Except You Love

Chapter 1: Midnight Blue

This is not my work I am just converting it to Camren. The absolutely brilliant author, theproseofnight wrote this masterpiece. Go check out her work on AO3, you will not be disappointed!

Hope you guys like this as much as I did. There's a little bit of everything in this, fluff, angst, smut. Happy Reading! (And please let me know if there's any mistakes) ok I'm done, enjoy!

"dear heart,
please break gently,
I loved her then,
but ardently,
I love her still."

*****

"Camila?"

A beat.

Two.

But no response.

—

Lauren had only just stepped into the smaller room off of the main gallery space when her past made the least likely but most heart-stopping of appearances.

—

On her third glass of wine, she was searching for a moment of quiet away from the din of conversation, the noise and excitement typical of opening exhibitions.

Outside, the flurries had picked up momentum, a biting cold had gripped the city with more teeth than usual for January, shuttering in most residents. But inside the brick building on West 20th St, the chilly night air is warmed with excited chatter. The Chelsea crowd, along with some of the more intrepid culture-chasers trekking from various corners of the city, all dressed smartly to impress, had huddled in to see the latest up-and-coming artists working in new media. Muffled voices and lively music can be heard through the glass doors, competing merrily against each other as they are carried by exposed brick from room to room.

Old hat by now, Lauren knew what to expect by the second hour once the nervous energy had settled, after the guests were plied with drinks and tiny plates of food. Visitors mingling with curators and critics, giving each other timely nods and approving smiles as they take in the artwork before them. Some staring intently at canvases, others taking careful steps around the floor pieces.

It was routine.

The nods would become more enthusiastic, the smiles wider as the minutes ticked by and the alcohol flowed.

Invariably the Times writer would get into a heated debate with the Post's blogger over the intensity of a colour, the choice of hue, whether the marks left behind by the bristles had deeper meaning. (They did not. She had been too lazy to switch out brushes at that particular point.)

Invariably her best friends, Normani and Ally, though her two biggest cheerleaders, would get bored and slip out to the bar next door to shamelessly flirt and fight over who gets the most numbers. (The final tally ultimately didn't matter, there would never be any follow through since they both had very significant others waiting at home. The victor of the spirited competitions earned bragging rights. Lauren thought it was better anyways that they occupied each other's time than instigate arguments with the serious connoisseurs over whether Normani's "two-year old nephew could have done that with one eye closed and two hands tied.")

Invariably the event's gold sponsor would make a rousing speech about his company's honour to support the development of the city's creative capital, while making some ill-punned jokes about not knowing the difference between Manet and Monet (even if the Impressionists had absolutely nothing to do with the night's art), before handing the mic over to the gallery owner Simon Cowell who would lavish more astute praise, and fond over the bright futures of these rising stars.