Yet You're my Favorite Work of Art

Chapter Two

"I'll pay for the ride this time, alright?" I stub out my cigarette and shrug.

"Whatever." Ashley hails a cab and we get in.

"25 Rush Street, please." The driver nods and starts driving. Ashley looks at her phone and informs me the ride won't take very long.

"It better fucking not," I mumble. She turns to look at me, and even though I can't see past her dark sunglasses, I can tell she's rolling her eyes. I cross my legs and look out the window, as the streets of Chicago blur past. Ashley talks nonsense the entire ride, showing me pictures of haircuts she wants and the new set of paints she bought and this amazing restaurant she ate at the other night. Eventually, after twenty or so minutes of this, we pull up outside of the gallery. That's right, the gallery. Let's just say, Ashley took drastic measures to get me there, and now I have a sore crotch and a headache. We step outside in front of the gallery and I turn to face her. She tightens my scarf for me and I smooth her hair down a little bit.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Nope." She groans and shoves me inside the door playfully. I smirk at her and regain my balance. I look around the room, at all the people packed inside looking at the art. Ashley elbows me and smiles.

"See? This kid's got potential! Look at this fucking crowd."

"I have to admit, that's pretty impressive." Ashley smiled and punches my arm.

"I knew you'd come around eventually. I'll get us some drinks." She smiles once more and rushes away towards the bar. I turn and look around the room some more. The art's pretty good. Too good for an amateur. Someone taps my shoulder and I jump. It's just Ashley. She hands me a glass of wine and takes a sip of her own.

"Are you even old enough to drink?" I ask playfully.

"Barely, yes. I'm such a wee fetus compared to old man Ross over here." I laugh and take a sip. "This is good, right?" she asks.

"It'd be better if I knew what kind of art this was supposed to be."

"It's a contemporary form of surrealism. If I had to label it, that is." I turn and address the voice talking to me. A man stands there, with big glasses, and black hair, most hidden by a red beanie. He's dressed casually, in a flannel, black t-shirt and ripped jeans. A hipster, great. He has a certain amount of confidence, even with me in my three hundred dollar suit and Ashley in her dress from some store in Europe.

"And you'd know this how?" I ask.

"Well, I'm the artist, of course. Brendon Urie," he extends a hand out to me, "at your service." I hesitantly shake his hand.

"And I'm R-"

"Ryan Ross. I'm a huge fan, such an inspiration." I turn to Ashley and widen my eyes. She takes a sip of wine and smiles. "And you're Halsey, aren't you?" he says. Ashley smiles widely and nods.

"Yes sir! Please, call me Ashley."

"Of course, anything. I can't believe the two of you are here!" As he talks, his leg shakes and he taps his foot repeatedly. He drums his fingers against the side of his thigh, and damn, this kid talks fast. Watching him squirm is making me squirm. Is it hot in here all of a sudden? I tug at the collar of my shirt and loosen my scarf.

"Are you alright, Ry?" I snap my head towards Brendon.

"Don't fucking call me Ry, kid, I've spoken two sentences towards you. So please just fuck off." He looks shocked, hurt almost. His inspiration just shot him down. Fucking good for him.

"I-I'm sorry, Ryan." He stumbles over his words, face flushing pink.

"It's fine, right Ryan?" Ashley rubs my shoulder sweetly but sends daggers towards me with her glare. "He just needs a little air, right?"