[center][h1][u]Vieri[/u][/h1][/center]
“This is it? Vieri, you’ve been gone for so long, practically vanished on me, and this is all you have to offer me when you get back? I was expecting better.”

Lord Montaigne, if he really was a Lord, was a potential patron Vieri had been courting, an art collector and enjoyer of fine things. The third one Vieri had visitted today. He was the nicest.

The objects of grievance were set up on easels. Three paintings.

He steepled his hands, brows arching to mirror them, “Is everything alright Vieri?”

“Yes, it’s just-”

“Just what?”

They suppressed a shrug, “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy? Busy? Vieri, you make time for me. Not the other way round. If your classes are too much, you fall behind, if boys and girls are turning your pretty head, disappoint them. It should be simple. And to think I was considering taking you under my patronage.” He shook his head, and left.

“Well fuck you too.”

Lord Montaigne spun on his heels, incredulity spilling across his face like milk. Then he burst out laughing.

“This is why I like you Vieri. You have attitude, fire… passion. Just show it with more nuance than, well, those… things. Maybe I will give you another chance.”

Here it was. Just another way of whoring themselves out. But they needed the money. The other venture had not gone so well.

“Would you like this?”

Fuck. You. “Yes.”

“Perhaps you can prove it when you bring your next offering then, hmm?”

Vieri nodded, if only because they did not trust their tongue.

[hr]Four glasses of red down, oils on palette, and one canvas halfway ruined.

The other three paintings were tatters in a corner of their student room, knife glinting in the pile. This one would soon be joining it.

Was this really how they’d deal with it? By making abstract and angry art?

Yes, yes it was. Cheers to that, and on with the fifth glass.

Vieri had been hiding. From a set of people, fellow students, heroes. They would dodge them in the hallways or streets, and get lost down so many corridors of drink that even their own thoughts couldn’t find their way. This is because Vieri was a coward. Vieri had hid then and Vieri was hiding now.

They might not be able to hide much longer. Money was in short supply these days. Gods knew why. They swirled their glass, aromas heady and rich. Rich indeed. 

“To Lord Montaigne,” Vieri toasted the empty room, “Fuck you.” A swig. “Fuck me.”

[hr]As Vieri lay half off their bed, room spinning faster and faster, brain floating in its own pickled juices, a thought bobbed to the surface.

This had to stop. No more. No more. I will stop this. I will face them. I will.

Tomorrow, came the answer, perhaps mumbled, perhaps thought, perhaps both. Tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow.