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His fingers had grown stiff from lack of use. He could still wrap them around the ghost of a brush, each finger in position feeling the air where solid wood should have been.
They’d been packed away—stored in a long forgotten closet of shattered memories and a dim past. The colours that once spread across his canvases were thrown hastily away, desaturated. Canvases gathered dust. All a grim reminder of the passion he’d given up.
Gallagher never wanted to paint again. Sometimes his fingers would stretch, itching for a pen, paper, something to sketch out the idea forming in his mind. It caused him to fist his hands, his knuckles turning white. The scars on his hands were the wake up call he needed. He walked away from that life—from those feelings.
He’d moved on, finding the subtle art in bartending. Mixing drinks still told a story. Each glass painted a picture. It was safer for Gallagher to express himself that way. He could protect himself.
He didn’t need art. He didn’t need to paint. He could live a perfectly enjoyable life without it.
It was a slow night. Gallagher busied himself with wiping glasses. It was mind numbing, easy to do while his thoughts wandered. He hadn’t heard the chime of the bell, a signal that should have prepared him for his fate changing experience. Perhaps if he had, he would have fixed his hair, checked his reflection over and pulled out a dazzling smile.
Instead, he startled at the shadow slinking into one of the further booths. He brushed it off. Another patron who wanted to drink away their sorrows. They often saw first-timers. The bar was cozy with smooth jazz playing in the background. Plush velvet chairs and booths helped to soak in the chatter and keep the atmosphere feeling elegant. Their Yelp reviews helped to further their reach with a spectacular five star rating that Gallagher was most proud of. The ones that mentioned the scruffy bartender were especially dear to him.
He maneuvered around the bar, making his way over to the newest guest. The bar was slowly filling up. Though, nobody seemed to pay any attention as Gallagher leaned against the high back of the booth, his welcome spiel on the tip of his tongue. When he looked up, gathering his first full glimpse of the man in the booth, the words dissipated.
Silver hair that shined as if dipped in mercury cascaded past his shoulders in gentle waves. Gold eyes that even King Midos could not produce with a shadow of sorrow cast over them. His mouth, pinched together in discontent, grew deeper as his eyes fell on Gallagher. His cheek bones were high and prominent, fit for royalty.
There was beauty and then there was something else. This man was something else. Ethereal wasn’t close but somehow it was the only word to describe him. There was only one way to describe such beauty.
Gallagher’s hand twitched.
He coughed, running his hand over the unkempt hairs of his beard to attempt to smooth them out. “Welcome. Name’s Gallagher. What can I get for ya?”
The man glared at him. “Something that can make me forget about a bad day.” His words were clipped, telling Gallagher he wasn’t up for small talk.
Gallagher could only nod in acceptance and leave, thinking of all the possible drink options he could make. The man seemed stuck up, high maintenance, snobbish. Gallagher wouldn’t be surprised if he found a stick up the man’s ass. But he also sensed that the facing personality was an amplified mask that the man projected out to the world. There was something beneath. Something Gallagher wanted to dig up.
He made it to the bar. His coworker, Siobhan, slid him a curious glance as Gallagher hummed enthusiastically, pulling a glass out and filling it with ice.
“It’s scary when you’re in an overly happy mood,” she stated, sliding up next to him. The tips of her cropped blonde were dipped hot pink. Every other week she had a new colour, never seeming to repeat colours. She peaked out at the guests, her eyes landing on the silver haired man. She whistled, “He screams bad news. He also looks half your age.”
Gallagher shrugged. He poured different alcohols into the mixer before starting to shake it. “Maybe I need to change things up.”
Siobhan gave another glance in the man’s direction. “It isn’t just attraction, is it?” she guessed. “You’re feeling the itch.”
Gallagher had seen tons of beautiful people waltz into their bar. He enjoyed flirting with them, maybe even leaving with a few. None of them made his mind freeze. None of them made him want to return.
The dark drink filled the clear glass as Gallagher added a mint leaf on top as the finishing touch. “Take that good perception of yours and find the patrons who’ll tip us best,” he mumbled, grabbing the glass and leaving the bar. Siobhan had known him for too long. She knew of the past he closed the door on.
As he neared the booth his mind filled with colours he once thought he’d forgotten about. Gallagher pushed them away. That time of his life was over. There was no way he’d ever look back.
