Work Text:
When Edgar first steps into the Oletus manor, he sweeps his eyes over its interior – the room he’s in is large, with eye-catching stairs right in front of him leading up to the second floor, visible from where he is standing. There are lit candles around the room and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and while it is quite dim inside this manor, he can still see clearly in there. He’s surprised that there is no one to receive him, the room completely devoid of people.
A marble statue of a woman catches Edgar’s eye, but before he can move closer to inspect it, a door to his right opens. A woman wearing a white dress, a nurse’s cap and cape steps in– although she stops immediately when she takes notice of Edgar.
“Oh! Are you… a newcomer?” she asks him, donning a polite but distant smile on her face. There is something more to her eyes, a detached sort of look, but Edgar can’t figure out what it is.
“This is the Oletus manor, correct? I am Edgar Valden – I received an invitation,” Edgar explains with a raised eyebrow, and waves the letter in his hands. As the woman’s eyes land on the invitation, her smile becomes a bit more strained than before.
“So you are then,” she says quietly, leaving Edgar confused and mildly annoyed by her lack of further reaction. He would assume that the manor’s staff (the woman had this whole nurse theme going on; Edgar judges it an easy assumption that she is in charge of the healthcare here) would be more informed of the people that have been specifically invited here, and this treatment he has received doesn’t exactly strike an excellent first impression with him. He frowns, but before he can open his mouth to voice his complaints, the woman speaks up once more.
“Ah, I’m sorry– I’m Emily Dyer. It’s nice to meet you, Valden,” she introduces herself. “I think it would be the best for you to meet other survivors as well,” Dyer says, and the word ‘survivor’ catches Edgar’s attention. He doesn’t have time to question it though, as Dyer motions for him to follow and goes back in through the door she just came from.
There are a dozen or so people present in the room he enters, and almost all of them turn to look at Edgar when he steps over the threshold. He’s not shy of receiving attention – quite the opposite, some would say – and the painter stands straight with his chin up as he eyes the people staring at him. Most of them aren’t worth noting any further than with a quick glance, but there are some distinct figures among the crowd.
The first person that stands out is the literal cowboy sitting by the table – this certainly wasn’t a sight Edgar expected to see in such a grand manor. He had assumed that the invitation to Oletus would have been sent to those of a high social standing, but now that he thinks of it, that had been somewhat naïve thinking on his part; it made sense that people from lesser wealth would be interested in the grandiose promises the invitation letter made. Those promises would be ever more tempting to people who didn’t have much beforehand.
The second person catching Edgar’s attention is a woman with bright red hair and horns adorning her head. Close to her is a man with a blindfold over his eyes, and interestingly enough, an owl perched on his shoulder. They certainly make for a peculiar pair, and Edgar lifts his brows briefly as his eyes sweep over them.
A bit farther away sitting at the end of the table, there is also a man in a prisoner’s outfit, topped with a metal chain around his neck. Edgar frowns as he takes the sight in; he supposes people from lower social standings were acceptable, but to invite even criminals amongst them?
As if hearing the painter’s thoughts, the man raises and turns his head to face Edgar as well– and would you look at that? His left eye is painted with violent colors and almost swollen shut, and there is a bandage even around his neck. The man is all battered and bruised.
How surprising, for a criminal.
“Who are you?” a man in a green hoodie asks him, tone guarded and a suspicious timbre in it. Edgar raises one of his eyebrows slightly as he lets his eyes roam over the surprisingly small man– despite the man’s short stature, he clearly carries himself with confidence, and a quick glance at his arms tells Edgar why. The dark bandages do nothing to hide the amount of muscle the man has on him, obviously strong and fit.
Still, the painter lifts his chin defiantly up, not one to be intimidated so easily. “My name is Edgar Valden– make sure you remember that,” he says, and to his amusement he sees the hooded man’s eyebrow twitch at his words.
Oh, how easily the man seems to get irritated.
He can use that– the man seems to be another participant of the game the letter spoke of, making him a rival to the prize. Edgar is here to win this game, and he’s not above using anything he can to assure his victory.
“Valden here is another survivor,” Dyer steps in before any of the other people have time to question or react further, “He has the invitation.”
