50 Armand Receives Unwarranted Attention

August 15th - NOW

Finch parked in the lot of the convention center, and we sat quietly for a time. He'd asked if I wanted to be dropped out front, and then accepted my mute, petrified, shake of the head no. My gratitude for the few moments of silence he was allowing evaporated, however, when he glanced at his watch and clicked his tongue against his teeth.

"Will five more minutes of this tantrum be enough?"

I was going to commit murder in a tiny yellow car in America. Tantrum, was it? A bit rich coming from a boy... who was experiencing the throes of first love and first rejection. Bloody hell.

"Aye," I grumbled, "I'm ready."

There were costumed people milling about the parking lot and on the grass in front of the convention center, and Finch beamed and waved at several groups of people. They waved and smiled back but didn't approach him or show any signs of personal recognition. These all appeared to be friendly strangers who nevertheless shared a deep kinship.

I would likely have appreciated at least some of the costumes and represented fandoms as well, but my blinders of terror were in full effect. I was flashing back to my first day of teaching at the university: the existential nausea, the cold sweat, the sensation that I was watching myself from several meters above and mere seconds away from a bloody blackout.

Finch led me to a small conference room where I met DQ-Con official people who gave me lanyards and water and papers and told me things. I looked over at Finch, and he gave me a small smile.

"Is that okay?" asked the kind-eyed, bespectacled young woman who stood before me. The collar of her shirt was heavily starched and her pencil skirt was slate. Her hair was a fascinating mix of mousy brown and electric blue. I couldn't remember a single damned thing she'd just said to me.

I swallowed. I opened my mouth. And nearly collapsed in relief when Finch stepped forward.

"That's great, Ainsley, thanks. Mr. Demetrio would like to sit somewhere quiet and without a lot of people until it's time for the panel, if that's okay?"

Ainsley smiled at me—and not like I was an elderly, demented pet—and nodded, then gestured to the other end of the conference room. There were a few chairs, separate from the rows that lined the middle of the room, set against the far wall near a table loaded with coffee urns, pamphlets, and free pens. "We've got this room till three thirty, so you guys can hang out here if you want."

"Thank you," I croaked.

Ainsley went pink and grinned at me shyly. "No problem. Um."

"Come on, Grandpa." Finch gently took my arm and began leading me toward the back of the room. Leaning my cane against the wall, I sat and accepted the bottle of water he shoved into my hand. He stripped off his jacket, then dropped the large holdall he was carrying and rooted through it, eventually pulling out a volleyball, and kicking the bag toward the wall. "Okay, I'm gonna go take some pictures and stuff, and I'll come get you in about an hour."

I frowned at him, realizing he was dressed in something not un-reminiscent of a PE kit, with a large number ten on his chest. "There's sports?"

Finch tucked the ball under one arm and shook his head at me, grinning. "Don't worry about it." And he scarpered.

I sat in my quiet corner and gently disintegrated.

After a medium-length infinity, I pulled the folded sheet of paper from my back pocket: it was covered in the messy scrawl of my normal handwriting (rather than the painstaking script I used for lettering), but was little more than a series of bullet points for me to hit during my talk. I'd learned the hard way early on in the workshop that when I tried to script my lessons, I quickly got lost. I was a man to whom tangents came quite naturally—at times aggressively—and finding my way back to a written paragraph was much harder than working back to an overall concept. Teaching hadn't become easy toward the end, but it had somehow managed to become ... fun.

That had a lot to do with the fact that I could natter on about comics generally. Which was very different from having to natter on about my own comic specifically.

Oh god, just imagining it made me want to vomit—

I shut my eyes and gripped the plastic bottle in my hand so tight it squeaked. I breathed through my nose, bending forward over my knees.

Once again, I felt the emptiness of my pocket where the flask should be.

I couldn't even promise myself a drink when I got back to the flat. I had to get through this on sheer nerve and Christmas crackers.

And the thought of Lucas.

I knew deep in the darkest corner of my soul that there wasn't a single chance in hell he was still coming to the con. Not after what had happened, no matter what Finch said.

We hadn't texted since. I was flying out the day after tomorrow.

This endeavor wasn't happening.

Originally, we'd agreed to meet after my panel in the gallery space set aside for my students. Lucas, wandering the gallery space considering my students' work ... I opened my eyes and sat up, my heart thumping too hard and climbing into my throat, and my brain suddenly too distracted to continue eating itself.

