The Inter-sanctum of the Great God Kinney

Title: Red Tag…
Story Type: AU, Could be cannon
Word Count: 350
Warnings: Love, Passion, Romance, Angst…
Beta Queen: bigj52
EKG-Club Weekly Drabble Challenge Prompt 40 – Red Tag…

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are property of their respective owners, including, but not limited to Russell T. Davies, Cowlip, and Showtime. The author of this story is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended…

Summary: After years of struggling as a starving artist in New York, Justin finally get a solo show…


Red Tag

I’ve finally accomplished something worth celebrating, but I no longer have anyone to celebrate it with.

I sent Brian an announcement for my solo show, but I know he won’t come. I’ve been in New York six years, and it’s been years since I’ve seen him. Three years, seven months, five hours and forty-eight minutes, but who’s counting. I’m actually surprised that we lasted as long as we did. Keeping up a long-distance relationship is very hard work. In the end, I guess we were both too tired of trying, and we finally just let it slip away.

It’s crowded. I never expected so many people to attend. I’m hot, and I feel so uncomfortable in this new suit and turtleneck. But my agent insisted I get dressed up, because it’s important I make a good impression. I circulate through the masses, listening to them critique my work. They have no idea who I am.

Then I see it, glaring at me like the hole in my heart. Patrice, my agent, appears right by my side; I’m angry, as I glare at her.

“I told you I’d show this painting, but I made it crystal clear it was not for sale.”

“Justin, calm down. It’s just a painting, and you can always paint another one.”

“It’s not just a painting to me, and you know it!”

“Try to understand, they were very insistent that they have it, and after arguing they finally offered me fifty thousand dollars.”

I laugh, thinking back to my argument with Brian so long ago, and him offering me fifty thousand dollars for it. Of course, I told him it wasn’t for sale.

“Patrice! What you just don’t get, is that painting is priceless to me!”

The manager of the gallery comes up to me, and hands me a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses, saying they were just delivered.  I’m puzzled, because none of my friends can afford to send me roses; they can’t even pay their heating bill. I take the little envelope, instantly recognizing his handwriting. The card simply says, “It’s Time!”

The End