At the mention of the letter, Edgar lifts it in his hand and showcases it to the room- but he’s not interested at the mention of the invitation in Dyer’s words. “You keep mentioning ‘survivors’– What exactly do you mean by that?”
It’s the hooded man who answers him. “It refers to all of us. We’re survivors in this death tag game we’re forced to play.”
Edgar raises an incredulous eyebrow. “A ‘death tag game’? ”
What he hears next is something he wouldn’t have ever believed- and he doesn’t, not at first. After all, it’s utterly ridiculous, isn’t it? A game, where they have to run away and escape from ‘the hunter’, who is trying to catch, perhaps even kill them? And even when they manage to do that, manage to win the game, they still end up back here, at the Oletus manor.
Edgar scoffs. Ridiculous. Absolutely preposterous. Edgar hasn’t come here for these people to take him for a fool– they all just want the prize for themselves, it’s painfully obvious. They want to scare him off, sabotage him with these horrid mental images they conjure so that Edgar wouldn’t be as much of a threat. Well, too bad for them, Edgar sneers– he sees right through their act; sees what their ultimate goal is.
It’s not until he sees people returning from these supposed matches, bleeding and injured, that a seed of doubt starts to take root in his mind. And when it’s time for him to enter one of those ‘death tag’ games, he finally realizes that they were all telling the truth.
He’s shaking and still panicking after his first match when the prisoner, who had participated in the same game, comes up to him.
“Don’t worry– You’ll get used to the matches with time,” the man consoles him, and ushers Edgar to see Dyer.
“That prisoner… Who is he?” Edgar asks the doctor when they’re alone.
“Oh, him? He’s Luca Balsa– He’s quite an intelligent man,” Dyer says with a small, professional smile.
“Balsa, huh.”
Edgar wonders how many matches the man has gone through to get used to them.
---
As Edgar spends more time in the manor and getting to know its residents better (not that he really makes an effort to do so– he’s not interested in fraternizing with the people here. He’s here to win the game, and get out of this damned manor) he learns that he might have initially misjudged Balsa.
He wouldn’t admit that out loud, no, but from what he has heard and learned, it seemed that Balsa had been falsely accused of his crimes. And honestly, after being around the prisoner, Edgar found it hardly likely that he was a man capable of murder.
Balsa is friendly and pleasant to everyone in the manor, even seeming to be good friends with Grantz and Kreiss who Edgar wouldn't exactly describe as… the easiest people to befriend in the manor. The lack of speech of the postman and the snappish, defensive nature of the grave keeper could certainly put some people off, but Balsa doesn’t seem to mind them at all, taking it all in stride.
The prisoner also spends a lot of time with the mechanic girl, Edgar has noted. Though this is hardly a shock, as Reznik and Balsa both deal with inventions and anything relating to them – it’s obvious that the two of them would gather to discuss them together.
But even to Edgar’s own surprise, Balsa seems to enjoy his company as well. Contrary to what most people believe, Edgar is not as foolish as they think he is – he certainly knows that his character is not something that all know how to appreciate. He doesn’t see the point in sugar-coating things, not hesitating to say what he thinks. He’s deeply passionate about his work, refusing to settle for anything short of perfection, and not everyone can understand it.
Balsa, however, can.
One day, Edgar is in the main lobby of the Oletus manor, a sketchbook in his hands as he draws and studies the statue there. He’s fast and efficient in his sketching, walking around the statue when he’s done drawing from one point of view to capture the sculpture from another angle.
“Edgar? The food is ready–” someone starts to say, interrupting Edgar right when he’s in his flow, and the painter throws an annoyed glare over his shoulder.
“Be quiet– can’t you see I’m in the middle of something here?” Edgar snaps, making Woods flinch back a bit in surprise. He notices Balsa also standing behind her, but the prisoner only raises his eyebrows at Edgar’s outburst. The painter huffs out an exasperated breath, and turns back to shading the newest sketch, promptly ignoring the pair behind him.
It’s quiet for a second before Woods opens her mouth once again. “You should really eat though,” she says softly, but before Edgar can regard her with an answer, Balsa opens his mouth.
