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The paintbrush tipped awkwardly in the loose grip that held it. For hours now, he’d been sitting like this: fiddling absently with the brush as he sat across from the easel. The palette, balanced clumsily in his clawed hand, remained untouched. Jack frowned at the blank canvas staring back at him.
What the hell was he even doing?
He sighed, shifting his stiff shoulders as he set down the brush and palette. He wasn’t an artist anymore. He’d decided that a long time ago. And yet something about his conversation with Michiko earlier that day had lingered in his mind far longer than he’d expected it would.
He’d stopped by her room to deliver the new scarf he’d made. As she’d traced her fingers along the intricate, delicate patterns embroidered into the cloth, she’d thanked him.
“It’s beautiful,” she’d said with a smile. “You’re an artist, aren’t you? The Baron mentioned something about it before.”
He’d paused for a little longer than he would later admit before clearing his throat with a chuckle.
“Oh,” he’d said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I don’t paint anymore.” She looked at him quizzically, but he simply tipped his hat farewell and continued down the hall.
That should have been it. The end of the conversation. Yet here he was, hours later and growing more and more irritated at the empty canvas in front of him with every passing moment. It wasn’t that hard. To put paint to canvas. He knew how. He’d known how.
But that wasn’t the point.
He knew that, too.
He moved to clean up the easel, stiffening for a moment when his grip caused the sharp edges of his left hand to tear through the linen of the canvas. He stared at the way the blades so easily slid through the fabric, rending it to useless, jagged ribbons. Somewhere in his chest, something twisted.
His eyes traced along the edge of his hand where flesh and bone gave way to cold steel. A once-dexterous hand so adept with a brush.
He wasn’t an artist anymore. He hadn’t been since the day he’d chosen The Ripper over Jack.
He needed to go for a walk.
~~~
He soon found himself wandering aimlessly through the manor halls, humming quietly to himself. Silvery moonlight dripped in through tall, arched windows, lighting his path.
After a time, a sound caught his ear: a soft melody that drifted down the halls to mix with his own tune. Following it to its source, he found himself at the door to the courtyard watching as Antonio, one of his fellow hunters, swayed gently as he played his violin.
Jack had never been particularly close with the musician, though he’d seen him around the manor often enough. Something about the man’s arrogance and the way he spoke of both himself and his music had limited Jack’s desire to interact with him to the occasional not-so-playful jab in the direction of his pride. A hypocritical stance, he was aware, and one that had led to flared tempers and arguments on multiple occasions.
He’d heard him play before, too. Convinced he was a genius; Antonio would often play as he loitered about the manor halls. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, but Jack would never tell him that.
Somehow, though, this was different.
As he watched expert fingers flit across the strings to create the melody that had drawn him in so hypnotically, there was something different about this song that he couldn’t quite place. Something strangely poignant woven into the melody that filled the night air between the two.
It was colour. Emotion. So vibrant and contradictory that it left Jack dumbstruck, staring slack-jawed at the violinist who was drawing the song to a close.
As the final notes dissipated into the cool night air, Antonio’s posture relaxed. At the sound of applause, his eyes snapped open and he turned to see Jack walking towards him.
“Not bad,” Jack said. The usual smug lilt he always seemed to address him with was there, but underlying it was a layer of genuineness that caught Antonio off guard.
“I didn’t realize I’d invited an audience,” he grinned. Jack’s irritation flickered.
“You didn’t.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stay.” His grin only seemed to get wider and Jack could swear there was a self-satisfied glint in the eyes that were always hidden behind those too-long locks of hair. He huffed irritably but didn’t turn him down. Instead, he took a seat on the steps that led down from the door, motioning for him to continue.
And that he did.
They remained like that late into the night. Antonio played for him, piece after piece and Jack sat, entranced by that melancholy liveliness that each note seemed to brim with. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, but finally Antonio’s last song was complete.
Before he could say anything or even applaud, the violinist spoke.
“Thank you.” When he turned to face Jack, there was a wistfulness softening the edges of his expression. “It’s… been a while since I played for someone like this.”
The admission puzzled Jack. Antonio played quite often around the manor and he certainly wasn’t shy about performing for others. He didn’t notice the way that the musician seemed to cradle the instrument in his arms before waving a hand to dispel his confusion.
“Never mind,” he smiled. “Goodnight, Jack.”
~~~
Jack stood before a blank canvas again. For the first time in ages, the brush met its surface. He painted, the brush still awkward and clumsy in his non-dominant hand.
