looked. Travis was pointing at a lanky dude in all-black, with a ridiculous scrap of colored fabric wound around his head like a bandana. At first, Angel thought the kid was alone, which struck him as odd, but then he turned to talk to two guys who were so obviously military, it hurt. One had flat-top blond hair and seemed to bounce slightly with every step. The other guy had his arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging against the cut-off sleeves of his t-shirt. His hair was probably fair when long, but was now buzzed close to his skull, and he was smiling at something the blond guy was saying.
The coil of attraction that made him a little woozy hit Angel hard in the navel. He hadn’t felt it in a long time, not since Alicia, and not in this way in a really long time. There wasn’t anything extremely remarkable about the man; there was no doubt that he was attractive, but he was definitely no Adonis. He was, however, what Angel suddenly wanted, right in that moment, in a way that belied logic and reason. He was wearing a plaid shirt, rolled up to his elbows, khakis, and military-issue boots. He had the black silhouettes of four shields, like coats of arms, tattooed on his forearm and an uncertain smile on his lips. Travis was still drawling on, but Angel suddenly could not comprehend a word he was saying.
Angel was studying the man’s profile when he suddenly turned and began scanning the room. His eyes landed on Angel, and his face actually glowed with a grin that could have been bottled and distributed for a significant sum. He nudged scarf-head, his friend, who turned and smiled in Angel's direction. Both sets of eyes were on him, and he wondered if they were smiling because they’d caught him staring, or if they were smiling through him. Angel swivelled to face Travis and stared at his prominent jaw. For a second, he was just staring at the skin as it stretched over the muscles and bones, watching Travis’ face flex in an intricate dance of words that somehow never quite translated into meaning. Out of his peripheral vision, Angel saw the threesome walking toward them.
“Say something,” Angel demanded.
Travis huffed, “I’ve been talking this whole time, you prick.”
Travis looked at him properly then, immediately located the self-doubt that had started to creep across his expression, and began spinning wildly, looking for the source of Angel's insecurities. His eyes landed on the group of strangers striding towards them.
“Surely, you can't be worried about hipster-head,” Travis mumbled. Angel snorted, and Travis’ eyes narrowed in thought. “Oh my, is it Crew Cut?”
Angel made an obscene noise in the back of his throat, and Travis actually tittered. Angel wondered if he should’ve tried to hide it better, because he definitely didn’t like the gleam in Travis’ eye.
“I thought this day would never come,” Travis exalted, looking up at the ceiling and then at Paul, who had started walking toward them.