Emory at Nightfall

Francis felt the color return to his cheeks as he stepped out of the crisp fall air, entering the grand hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The magnificent marble floors and soaring ceilings felt all too familiar, like a second home. His friends could never quite understand why he chose to spend a Friday evening here. They were much fonder of the pulsing neon night clubs on Christopher. But Francis felt much more content amidst the vibrant colors and intricate brush strokes that brought to life wonderous worlds of adventures that Francis could only dream of. He'd spend hours wandering through the centuries, the different worlds, a silent observer of lives lived and loves lost. For those fleeting hours, he almost forgot his own loneliness, a jagged stone that cut within him.

His favorite painting was tucked away in a quiet, oft forgotten corner of the spacious museum - Emory at Nightfall. Francis had no idea who had painted it. Or who Emory even was, if he existed, or was just the beautiful fever dream within the mind of a lonely artist. To most eyes, the portrait would seem quite ordinary, depicting a beautiful young nobleman, his chiseled features awash in the warm glow of twilight. But something about the melancholy green eyes of the portrait captured Francis’s interest. It was almost a mirror, reflecting back what Francis himself felt but could never formalize. Francis got so easily lost, admiring the lifelike image, swearing that those glinting green eyes followed his gaze. He would exhale slowly, letting the peace of the painting wash over him.

“Hello, my friend," he greeted the painting, as if it would respond. As always, the eyes within the golden frame soothed the loneliness within Francis. He lost all track of time, his mind drifting in the painting's mesmerizing depths, losing himself in the gentle brushstrokes, in the surprising array of colors. He didn't notice the museum growing hushed and still as the crowds trickled away. Nor did he hear the echoing footsteps of the night security guard making his final rounds. It wasn’t until he noticed the recognizable dim of the lights that he realized; the doors had been firmly locked up for the night. "No! Wait, I'm still inside! Let me out!" he yelled, banging on the glass. But the guards could no longer hear him. Panic seized Francis as he realized he was trapped. No one would return until the morning guards did their first rounds at dawn. It was nearly midnight, Francis realized, and freedom was hours away. The knowledge of this changed the scene around him. In the darkness, the once vibrant portraits felt like harsh eyes upon him, the shadows of the armor, like haunting ghosts. He wandered the halls, jumping at every creak in the old walls. How could he spend the night in a place like this?

Francis was torn from his thoughts by a strange loud creaking sound. Then he could have sworn he heard the sound of stretching fabric, as if canvas were being pulled away from itself. He whirled around, heart pounding, taking in an extraordinary sight unfolding in the lobby hall behind him. Familiar figures were stepping out of their frames, beyond their displays, stretching their arms and shaking out their legs, as if they had been trapped immobile for lengthy hours. A sea of brilliant colors, of ornate jewels and grand ballgowns danced around him, as ladies in lavish evening wear exited their portraits. Francis's jaw dropped taking in the nobles in intricate gowns and tuxedos, the grand pirate masters and Victorian ladies fanning themselves. The beautifully draped Greek statues twirling about the hall. They straightened up their clothing and adjusted their wigs and hats, murmuring and chuckling to one another, as if old friends being reacquainted.

There was a sudden lively strain of music as a group emerged all together from a single frame. Francis recognized them as the figures from the painting The Band Played On. The eight dapperly dressed men took their places, instruments in hand, and launched into a jaunty tune, accompanied by the gentle tapping of a few figures who began to dance. Soon, dozens of apparitions filled the room, swaying and twirling in time with the music in a brilliant display of colors, styles and eras colliding. Francis stood rooted to the spot, mouth agape in stunned amazement as the figures danced and laughed and conversed around him, swirling in a dizzying kaleidoscope of movement and regal dress.

No...it couldn't be possible, Francis' rational mind stammered. How could the figures from the artwork be...animated? Animated and here in the flesh before his eyes? He must be dreaming, hallucinating, or trapped in some sort of lucid fantasy. Frantically, he pelted himself repeatedly to snap out of it. But the scene remained, growing more spirited by the second as the exquisite personages from paintings across all era swept Francis into their midst. They twirled and capered, sipped and supped, awash in a rainbow of silks and satins that should have been immovable brushstrokes. Frozen in disbelief, Francis could only gape until a familiar figure broke away from the crowd, striding straight towards him with the unmistakable air of a sovereign noble. Emory at Nightfall.