It didn’t turn out how he wanted.
He kept trying, painting and repainting over and over. The melodies from the night before swirled in his head. He wanted to capture them. Those colours, those emotions. If he could just get those feelings onto the canvas….
But try as he might, he couldn’t.
That evening, he found himself seeking out Antonio again. Then again, and again. It became something of an unspoken routine: Jack would listen to Antonio’s private performance in the courtyard under the moonlight. Every day he would immerse himself in those melodies and every day he would try and fail again to paint those emotions that Antonio seemed to so effortlessly invoke with his music.
One night, as Antonio was packing away his violin, he asked Jack why he stopped to listen. They don’t often speak during their encounters, so the unexpected question took him by surprise.
“I can appreciate an impressive musical ability,” he said. “It’s pleasant to listen to, and I enjoy good music.”
“I see,” Antonio said, though it was clear to both of them that there was more for Jack to say. After a beat, he sighed and continued.
“There’s something… inexplicable about your music,” he said slowly. “It… it makes me want to paint.”
“Oh?” There was an earnest curiosity in that simple response.
“Yes,” Jack admitted sheepishly. It was odd. He never felt sheepishly. “I used to be an artist. It was a long time ago, but I used to paint.”
He rubbed at the wrist of his left hand, eyes trailing up the blades he’d chosen over his brushes. Maybe once, he’d been an artist. Maybe once it had been enough of a catharsis to keep the darkness at bay. But that was a lifetime ago.
The relief and escape it had once provided, that he’d so desperately sought out once upon a time, simply wasn’t there anymore. Jack’s paintings weren’t enough for him, but The Ripper… a new, vicious kind of catharsis had presented itself to him.
He’d eaten his heart and become a new man.
“I’d love to see it,” Antonio said, and Jack remembered he was in the courtyard, speaking with him.
“Hm?”
“Once you’ve finished. If you’re so inclined, I’d be very happy to see it. The painting.”
“Oh.”
And to his surprise, the idea doesn’t sound as awful as he thought it would.
~~~
The canvas before him was a smattering of colours and brushstrokes. Jack tilted his head with a disapproving hum. It still wasn’t quite right.
Usually, this would bother him. Usually, this would see him grabbing a new canvas or putting everything away. Starting over or giving up.
Usually.
But there was something strange about this painting. Even though it was so far from what he’d envisioned, and he was nowhere near satisfied with his work, it didn’t feel as awful to him as his previous attempts.
He didn’t feel as awful this time.
The ghost of someone else’s grin he’d grown so familiar with danced at the edges of his mind as he set the painting aside to dry.
~~~
That evening, when he arrived at the courtyard, Antonio was waiting for him at the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t play for you tonight. Some business has come up and I must attend to it.” His smile was apologetic, but Jack could have sworn he saw something else flicker in his face for a moment. Before he could ask about it, though, Antonio was gone, leaving him alone with only the shrubs and the statues for company.
It was lonelier than he would like to admit.
~~~
The next day, after returning from a match, Jack passed by the violinist’s room. Through the door, he could hear him practicing his violin.
A few bars. Stop. Start again.
A mistake. Start again.
He could hear the way frustration bled into each note.
Another mistake. A muttered curse. Start again.
A mistake. The crash of something being knocked from a table. A miserable string of swears.
Silence.
Jack stood motionless by the door.
After a moment, he could hear the violin begin again.
This time, it was uninterrupted. Perfect. As if somehow, it had been purged of all the mistakes from just a few minutes before.
It was also, Jack noted, missing that inexplicable quality that he was so enamoured by. He stepped away from the door and continued down the hall, leaving the perfect, precise string of notes behind.
That afternoon’s painting turned out horribly.
~~~
When Antonio played for him that night, it was still missing. Tendrils of hair coiled against the neck of the violin, playing out flawless, sterile notes. For all their beauty, Jack could only hear what was absent.
Antonio’s arms hung loose by his sides, swaying slightly as he moved back and forth with the music. Jack’s head tilted as he watched. Even these movements seemed sapped of life.
Beautiful colours had given way to a swirling monochrome.
It was wrong. So very, very wrong.
“What did you think?” Antonio asked as he lowered the instrument. That got his attention. He never stopped to ask what Jack thought.
“It’s different,” he answered, a casual drawl to his voice. “Did something change?” There was a prodding challenge in that question as his eyes flicked up to meet the violinist’s.
“...I’ve been polishing this piece,” Antonio said stiffly. He broke Jack’s gaze to stare at the stone tiles of the floor. “It’s better now.”