There was no chance he was coming, but it couldn't hurt to wander by the place we'd said we'd meet, could it? I was deluding myself, but I had nothing else to cling to.

I jerkily stood up out of my chair, and Ainsley gave me a little wave. I waved back and marched—hobbled really—directly out of the conference room into the seething mass of humanity. I wandered through the press of people, keeping to the edges of the enormous hall and trying to quell the feeling that I'd found my way into another world, where a large, colorful crowd of people provided the same visual experience as a Hardyssweetshop.

I had been to comic events before, of course, but never on this scale. Drawn Quartered Comic Convention wasn't some twee little con in Rotherham; there were bloody movie stars somewhere about. And I was an invited speaker. An attraction. I was used to spending a grueling day behind a shared desk, feverishly signing old issues while Lakshmi (and Sam and Craig who sometimes came to help) tried to coax people over to the table apportioned to us, a local romance author, and a tarot reader.

There was no Surrogate Goose table here—there was a Surrogate Goose Corner in the Drake House Complex. In the sea of color and texture, my monochrome artwork stood out like the edgy, ridiculous adolescent in a family photo.

Merchandise hung on display, and young people dressed in Drake House apparel were selling it alongside action figures, posters, and collectibles. It felt bizarre. Like an elaborate joke or misunderstanding. How could this level of corporatization still qualify as indie? How could anyone use that description with a straight face?

Well, I probably wouldn't have to worry about that for much longer. I'd shown up and I was presentable and all, but bet you tuppence I would still make an utter arse of myself on stage and Drake House would drop the comic and Lakshmi would behead me and the world would end—

"Oh my god, Professor Demetrio! Hi!"

Oh no. I cringed but then saw Blue-Glasses-Afro-Puffs—(Ariadne)—beaming up at me. There were two people behind her who were unquestionably her parents. "Oh hello," I managed, trying not to panic. Or at least show that I was panicking. I hadn't thought to prepare for the uncanny valley of seeing my students in any other context than the classroom.

"I was just taking my folks over to see the workshop gallery," she said, then indicated a direction. "It's this way, if you want to come. I know you hate looking at your own work." She glanced back toward the Surrogate Goose Corner, then shrugged, giving me an adorable little half smile.

I felt my face heat up but also a bloom of gratitude in my chest—it was terrible to think that I was so transparent, but comforting to know that my students didn't seem to hold it against me. I followed Ariadne and her parents through the colorful throng and toward a large auditorium. There was a stage at one end, and a small crowd had gathered around the speaker. Their distorted voice echoed, as did the soft rumbling of the audience. It was a QA session. I turned away, shuddering.

At the other end of the hall, there was a gallery space, where my students' work covered the walls. I stopped in my tracks. I'd seen each piece individually, of course, but there was something about seeing them all spread out in one place that caused a fluttering in my chest.

They were good. And even better, somehow, they were all different. There'd been a big part of me that feared I was doing little more than turning out a classful of mini-me's. But while my influence was visible if you knew where to look, each of these kids' visions was unique and their styles distinctive. Finch's odd vampire wizard romance had a great deal of substance to it, with color themes and a dynamic lineup. Damien's spread showed near flawless technique, with fewer sloppy motion blurs, Cyrus had truly taken to heart the lessons of cinematic panels as pacing—I could practically hear the soundtrack—and Aubrey ... had done a fantastic job with the available resources. Which had primarily been gall.

And there they all were, milling about with their friends and families, sending the odd wave my way but otherwise engrossed in the experience of seeing their art professionally displayed for the first time.

I definitely wasn't choking up.

"Armand, there you are!"

I turned to see a red-faced Finch running up to me—perhaps he had found a volleyball game. "I've been looking all over for you! I thought we were staying in the room with the nice lady!"

"Have you seen Lucas at all?" I asked, twisting my fingers in the hem of my sweater.

Finch gaped at me and then let his shoulders sag, mouth twisting in an incredulous smile. "You have no idea the kind of heart attack you just gave me, do you?"

"Sorry." I took a deep breath. "He's not coming, is he?"

"We don't know that yet," Finch said soothingly. "I'm sure he'll be here." He glanced around and then nodded toward the stage. "I can't believe you found the right auditorium on your own. I'm impressed."

I chose not to divulge the role played by Ariadne and her family. Instead, I focused on the fact that the last speaker was clearly finishing up, and bits of this crowd were filing out so that a new crowd could replace them. A few con officials were coming through with brooms, checking the seats for forgotten belongings.