He placed the glass on the table. The man neglected to look at him as he took it and raised it to lips. The drink disappeared before Gallagher’s eyes. The glass landed on the table a few seconds later—empty.
“Not bad. I’ll take another one.”
It was impressive. The corner of Gallagher’s mouth pulled into a smirk. “Must have been one hell of a day,” he said, grabbing the glass. “Be right back with another one.”
The man didn’t reply, his eyes already distant as he stared at the opposing seat.
When Gallagher returned, new drink in hand, the man’s eyes were still fixated on the same spot. Gallagher paused, taking in another forbidden glance. The mask had slipped, crooked on the man’s face. His mouth was downturned, his brows furrowed. Did he know he was exposed?
Gallagher took a step closer, the noise alerting the man to his presence. Gold eyes met his, a moment of panic before they dulled into cool discontent. Gallagher placed the glass on the table. The man didn’t immediately reach for it this time. His eyes remained on Gallagher.
“What do you think freedom means?”
“That’s a kind of heavy question to be asking a stranger, isn’t it?” The man stared at him. Gallagher ran a hand through his hair and grumbled. “Well since you asked so nicely. Freedom means the ability to choose for yourself.”
His answer seemed to be incorrect as the man scowled at him. “But if choosing for someone else meant they wouldn’t experience anymore hardships in the world, wouldn’t that be for the best?”
“Look, I’m clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed, but ridding someone of the ability to live their own life because you think you know better isn’t freedom.”
The man’s scowl only deepened. “She said something similar,” he mumbled before calling silent again, deep in thought.
Gallagher took the hint and returned to the bar. He took up the position of watching the man, his fingers tapping against the counter. Siobhan gave him an odd look every now and then. The itch was there. The question the man asked him, and his beauty, made Gallagher’s brain melt. A light that he once thought was burnt out had turned on.
He tried to extinguish the spark, to return to the dark, but those gold eyes had lit up the part of him that hadn’t seen the sun in years. It would be best to keep his distance. The spark would only grow if he entertained the idea more.
He only returned to the table once the glass was empty. The man would nod, giving him confirmation to mix another one. Three drinks turned to four, and then to five. Gallagher watched as the man’s eyes started to flutter shut, his body swaying.
“You have a ride home, right?” Gallagher asked, returning after the sixth glass was emptied.
“And why would you care?” the man replied.
“I prefer for our guests to return home safely.”
The man only slurred something under his breath, his body tipping over. Gallagher reacted quickly, reaching out and grabbing him. The faint scent of jasmine and roses mixed with alcohol filled the air. He expected for the man to stiffen under this touch, instead he melted, his head burrowing in Gallagher’s chest. His hair brushed back, revealing a row of piercings on his ear. Something Gallagher never expected to see.
“Firm,” the man mumbled, his breath warm against the fabric.
Gallagher closed his eyes, counting to ten before proceeding. “Alright, I think that’s the end for you.”
The man nodded as Gallagher maneuvered him back into a sitting position. He slowly reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash before handing it to Gallagher. “Keep the change.”
Gallagher did a quick scan, his mouth dropping open. Was this some sort of rich kid with daddy’s credit card? The tip would round out to be over one hundred dollars. Gallagher quickly pocketed the money. A tip this nice didn’t come often.
The man then pulled out his phone, quickly typing out a message before he stood up. “Thank you for the drinks,” he started. “You’re not a bad bartender… you’re also decently handsome.”
“Could always use another five star yelp review,” Gallagher said smugly. “I also accept dates.”
At that, the corner’s of the man’s mouth quirked upwards, the barest hint of a smile. It was the final blow to the walls Gallagher had built.
As he returned home that night Gallagher opened the box he had once sealed shut. The dust coating on his paints was brushed off. His brushes were still intact. As he sat in front of the canvas that had once easily taunted him, he let himself smile. Maybe all he needed was the right muse.
Sunday wasn’t interested in the new art exhibition that Robin was hosting. His sister seemed rather excited about the project, saying some famous painter called The Hound returned out of the blue with a brand new collection.
Ever since their fight a few months ago, Robin had been keeping her distance from him, sending Sunday into a spiraling despair. He’d even gone out and gotten himself wasted one night. They rarely fought, and though they’ve made up, the bridge had been burned. The repair wasn’t an exact replica, now there were cracks and jagged edges.