“I think it’s fine if he eats later, “ he assures Woods, casting a glance and an easy smile to Edgar when their eyes meet. “Valden’s clearly engrossed in his drawing right now. We can just save some food for him to heat up when he’s finished.”
Edgar eyes Balsa for a moment before he huffs out. “At least some people get it,” he mutters out, and doesn’t miss the slight quirk of Balsa’s lips up before he returns his attention to his sketch.
Woods is clearly still a bit hesitant. “Are you sure..?” she asks of Balsa quietly.
“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m the same really when I get into my projects,” the man answers with a laugh. “We can drag him out to eat if he still hasn’t left his spot in a few hours,” Balsa stage-whispers and it seems to be enough to finally convince the gardener to leave Edgar alone for now. Edgar clicks his tongue at the comment, but doesn’t react further.
He spends another hour or so with his sketchbook and pencil in hand before he deems he has gotten enough work done for now. The painter brings a hand to massage the back of his neck with a sigh, craning and stretching his neck to the opposite direction in an effort to relieve some of the pressure there.
“Done with drawing for now?” a voice rings out through the room, and Edgar turns his head to see Balsa standing a few feet away from him, the same easy smile from before on his lips. He straightens up and softly clears his throat.
“Yes, I am. I am assuming there is still food left,” Edgar says and lifts a questioning eyebrow.
“Yeah, I made sure everyone saved us something,” Balsa answers, and it catches Edgar’s attention.
“Us? ”
Balsa shrugs with a small grin. “I kinda got absorbed in my own work as well,” he explains. “And I thought it’s better to eat with some company.”
A small, pondering frown takes its place on Edgar’s face; it’s curious how Balsa didn’t go to eat with Woods and others when he had the chance – the man clearly wasn’t in the middle of working back when they had come in to ask for Edgar to join them for dinner. But whatever, really– Edgar isn’t one to pry.
(Not when the thought of Balsa deliberately waiting to join Edgar on his dinner makes him feel such delight, deep down.)
“Well, shall we go already? I’m starving,” the painter says then, ignoring the warm feeling residing in his stomach, and turns to walk towards the dining room. He doesn’t pause to check if Balsa follows him, but soon enough he hears an amused huff of breath behind him and steps catching up to him. The prisoner is next to him in the next moment, and he starts talking about his own project he was working on as they walk together.
Usually, Edgar can’t bring himself to be bothered with other people’s blabbering, but with Balsa it’s somehow different. He listens to the other man’s explanations despite not truly understanding what he is talking about, and doesn’t grow bored or frustrated.
He listens, nods, and makes comments he normally wouldn’t do, and deliberately doesn’t delve into the reasons why that is the case.
---
In terms of anatomy, someone like Ellis would be perfect for him to sketch; he’s tall and muscular, even more so than the other fit survivors in the manor. Edgar has never drawn someone as big and pronounced as Ellis is, and his hands itch for the chance to sit the man down– pose him as he himself wills, studying the way Ellis’ muscles bend and flex, how the lights and shadows play on his skin.
But – frustratingly so – Edgar has noted that Ellis is incapable of keeping still. He considers himself quite fast when it comes to drawing and painting, but with Ellis unwilling to keep in place even for a couple of minutes , it’s impossible to try and get any proper practice done. Sure, he gets the man’s figure and pose down easily enough, but it’s the contours and highlights that he’s most interested in, and there is no way even for someone as skilled as him to accomplish that before the rugby player has moved to another position.
It’s not even that the man gets tired of staying in one place– definitely not with his physique. Ellis is just a naturally talkative man, and one that speaks not only with his words, but with gestures as well.
“Can’t you keep still, you brute?!” he has snapped multiple times already to the dark skinned man, who always just grins sheepishly in response when he realizes he has once again moved his hands while getting engrossed in telling another story.
“Sorry, man– I’m not very good at this modeling thing, huh?” Ellis would answer with an easy laugh, and after that Edgar always dismisses him, having had enough of the jovial attitude. He truly doesn’t know why he has tried as many times as he already has, considering how Ellis seems to have absolutely no improvement whatsoever in staying in place between each time they meet.