The young man's heart pounded a frantic cacophony against his ribcage. This apparition of living paint and pigment who should not, could not possibly be here now stood before him with a teasing smile and an extended hand. Even in this unbelievable situation, the sight of the beautiful man made Francis's knees go weak. Emory offered a sweeping bow and closed the distance between them with a few graceful strides. "My dear man, it seems you are in need of a dance partner this evening," Emory said, extending his hand. His rich baritone voice was like velvet. Without a second thought, Francis placed his hand in Emory's and allowed himself to be swept up into the throng of whirling dancers. They moved across the floor in time with the jaunty rhythm, bodies pressing close together as Emory led them in circles, his hand resting on the small of Francis's back. How many times had he pictured scenes just like this, his arms wrapped around Emory's form as they floated across a parquet floor in a stately ballroom just like this one? In his mind's eye, he'd see the golden candlesticks glowing and dancers swaying in perfect time to the music. And now here it was unfolding before him in achingly sumptuous detail.

"Each evening you come to visit, I've seen the way you look upon me." Francis tried and failed to form words as his face flushed crimson. This beautiful man noticed his adoring gaze. "Do not be embarrassed," Emory said, a warm smile spreading across his full lips. "It is... gratifying to me, that you look upon me so tenderly. Whereas so many merely give me an appraising glance before moving on. But you... you truly see me." He and Emory danced and danced, twirling beneath the crystal chandeliers that bathed the swirling kaleidoscope of colors in a warm, burnished glow. Every time their eyes met, Francis felt himself falling deeper and deeper into intoxicating green pools, no longer reflecting the deep melancholy of loneliness, but instead alight with wonder and excitement. They danced and ran carefree through the grand halls, hands intertwined and hearts light with laughter. Francis wasn’t sure how long it had been, but it felt simultaneously like an eternal evening, and all too horribly fleeting.

Dawn came far too soon, its harsh glow searing through the windows, a raging fire reducing the beautiful illusion to ash. Suddenly, the lively band's instruments smeared into wisps of smoke, the bright hues of ladies’ gowns and the glazed gold of Greek statues fading into a lifeless grey. One by one, Francis watched as the wonderous figures flickered and vanished like candle flames in the breeze, returning to the stillness from which they came. Francis turned to Emory, suddenly all too aware of the ticking hand of time. Emory looked more brilliant than ever, bathed in the hazy golden light of the threatening morning. Emory turned to Francis, his smile soft but tinged with a familiar melancholy. For the first time, Francis noticed his edges hazed, as though he was fading. "This night was fleeting, but how sweet it was," Emory said. He trailed a ghostly hand along Francis's cheek in the barest whisper of a caress. "I wish I could linger, but I'm bound to return from whence I came." He leaned in, his lips a breath away, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to Francis's. It was warm and real and utterly magical - the first kiss Francis had ever experienced.

When Emory finally pulled away, his form was little more than a shimmering mirage. "Perhaps I'll see you again on another night's revels, dear one," he murmured. With a final, blinding smile, he dissipated into a shower of golden sparks swirling on the breeze. Francis stood motionless for a long moment, hand pressed to his tingling lips, unable to process the rush of emotions in his chest. The sharp clang of the museum's entrance echoing open jolted him back to reality. He blinked in the stark morning light as the staff began filing through the doors with raucous chatter. With one last wistful glance at the place where Emory had vanished, Francis hurried to slip out of a side exit before he was spotted. He barely registered the cross glares from the security guard as he escaped into the fresh spring air.

Francis spent the following night at the museum with bated breath, waiting impatiently as the last visitors trickled out and the night guards made their final rounds. His heart raced with anticipation and longing for another transcendent experience like the night before. As the clocks chimed midnight, Francis watched the corridors intently, hoping against hope that the paintings would stir to life once more. Emory's farewell kiss still burned feverishly on his lips, and he ached to share another dance, another heated embrace with the dashing nobleman. But as the minutes ticked by in stillness and silence, Francis's face fell in disappointment. The portraits remained static and immobile on their walls, the figures trapped in their frames as before. No swirling ball gowns and courtly attire emerged, no jaunty tunes summoned the revelers to whirl across the floors. With a heavy heart, Francis sank down on the wooden bench opposite Emory at Nightfall. The painting seemed dimmer tonight, the colors muted and lifeless after the breathtaking magic he'd witnessed. He gazed up at the nobleman's painted smile, now tinged with melancholy. After experiencing the sculpture's vibrant essence coming to life, seeing it as just an inanimate object was heart-wrenching.