But he would still do anything for his sister, which even meant attending an art show when he would rather be anywhere else.
He arrived late, traffic was rather terrible causing time to slip by as he was stuck. He blamed it on the weather. The overcast skies had decided to cry that evening, their tears pouring over the city covering it with their sorrow.
He left his wet coat at coat check and entered the show, picking up the pamphlet, his eyes scanning over it half-mindedly until a certain word caught his attention.
Freedom.
That had been the crux of his and Robin’s argument. They disagreed about their definition of the word. Sunday thought Robin’s version was too weak. In turn, she thought his was too harsh. A memory of him asking the husky bartender for advice crossed his mind. Sunday ignored it. He’d been desperate that night and made a fool of himself by drinking too much. He never returned to that bar, too embarrassed.
He reread the pamphlet, with focus this time. The artist, The Hound, found recent inspiration from a conversation with a stranger who captivated him. It brought him back to painting, something that he once loved but slowly turned into hatred. “Something as simple as a drunk stranger made me reevaluate the way I viewed painting. It brought me back to a time where I could pick up a brush and not be intimidated by the canvas in front of me.”
The collection itself was a series of different paintings depicting freedom. Sunday could only admire the man’s commitment. He wished he had a strong sense of freedom. After his argument with Robin, he’d been left shaken, unsure, and still to this day, didn’t know what his version of freedom meant.
He caught a glimpse of his sister's lilac hair, but noticed she was busy talking with someone. The small space was open, the walls lined with hung painted canvases. People milled around them, talking in hushed whispers as they held a glass of wine.
One of the paintings was more popular than others, pulling on his curiosity. His feet moved on their own, taking him toward it, pushing through the crowd of people to see the large canvas. His heart sped up as his mind went blank.
How was this possible?
The painting was of a man, reaching up towards the sky. Bright golden light illuminated him, showing off a world of possibilities, but he was trapped. Golden thorns wrapped around his body, trying to pull him down into the darkness. The man himself was desperate, his eyes focused on the light above up, but there were hints of uncertainty. A halo was behind his head and snow-white wings poked out behind his ears.
Sunday could hear the people around him muse over the painting.
Was it a battle between good and evil?
Was it someone trying to repent?
The strokes of colour, the usage of light, the technique was beautiful and precise. Emotions poured out of the painting, screaming to be heard. Sunday wanted to cover his ears with how loud it was.
He wanted to look away. Because this was surely a prank.
What stood out to him the most was not the instant intuition of the painting's story. No. It was obvious the painting represented the fight for freedom, to reach for something unknown because it was a choice made by the individual.
No.
The man in the painting was him.
Sunday stepped back, his back pressing against something firm. He turned around coming face to face with the bartender from that night many months ago.
His beard was still unruly, but there was a visible attempt at slicking back his brown hair. He was dressed in a black suit, which only helped to show off his broad build. The instant memory of Sunday nuzzling that wide chest fondly made his cheeks warm.
“This was the last place I expected to run into you again,” Gallagher said, smirking.
“Sunday! You’re here! And you already met the artist!” Robin’s voice rang in his ears as she approached the pair.
“The artist?” Sunday whispered.
If Robin noticed him spiraling, she hid it, continuing on to further introduce Gallagher, who was also known as The Hound. Gallagher, on the other hand, saw it all. His brows furrowed before he directed Robin into another group of people, leaving him and Sunday alone once again.
“This is probably kind of awkward,” Gallagher said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was hoping you’d return to the bar so I could talk to you about it.”
“I’m your muse,” Sunday replied.
“Sure are. At first, it was your beauty that caught my attention, but that question you asked me really got me thinking and next thing I knew I had this collection made.”
Sunday looked around again. Some paintings had doves, others had him. Yet he could all see the invisible string tying them together.
“You aren’t bad. At least I look good,” Sunday said, settling on a neutral compliment. There were too many thoughts in his mind. There was no way he would be able to articulate his thoughts properly.
“Yeah, you think? I haven’t painted in over ten years, so I thought I was pretty rusty.”
Sunday’s eyes travelled back to that first painting. He still didn’t know what freedom meant. But something inside him told him that maybe he was about to find his answer.
“I feel like I deserve some sort of payment. For being your muse and all.”
Gallagher smiled, already seemingly aware of Sunday’s plan. “What’s your price?”
“The only payment I accept is a date.”