"Do you remember the lineup?" Finch asked, then, when I stared at him mutely, simply continued. "Okay. So the panel moderator makes opening remarks, then you give your talk, then the panelists respond." He searched my face. "You remember who the panelists are?"

As a matter of fact, I did. They were three auteurs of three different indie comics practically indistinguishable from my own, but for some inexplicable reason not remotely as successful. They were all from local publishers—small, boutique, indie publishers that trundled along doing their best with what they had. Not like the behemoth of Drake House that had plucked me from obscurity. The same obscurity whose icy bosom I was soon to return to. My fellow panelists had likely just spent their day the way I'd used to—meet and greets and signings, hawking homemade merch, and accumulating large amounts of con crud.

Not hiding out in a small, quiet room, slowly succumbing to their own stomach acids.

The idea behind the panel was that I was meant to be aspirational. I was the ascended indie kid co-opted by the mainstream as a vehicle for their own performance of authenticity. This panel was me making myself available to the prodding and criticism of my former peers so they, too, could get the best possible odds on their tarnished souls. I had no clue what they might say, but whatever crimes they laid at my feet were likely justified. They were already seated at the table—one had pink hair and the other two were identical in nearly everything but the placement and subjects of their tattoos.

"So the tortured reverie is a yes?" Finch smiled. "Okay, and then there's the audience QA."

I nodded, still scanning the incoming crowd for Lucas, because I was delusional. And desperate for a point of light in the tumultuous sea of strangers.

"Don't worry, he'll be here." Finch took my elbow again and gently led me toward the stage. The room was seriously starting to fill up with a much larger crowd than had attended the previous panel. The low roar of the rabble rumbled through me like seismic waves. People were already standing in the back of the room.

I took my seat beside the pink-haired person and they smiled at me. I tried to smile back but my face felt numb. The moderator stood, and just like Finch had said, made a series of opening remarks, during which I continued to scan the crowd as best I could.

Everybody and his brother-in-law had shown up with a camera, it seemed, but I was keeping an eye out for the fancy kind that would match the cases and stands often strewn around the flat. I was looking for a glitzy camera and a flash of green eyes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Finch being strange in the front row: He was rather pale and rigid, gripping the edge of his seat. He kept glancing over his shoulder surreptitiously as if afraid someone would see. Well, I did see, and I followed his gaze to the corner of the room, near the middle row, where ...

Of course. Skyler.

And standing beside him—

My microphone let out a sharp burst of feedback as I accidentally knocked it over. I scrambled to set it upright again while ignoring the expressions of concern and likely ire directed at me by the other panelists. I was just grateful I hadn't knocked over my water glass, or worse, the jug.

Lucas Barclay looked rather different when not covered in horse. The hair was blond and not naturally spiky, the face was tan and assembled in a series of attractive squares and triangles. I'd observed the wide shoulders the night before, but now in combination with the face of a good-natured cowboy ...

I crossed my legs under the table and immediately started gnawing my knuckles, trying to stop blushing and hoping against hope that he hadn't caught me staring at him.

But he had—he grinned, showing beautiful white American teeth, and gave me a shy little wave. I smiled in spite of myself and forced my knuckles out of my mouth, using the hand to wave back instead. Miraculously, I didn't knock over anything else.

He'd come. He'd actually come. Did that mean there was still a chance? Even though we only had a couple of days left, did he want to pursue this strange thing we'd begun?

Despite the fact that it should have been cataclysmically awkward to stare at each other for as long as we did, neither of us seemed able to look away.

Lucas wasn't taking pictures, and I was only brought back to myself when the bloke next to me nudged me hard in the ribs.

"W-wha?" I blinked away the daze. Pink-Hair was giving me an amused smile while gesturing toward the moderator.

A dapper and extroverted man suited to his job, the moderator was chuckling at me. "And it appears Mr. Demetrio has allowed his mind to wander. Are you prepared to tell us a bit about your goals for Surrogate Goose?"

Oh right. I still needed to speak.

I swallowed and nodded, heat pulsing in my face. Then I pulled my microphone forward, hunching toward it, and smoothed out my tattered page of notes. Lucas was giving me a quiet, encouraging smile, and I could feel it idiotically reflected on my own face.

"I, urgh, haven't any, errmmm, goals." Oh, brilliant start, Demetrio. "That is, not—not any that would make sense to anyone who wasn't me." And that sounds as if you think you're smarter than everyone, well done. I shut my eyes tight for a moment and tried to start over. "I started making this comic during the darkest period of my life"—my voice had gone reedy and fragile, but I soldiered on—"a-and it helped me out of it. I know it's got this reputation for being bleak and ... and hard to understand, and honestly that's because I'm just faffing about." I worried my hands, trying not to be overcome with relief when a laugh rippled through the crowd.