(He tries again and again because despite all, Ellis is a nice person, and one of the only people in the manor who doesn't mind spending time with him. The painter can quietly admit to himself that the times when the man tells his stories when he’s not trying to model for Edgar are surprisingly enjoyable.)
One day, after another failed sketch session, Edgar marches towards the manor’s kitchen, intending to make himself a cup of tea to calm down when he notices Balsa standing there, looking out of the window deep in his own thoughts.
The prisoner doesn’t seem to notice Edgar’s entrance, and the painter stops in his tracks, taking the moment to sweep his eyes over Balsa. He’s not exactly what Edgar had in mind for today’s sketch session, but he guesses the man will have to do. The painter walks closer to Balsa and opens his mouth as he stops a few steps away from the man.
“Model for me.”
Startled, Balsa turns to look at Edgar. “Oh, Valden! I didn’t notice you enter,” he laughs a bit, bringing a hand to brush his bangs behind his ear. Edgar tracks the movement with his eyes.
“Clearly. Now, follow me,” he says and turns to walk back towards the door, but to his exasperation, Balsa doesn’t do as told.
“Wait, what?” the man asks, perplexed, and Edgar rolls his eyes as he turns back towards him.
“You’re going to model for me. Now come, we’re wasting valuable time– I want to get as much practice as I am able.”
“I– oh, alright. I guess it can’t hurt,” Balsa answers with a smile after a moment of hesitation, and Edgar lifts the corners of his mouth in response. It might be just his imagination, but it seems almost as if Balsa’s own smile widens a bit as he notices it.
They walk out of the kitchen and head into the garden. “The light is better there,” Edgar offers as an explanation, to which Balsa nods. When they reach their destination, Edgar looks around, searching for a good spot where he can make Balsa pose as he wishes. A small batch of dark purple flowers catches his attention, and he sends a quick, pondering glance at Balsa– specifically at his swollen eye. A bit grotesque as it may be, the colors of the flowers and the bruised eye complement each other, and Edgar knows that’s what he wants to capture on his paper.
“Move over there, next to the flowers,” he tells the prisoner, who follows Edgar’s line of sight and walks where he’s wanted.
“Is this good?”
Edgar lifts a hand to his chin. “No, take a step to the right– no, not that way– ugh , go back.”
It takes a moment for Edgar to be satisfied with the position and pose Balsa is in before he can even start sketching the man. He’s fast at what he does, and whenever he has finished a sketch, the artist tells precise orders for Balsa to move into another position and pose.
Balsa starts filling the air between them with easy chatter, and while at first Edgar had felt apprehensive over it, it seems that Balsa is remarkably better at staying in place while in the middle of a story. He still moves around a bit, but catches himself when Edgar sends a glare or snaps at him to keep still.
By the end of their session, Edgar’s sketchbook is filled with drawings of Balsa, and the artist feels accomplished with the day’s work. Balsa brings his hands up over his head and stretches, and Edgar’s eyes automatically find their focus on the pale skin that peeks out from under the man’s shirt as it rises with his movement.
Edgar finds his mouth drying at the sight. He hastily clears his throat, feeling heat rising to his cheeks and he shakes his head as he tears his eyes away from the prisoner. ‘I am only interested in drawing him! Nothing else,’ he tells– convinces himself that there is no other reason at all for the heightened beating of his heart than the excitement of having found a good model for his studies.
If Edgar spends the night going through the pages adorned with the pictures of the prisoner he drew earlier in the day, it’s solely for educational purposes.
----
After the first time, it becomes a regular occurrence for Edgar to get some practice in by drawing Balsa. Sometimes it’s proper modeling sessions Edgar has Balsa do for him, but most of the time Edgar finds the inventor focused on his own work, and he knows he can get a good amount of sketches done during those moments as well.
Compared to Ellis, Balsa is considerably easier to draw, and much less of a headache as well. The man tends to focus on his own projects intensely, and while he moves around a bit, he keeps mostly still. Still enough for Edgar to take his time to catch his features on his sketchbook. Of course, Balsa isn’t anything like Ellis– Edgar doesn’t get the anatomy practice regarding muscles as he initially hoped for, but that’s fine.