“I liked it better before,” he said with a shrug. There was a forced nonchalance in his response. If Antonio didn’t intend to be forthright with him, then he wouldn’t be, either.
“It’s better now,” Antonio repeated through gritted teeth. His hands had balled into fists by his sides.
“No, it’s not,” Jack said, getting to his feet. “And we both know it. So, what changed?”
Normally, Antonio would have deflected again. Dismissed that anything had changed and chalked it up to the other man’s imagination. But there was something in the way he’d asked. The way the challenging edge to his voice had been undercut by… he’d be an idiot to assume it was concern, wouldn’t he?
But then he looked up and saw the way Jack had stepped toward him. Frozen, now, with arms half-outstretched toward him, he looked hesitant. Uncertain. And it was so odd to see such a lack of conviction from the man that usually carried himself with such an air of prideful ease that the strangeness of it all caused him to laugh.
It was a sudden, sharp sound. One that seemed to jolt through Jack in surprise. He watched as Antonio laughed out hollowly. It died down almost as quickly as it had begun, and he was left staring at the sad grin of the man before him.
“Nothing…” he said, finally. “Nothing’s changed, Jack.”
“Antonio--”
“I’m a man who gave up everything for music. Everything. If I can’t play well enough, what right do I have to deny Him control?” There’s a sorrow in his eyes as he speaks. “There’s nothing else left in this world for a damned man like me. All I have is music.”
Jack watched the way the hair curled against the violin independent of the hands, carried by a secondary presence. He’d heard, of course, about the Demon. The one Antonio had supposedly made a deal with that led to his incredible popularity before leading him straight to the doors of the Manor. He’d known about it before now, but never before had he been so acutely aware of its looming, oppressive presence.
It had been the Demon’s music, then, that he’d been listening to all night.
They stood there in a silence that seemed to stretch on into an eternity. Jack appeared to be turning something over in his head before he finally spoke.
“Come with me.”
~~~
Jack pushed open the door to his room and motioned for Antonio to enter. The rooms in the manor were all nearly identical. Antonio could see the same large bed, dressers, and wardrobe strewn about that he recognized from his own room. What caught his eye, however, were the paintings.
Littered across the rug were a dozen canvases with layers upon layers of paint. Leaned against walls and drawers and stacked in piles in the corner were countless more.
“These are… yours?” he asked, leaning down to look at one near the foot of the bed. Bright yellows and rich purples swirled together in a strange dance. He noticed another one nearby that had been abandoned with still more than half the canvas blank.
“Yes,” Jack said. “And you ought to know that I despise each and every one.”
“Oh…”
“...Yes. But,” he added hastily. “I don’t hate them.” Antonio’s brows furrowed in confusion and Jack took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing.
“I… none of these paintings have turned out the way I wanted them to. Not a single one,” he said. “But… I enjoyed making them. Some more than others, but for the first time in ages I was painting for its own sake.”
He turned to hand a painting to Antonio. It was beautiful. Vibrant and colourful and it seemed to come to life off the canvas.
“Your music isn’t perfect, Antonio,” he said. “But without it, I wouldn’t have made this. Any of these. If you say you’re damned, well, then join me with the condemned. I much prefer your music to the Demon’s.”
There was that challenge again, but this time, Antonio could tell it wasn’t directed at him.
Looking around the room, the dawning fact that every painting he was looking at was inspired by his music, his music, left him breathless. His eyes wandered back to Jack, who was watching his face carefully. He recalled the way Jack always seemed to light up when he played for him. The way he relaxed, melting into the music as if it was the only thing in the world that mattered. He thought about how happy he was to have someone enjoying the music he played with his own two hands after all these years.
And when his eyes met Jack’s, he finally smiled.
Turning the painting over in his hands with a coy look, he spoke.
“Perhaps I should play for you here. While you paint.”
“Oh? Is that so?”
“Maybe it would help you capture my music better if I did.” It was Jack’s turn to grin, now, as he crossed the room to gather up his easel and paints.
“Well, I suppose there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
~~~
Days later, as the beautiful sounds of a violin drifted down the manor halls from Jack’s room, the two hunters sat, content in each other’s company. Antonio was working through the final stretches of a new piece he’d been working on, and Jack was putting the final touches on his newest painting. He wasn’t sure he would be happy with it, but when was he ever?
That wasn’t the point.
As his brush smoothed out the details of the smile he’d grown so fond of, the satisfaction that settled in his chest was enough.