I ran a hand through my hair and then left it there, leaning forward on my elbow, holding Lucas's gaze like it was a lifeline. His eyes narrowed and his grin widened. He bit his lip. I nearly groaned. Instead, I glanced down at my notes and kept talking, riding this wave of serotonin as far as it would take me.

"It's always been confusing to me why other people enjoy the comic." At this, there was a murmur of ascent from along the table. They were smiling and nodding in understanding. Marveling along with me that others might find anything of value in our creations.

None of us knew how or why this worked.

"It's confusing," I continued, "but it also makes me incredibly hopeful. This thing that I make b-because it helps me make sense where there otherwise is none, it actually appeals to the rest of you. Or s-some of you, at least." I swallowed, glancing around the crowd. "I dunno how many of you were dragged here."

Another laugh. Oh god, this might be going well. I took a shaky breath.

"I've had time to think this past month, while I was t-teaching at Norsemen." I had to stop as my students howled and hollered in the way of Americans whose hometown, school, or sports team has been casually mentioned, and I couldn't help grinning at the lot of them. "Settle down. Anyway, I realized that while we like to pretend that we make art for, well, artsy reasons—you know, mysterious, spiritual, unknowable mid-life crisis reasons—and I know it doesn't sound very edgy, but I think all we're doing is making bids for connection. We just want each other to be happy." I found several faces in the crowd I recognized—Robin, Skyler, the students again—all beaming. "It feels good to make people happy, and that doesn't always mean making happy content, necessarily. It might mean working through some real shite—" I winced "—sorry, er, crap, and processing it as best you can using, heh, penguins—" several audience members whooped "—or bloody obtuse literary allusions, or intense graphic contrast. There's no inherent meaning to any of that." I ran both hands through my hair again, swallowing and avoiding the eyes of the other panelists. "I know it sounds trite, but my intentions don't matter, when you come down to it. There's only as much meaning as you put in. Y-you being you. Er, not me." I looked over at Lucas again, helplessly.

He was grinning at me and had his arms folded over his chest, as if waiting to see what I would do next.

"I must say, the thought that this drivel I make—" I glanced along the table "—that we make, out of the mankiest, most cack-handed, obnoxious bits of ourselves—"

Pink Hair and the tattoo twins muttered again in agreement.

"—can actually reach you lot, make you less bored or less lonesome ... It's overwhelming. In my case, I'm taking my own darkness—and not a sexy, bloody sibylline darkness, mind you, a crusty, pongy darkness, full of moldy half-eaten takeaways and ink stains on the carpet—" The crowd gave a mirthful roar, and somehow even in the cacophony, I could pick out Lucas's warm, golden, sunshine laugh.

"And somehow making you smile." I did so myself. "That's the job. You reach out with your tender bits, and if you're lucky, someone reaches back."

The hall hummed with a warm, intimate silence. That increased in cringe by the second.

"A-and that's all," I said weakly. "There's no deep, secret meaning to any of it. J-just a git messing about." I rubbed the back of my neck. "But I love that it makes you happy." I grimaced at the moderator and my fellow panelists. "Th-thank you?"

The awkward silence rang on, burning in my throat.

The applause began slowly, then escalated, thundering against my eardrums and somehow inside my chest.

I'd done it. I'd managed to speak.

Somehow, despite the endless sea of hungry eyes, despite the forest of phones and bright, excited faces, despite the swallowing void of strangers' attention, I'd managed to speak. And possibly make sense.

There was still the rest of the panel to get through, the responses from my peers and the questions from the audience, but the part I was meant to carry on my own was over. The question of whether it had gone well remained—whether I'd just made an utter arse of myself in front of the internet and Drake House publishing overlords—but at the moment I could hardly bring myself to care. The sword of Damocles had snapped the single horsehair by which it hung, but hadn't yet plummeted down to sever my head from my neck.

We were mid-plummet.

And there were much, much worse places to be.

For now, I allowed others to do the talking, listened with half an ear as the other panelists took the garbled mess of a speech I'd made and wrung from it some semblance of deeper meaning and perhaps a shred or two of useful advice. I nodded along and tried to look attentive, though truly I was drowning in the sea-green of Lucas's eyes.