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Congressman Peter Roche is relieved he'd fallen in love with the artwork first. The painter is so attractive (and young) that Peter doesn't even want to look in his direction for fear his fascination will be obvious. The painter is practically a boy.
Is he even twenty-one? He still has a hint of baby fat in his cheeks, a softness to his skin. In five years, he'll probably cause accidents in the streets.
The boy is tall, a touch over six feet, and while he isn't lanky, it's clear he'll likely put on another ten or fifteen pounds in the next year or two. His eyes are blue and his lips are an ungodly red, not from lipstick but just because they're designed to attract the eye. The scent of cigarette smoke and cold air clings to the young man as he's beckoned over to greet Peter.
Peter noticed the young man when he first walked into this event at the university's art academy. Upcoming artists are being showcased, and all the money, which will go to the local hospital, will be matched by a private donor.
Of course Peter is attending. It's the sort of event that congressmen are meant to go to.
So here he is. In his home city, doing sociable things appropriate for the requirements of the job.
"Congressman Roche, this is Sebastian Craft, the artist who created the work you'll be purchasing."
Sebastian blinks, then frowns. His pouty lips pale momentarily as he presses them into a hard line. Peter has seen that look before. Confusion and then recognition.
Now there will likely be fawning. He’s been a congressman for six months and it still makes him buzz with dread and anxiety to meet people in that capacity. He’s beginning to think it won’t get better. Probably because he hates every single moment of this new life.
This is the biggest mistake he’s ever made, he thinks, and wonders if it’s visible on his face. How good is his mask of civility and bullshit?
He offers his hand for Sebastian to shake. Sebastian glances at it, makes the barest effort to shake Peter's hand, and then says, "I'm sorry, the painting has already been sold."
"Excuse me?" the dean says. "We have final say on who the paintings are sold to, Mr. Craft, and the evening isn't over."
"Then why is it already sold to Congressman Military?" Sebastian asks. So, no fawning then.
"Excuse us," the dean says and tries to steer the young man away.
"Honestly, it's fine. I'll put in a bid and hope for the best. It's a very fine picture. Perhaps I could meet the price of the other offer?" Peter asks.
Sebastian looks him up and down. Peter knows that expression, too. It's a sneer. "I don't fucking think so."
"Young man!" the dean says sharply, and somehow there are a few teachers surrounding Sebastian, leading him away, and the dean's assistant is trying to distract Peter.
Peter is very happy to let himself be distracted because that sneer, that utter dismissal of Peter Roche, of a sitting US Congressman, coupled with the refusal to sell Peter his painting doesn't just leave Peter feeling sick and uncomfortable but well on the way to getting an erection.
And that isn't the right response.
Very abnormal.
He doesn't see Sebastian again that night.
The picture arrivesat his place three days later, sold for the original price, all of it handled by his assistant while Peter is away in DC.
When he returns home, it's leaning against the wall inside his house, covered in paper and with a receipt as well as a note from the dean expressing his personal apology and gratitude for his patronage, etc.
And there is also a glossy half sheet with a picture of Sebastian Craft standing next to some of his artwork in a giant classroom and an explanation of his work and what he tries to accomplish through the medium, as well as his influences.
Great. It's sort of hard to want the damned thing knowing the creator hates that he owns it. Peter doesn't even open it. He's exhausted and can deal with it tomorrow.
He goes to take a shower, water cascading over his stiff muscles, and he tries to stretch out his shoulders and hamstrings. He took up some ridiculous martial arts thing when he was in DC because it was something to do that wasn't golf, but he went down on his knee wrong and now has a limp that he's hoping will go away in a day or two.
Hopefully. He's only thirty-five, but things don't heal as quickly as they did a few years ago. His sister would tell him it's because he's unhappy and hates his job, plus the PTSD fromhis time in the military, and maybe she's right, but really, the problem is that he didn't get the fuck out of the way before the kick landed.
His stomach growls and he orders food and gets a beer, which he drinks standing at his kitchen sink, and then another before limping back to the living room in sweats and a navy Henley that apparently shrank in the wash.
He grunts as he leans down, tears the paper off the stupid painting after all, and shuffles to the couch. He sits down with a low groan and feels like he's a hundred years old. He's got to get out of Congress.
