Work Text:
There was something essentially comforting about cleaning Vincent’s brushes. Rinsing them with linseed oil, working the soap lather into the bristles firmly yet gently and wiping down the brushes; there was something almost therapeutic about this process. As the afternoon sun streamed into Vincent’s room, coupled with his pleasant humming in the background, the thought occurred to you that you, indeed, could not be happier.
Spending time around the painter was, by far, your favourite hobby in the mansion. Nothing felt like a chore around him - in fact, he may have asked you to redo the wallpaper in the entire mansion and you would’ve just agreed in a heartbeat. Of course, there was no doubt that Vincent was nice but this was more than politeness going too far. Vincent’s kindness was all-pervading and in everything he did. He had told you once that he had never gotten angry at someone before and sometimes felt as if he was devoid of emotions. At first, you found yourself wondering if that was possible but soon you realised that rather than scrutinising it, it would be better for you to just accept it and accept Vincent for who he was - how would that make you any different than the people that had judged him before? Anyway, given all that you had experienced in the mansion, this would never seem remotely like a problem.
“It takes strength to be kind. I think you’re a very strong person,” you told him, smiling brightly.
It was as if a weight had been lifted off the metaphorical shoulders of your and Vincent’s relationship, ever since he had told you that fact and you gradually grew closer and closer. From helping him with his pet to cleaning his brushes, it seemed like the time you spent around Vincent increased by the day and neither of you seemed to mind. Nor did Sebastian, for that matter, and it seemed like he always had some other task relating to Vincent, for you. As you finally shaped the brushes and left them to dry, you couldn’t help but look towards him. Only Vincent’s back was visible to you and he daubed away at the canvas. The sun shone down more gently than when you had entered the room and you wouldn’t be mistaken to imagine that he was aglow in the gentle afternoon sunshine. Beyond him and the canvas, you could see the garden, in bright bloom. Some roses seemed to be nearing the peak of their bloom and and your smile grew when you saw them.
“Be right back, Vincent!”
“Oh, right-” Vincent turned around to see a blur of motion and you were out of the door, before he could say anything else. Smiling, he shook his head before returning to the painting.
You entered Vincent’s room again, a few minutes later, in less of a rush this time. Holding the vase with the freshly-cut Desdemona roses carefully, you beamed proudly at Vincent, who had now set down his brush and palette.
“Are those for me?” he asked.
You nodded, setting them down on an available surface and fussing the arrangement into perfection. “How do you like them, Vincent?”
“I love them, thank you.” You didn’t have to look towards him to realise he was still smiling and judging by the way you heart was going ba-dump against your chest and the slight heat at your cheeks, it might’ve been safer to look at the flowers instead. There was absolutely no reason to think anything of this, you told yourself. Vincent was nice to everyone. And with that nervousness of a blooming crush in tow, you began to ramble.
“A-actually, they reminded me of you! Well, not exactly you - you suit sunflowers in my mind, you know? But no, they remind me of the roses you painted in Saint-Rémy, actually. They look exactly like this, so I thought I’d bring them in and leave them here, if that’s okay? Ah, but you said you liked them, so they must be ok-” you stopped, realising that Vincent was trying to stifle his laughter, finally looking up to meet his gaze.
“Thank you, again.” The way Vincent’s eyes scrunched up, when he was smiling broadly - you were sure that sight put the beauty of all of the flowers in the garden to shame. How had you not noticed it before? “The ones from Saint-Rémy were pink but these do look similar.”
“Oh,” you stared at him, dumb-founded for a moment. “Oh no, but the ones I saw were definitely white - I saw them in person! I mean, they had a tinge of pink to them but…” your voice got quieter with every syllable, trailing off slowly as you recalled the information you had read in the brochure at the museum exhibit.
“They faded,” Vincent and you both spoke simultaneously. The expressions could not be more contrasting, though - Vincent’s was one of mild amusement, yours was crestfallen. It prompted another laugh from him, one that he had to bite his lip in order to suppress.
“I’m so sorry, Vincent! I didn’t mean to ruin things for you.”
“You didn’t do anything,” he shook his head. “I had a feeling they would fade, anyway.” He could distinctly remember the optimism and hope he had felt, when painting the roses and perhaps he had gotten carried away, for the paint layered on so thick that he had asked the attendant to send them to him one month later, after they had finished drying. However, the hope he had felt then, playing with the unstable red lakes to capture vivid pink roses, had long faded, or so he thought.
Eyeing the roses carefully, a slow smile spread across Vincent’s lips and you couldn’t help but think that this was, indeed, the most beautiful smile you had ever seen. His calm, blue eyes had always reminded you of a cloudless sky but at this very moment, they felt only a reach away, so alive and vibrant. “You know…” he paused, looking towards you and you could feel your breath catching in your throat. “Everything fades away, but I feel just as happy as I did when I painted them. Isn’t that funny?”
There was so much you could’ve told him - but there was understanding, compassion and happiness in the silence. You felt yourself smiling back at him and it was as if time itself stood still. And neither of you had noticed Theo, who was standing outside the door and smiling to himself, at the romance budding in front of him.