3 The Man In The Night
'Err...?' The stranger spoke, his voice a deep, sleepy, husky mess.
Falcon stared. The stranger was dressed in a loose t-shirt and boxers. The wide neck of the shirt fell past his right shoulder, the sly rays of moonlight kissing the hollow above a delicately curved collarbone. He was as tall as him, his thin frame a towering silhouette against the dim light, casting a shadow over Falcon as he stood there, mouth agape at the presence of the person he had knocked out not minutes ago.
Fuck, he thought, his mind blank as disbelief nestled down into the core of his being. How the hell is he awake?
The stranger stood staring at him in the dark, still as a statue, blocking his path to the rest of the room. He was looking at him expectantly, like the man who had broken into his house would start giving him explanations as to why he was there. It was terrifying and comical at the same time, but the act displayed his absence of fear, making Falcon wary of the slight man.
Damn you, Falcon. You can kiss your life goodbye, he cursed himself internally, hopelessness creeping upon him like an unchecked strand of poison ivy.
He was debating whether or not he should jump out the window, when the man opened his lips a fraction of an inch and spoke.
'May I....help you?' The stranger dropped a hushed whisper in the silent night.
Falcon stilled. He realized his heart was beating very fast, the blood that had frozen in his veins rushing up to his ears suddenly, making them ring. It was too dark to make out the person's eyes, but Falcon guessed they would be wide in surprise, or hopefully, full of fear.
'Uh.....I was.....just leaving now....' Falcon stuttered. Innocence wasn't a strategy he played often. He had never been in a situation like this. Really, his inner self scoffed. Is that the best you can come up with?
Shut up, he responded. I have never been cornered like this before, so I have to buy myself time.
He could have just attacked him, but something told him to play it out.
And then the man snorted loud enough to startle awake every soul in the mansion and made Falcon jump out of his skin.
It was the perfect moment to lash out, to take this slightly deranged man out but there was no guarantee how fast he could move. There was the chance he would alert the guards and then Falcon would be in bigger trouble. One man he could fight, no problem, but a huge group of guards would risk his arrest, or worse, the exposure of his face. Whatever happened, he couldn't let them see his face or his whole life was over.
With a sigh of indecision, Falcon leaned back against the canvas and took in the man's frame, whose arms were crossed over his chest with part of his hair hiding his eyes as he looked at Falcon carefully, trying to see behind the mask that hid his face.
'I believe you came here for something. Do you plan to reveal it before you….what did you say….leave?' The stranger's tone was playful and nonchalant, a fearless ring to his words as he regarded his explanation, and this confused Falcon more than it should have.
Did he know something Falcon didn't and was playing a game with him? Had he perhaps alerted the guards already and they were making their way up while he indulged him in small talk?
Who was he anyway? Falcon really hadn't looked into the residents' profiles, just the building's interior. Whoever he was robbing wasn't his business.
It was at that moment that the moon decided to change its position, lazing on the clouds and drifting off. Silver moonlight hit the glass wall and sparkled right onto the man's face, who had turned slightly towards the room. The stranger's face lit up and Falcon saw his dark feline eyes, lifted slightly at the corners as the man reached up and mopped the hair away with a careless jerk.
It was the same face, the beautiful photos of which had adorned art magazines around the country for quite a long time. None of the shots had done him justice, Falcon thought. It was not his features, he realized with a start. There was a softness to his face which reached up to his eyes too, a sign of kindheartedness and melancholy. Falcon knew that man had never raised his voice at anyone, even though authority was a pancake he had for breakfast. The beauty came from his charisma and shone on his face, whispering of the gentleness the man's nature hid.
The most famous painter of the country bore his piercing gaze into Falcon, his eyes holding the amusing question he had uttered seconds ago.
Falcon remembered at once this detail about the man the moment he met his eyes, which were Cyan Yarrow's most startling feature, surveying him with an interested curiosity. There was no sign of fear, just a slight confusion behind the questions his eyes held, like he had caught Falcon stealing his burrito, but was trying to tell himself he must be hungry.
For all Falcon was concerned, he had been told to get his hands on the package behind the painting, Cyan's newest work which would be displayed in the Art Gallery next month.
The entire country knew Cyan's biggest weakness was his compassion.
With this thought, an idea opened its eyes and yawned in Falcon's mind like a newborn kitten, and Falcon prayed silently for the plan to work.
Falcon relaxed like a flaccid cell, his shoulders falling as he mustered up enough courage to take hold of the mask and pull it down his face. He clumsily stocked it into his jacket, hoping the action would speak of a blundering abashed teenager caught in the night. He willed blood to creep onto his cheeks, it was important he looked ashamed for the plan to work.
He hoped the darkness would conceal his face, but if Cyan Yarrow saw him clearly, the man would have to die. Cyan looked innocent and vulnerable, like he would break if he was so much as touched slightly, but he was a good fighter. His stance and stealth were visible.
And Falcon couldn't afford a single sound.
Falcon took a deep breath, flitting his pupils about, avoiding Cyan's gaze and also catching it at the same time.
Buy yourself time, he thought calmly. Find out if anyone else knows of me being here, then take out the artist and get your hands on the parcel. He recalled the clumsy plan as he opened his mouth.
'Cyan,' Falcon whispered, softly like he was in awe. 'I didn't expect you to be so young.'
It was comical how Cyan Yarrow's face went from an amused expectation to that of confusion, as if Falcon's answer had caught him off guard. Falcon had no idea what the man was expecting him to say, perhaps explanations for his strange presence in the dead of the night.
'I am sorry,' Cyan said. 'What do you mean? Do you perhaps, know me?'
Falcon shook his head like he couldn't believe his ears. 'Everybody knows you, Cyan. What are you talking about?'
'Well, that's not true,' Cyan waved a hand in the air, dismissing his statement like it meant nothing. 'Many people don't. But...who are you?'
'I…...I am, well, I am so sorry, Cyan. I couldn't help it,' he wailed, as if wretched at his helplessness. 'When you announced your recent project, I HAD to see it before everyone else. I had to see this painting,' he giggled slightly then, covering his mouth with his palm, as if abashed, praying Cyan would react the way he wanted.
Falcon cringed inwardly.
'I….this is confusing,' Cyan said, his face twisting into one of bewilderment and alarm. 'You broke into my house JUST to see my painting?' He spoke in a tone that said YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE THAT?
He must have had encounters with crazy fans before, because he didn't raise the alarm just yet.
'It's your last painting,' Falcon whispered reverently. 'It means so much to me.' He mourned, turning towards the painting as if watching a loved one leave. He raised a single finger and ran it down the length of the canvas, sighing, while his shoulders sagged with remorse.
It was true. "CYAN YARROW WILL NO MORE SET HIS BRUSH TO A CANVAS AGAIN" The headlines had read.
Cyan looked taken aback, but he was regaining his composure rapidly. He opened and closed his mouth several times, deciding and canceling whatever words his muddled mind formed. 'What's your name, boy?' he finally said.
Falcon's stomach dropped. That was the last question he had expected him to ask and it was his most difficult one yet.
What's my name, Cyan? Why did you have to ask that? You wouldn't be able to sit with the information once you find out. He regretted it inside, before deciding on the first name that popped up in his head.
'Jason,' he said. 'That's my name.'