"Why did you not return tonight, my lord?" Francis murmured achingly. "I waited all night for another dance." He stayed for hours, watching Emory's form unmoving on the canvas as the night guards cycled in and out. When the first hints of dawn began filtering through the windows, Francis finally gathered himself up with a weary sigh and made his way out of the museum. Over the subsequent days and weeks, Francis returned night after night, his eyes pleading silently with the portrait to somehow reawaken once more. He knew now the truth of the artwork's vivacious spirit dancing beneath the paint strokes. But no matter how ardently he stared and beseeched it to reappear, the painting remained as immobile and lifeless as ever. With deepening melancholy, Francis began to wonder if that one enchanted midnight had just been an elaborate fantasy, a cruelty his lonely mind had conjured during a night of insomnia. Perhaps he had merely fallen into a deep sleep and dreamed the entire ballroom scene. But the memory of Emory's firm body pressed against his own and the nobleman's supple lips felt far too visceral to be fiction. As he sat, waiting for another fall to midnight, Francis gazed upon his favorite painting, swearing that the curve of Emory’s smile had changed, that a light in his eyes was different than before. Francis liked to imagine that he was the cause of this hidden joy. It brought his lonely soul some comfort.

“You must like this one a lot,” Francis was startled at the sound of another person’s voice. It was nearly ten, and most people had long filtered out of the gallery by now. Francis had seldom seen another soul at this hour, particularly in this oft forgotten wing. “I’ve seen you sit here for hours,” the stranger continued. Francis recognized the soft lilt of a British accent. The voice was almost like Emory’s, though lacked the velvet texture. Francis turned to the speaking man, taking in his features. He was handsome, in a common sort of way, with soft brown hair and a round boyish face. But what took Francis in was his eyes, familiar pools of dark emerald. “Yes, this is my favorite,” Francis responds, realizing he has not spoken. He can’t help himself as he wistfully traces his fingers along the edges of Emory’s painted face. “Most people don’t think twice about it. Just another portrait of some lesser British noble. But I think Emory here had many stories to tell.”

“Ah yes, I have heard the stories. From my grandfather.” The stranger responded, looking up into the portrait with admiration. “Emory here is my great-great grandfather.” Francis tore his eyes away from the canvas, studying the young man again in this new light. The resemblance, while faint, was there - the arched brows and elegant nose, the amused twinkle in his green eyes. The young man shrugged one shoulder in a fluid motion. "You might think it's silly to be impressed by all this. Just because my ancestor was of noble blood doesn't mean I'm special."

"No, not at all!" Francis hurriedly defended his interest. "I actually find it pretty cool. It's like being part of history." Offering a smile, the young man extended a hand. “I'm Freddie.”

“I'm Francis.” Francis managed to reply. Taking the hand of this strangely familiar person, a faint spark of recognition flitted through him. “You seem quite knowledgeable about this place.” Freddie asked. Francis nodded pensively.

“I come here every day.” Immediately his cheeks flame in embarrassment, why was he admitting to this attractive stranger that his social life consisted of staring wistfully up at a painting night after night?

“You must know this place well. Care to give me a tour? This is my first visit.” Still flustered but desperately intrigued, Francis quickly agreed. He rose from the bench and Freddie fell into step beside him. As Francis began walking them through the exhibits, pointing out various works and offering historical context, he became swept up in Freddie's keen insights and rapier wit. The young man moved with a beguiling swagger reminiscent of his ancestor, his rich voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur as Francis recounted juicier tales of scandal and impropriety among the noble ranks. His eyes glittered mischievously whenever Francis alluded to any homoerotic subtexts lingering in certain paintings of Greek gods and idealized male forms. By the time their meandering path brought them back to stand before Emory at Nightfall, Francis could feel an electric spark of chemistry crackling between them. Freddie stood a little closer than necessary, his arm brushing tantalizingly against Francis's as they gazed up into the nobleman's enigmatic smile.

“Thank you for the tour, I had a lovely time.” Freddie smiled.

A sudden urge for the night to continue welled up in Francis.

“Are you hungry?” He blurted out unexpectedly, surprised by his own boldness. A glint appeared in Freddie's eyes.

“I haven’t eaten. But it’s terribly late, I’m not sure what would still be open,” he laments. Smiling, Francis took his hand, leading him toward the exit. “It's New York City - there’s always something open.” As the two young men strolled away hands still entwined, Francis took one last look over his shoulder to the painting he so loved. He could have sworn he glimpsed the figure in the painting shift, the hint of a proud smile tugging at Emory's lips. But perhaps it was just a trick of the fading light, imprinting the world with the captivating magic only art could conjure. As Freddie and Francis found themselves amidst the cool crisp fall air, Francis felt lightweight, filled with a sudden hope, a promising connection. It did not go unnoticed by him that Freddie did not once drop his hand as they traversed through the city streets in search of a late night haunt. The feeling was not a dream, as his feelings toward Emory had been, but a tangible thread of hope in true human connection.