What he gets in exchange for Ellis’ muscles is Balsa’s bruises and scars. When he had first learned the true nature of the Oletus manor and the sick, twisted games they were made to play there, it was easy to shrug those injuries off– an aftermath of a match gone wrong, surely. He had scoffed to himself, swearing that he would never let himself get caught and injured like that, always aiming for a flawless victory.
(A lie, that was. Edgar had learned the hard way that the hunters everyone had warned him about truly were brutal and out for blood. He still gets occasional nightmares from his first match.)
It wasn’t until Edgar once caught a glimpse of Balsa’s arms, a rare occasion where the prisoner wasn’t wearing his gloves and had his sleeves rolled, showing more skin than usual that the thought of Balsa’s injuries coming from somewhere else than the terrible matches crossed his mind.
And when he realizes that, he becomes more interested in them– there is a story behind those scars and bruises, and Edgar wants to learn it, wants to capture it on his canvas.
They say that a picture is worth more than a thousand words, but this time, rather than being content with just painting the scars, he also wants to hear the stories they carry.
But Edgar knows not to ask about them upfront; it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Balsa is hesitant on sharing his past– if he even remembers it. There are times when the inventor zones out with a blank expression on his face, and more often than not Edgar has time to start getting annoyed by the lack of reaction from Balsa before the man blinks and comes back to the present.
“Oh, sorry– I just remembered something,” he would say, sometimes with a soft smile on his lips, sometimes with an anguished frown he tries to suppress. Sometimes Balsa shares these small memories he has of his past: “I remembered the first time my mentor noticed and praised my works” he once admitted with a pleased grin, and Edgar had been struck by the urgent need to get his pencils in his hand, to paint the sight on his notebooks.
(He couldn’t quite get his tools fast enough for the grin to still stay in place, but he supposes the drawings of the man with a smile more tender than usual filling the pages of his sketchbook suffice as well.)
But the times when instead of a happy memory, something clearly more upsetting works its way back into his mind, Balsa gets silent and distant. Edgar watches him closely during times like these, noting how more often than not, Balsa lifts an unconscious hand to his arm– to his neck– to his eye– a pained expression coloring his features dark.
So Edgar doesn’t ask. He doesn’t ask, even though he’s itching to know. He settles for just painting the scars, scars that go deeper than their outer appearance, and waiting for the day when Balsa is willing to share his story. And when that day comes, Edgar swears he will paint the most captivating picture he has ever painted.
----
The more time they spend together, the more Balsa starts to get into Edgar’s personal space. It’s easy, quick and casual touches at first– a slight tap on his shoulder to get his attention, a hand tugging at his sleeve to get him to follow, a pat on his back after a good match.
While Edgar usually can’t stand unnecessary skinship from others, Balsa’s touches linger in the painter’s mind, leaving him feel warm and yearning for more. It confuses him, the reason why it’s different when it’s Balsa who keeps touching him like that.
(It doesn’t. Deep down, Edgar knows just the answer to why it’s different with the inventor, but he refuses to acknowledge it.)
If Balsa notices how Edgar starts to deliberately stand closer to him and lean into his touches, he doesn’t mention it out loud. Balsa gets the unspoken cues and lets his hands linger longer and his touches get bolder, his arm a comforting weight on Edgar’s shoulders. It’s easy and casual in a way that is completely new to Edgar, and now that he has grown accustomed to the effortless touches, he finds himself addicted.
At first, it’s rare if Edgar is the one initiating casual contact– the times where he has to move Balsa into a pose don’t count–, but there are moments where he reaches out, and with time, he gets more forward with his touches as well. Thinking back even a few weeks, Edgar would have deemed it ridiculous– him, growing to like and crave for physical contact with anyone like this.
But here he is, purposefully placing himself next to Balsa, between him and others, so that when the inventor would reach out to give a pat to the person next to him, it would be Edgar and not anyone else. Standing next to him, so he could feel the warmth radiating from Balsa; so he could brush his hand against Balsa’s arm to get his attention and see the smile that would rise to his lips– the smile that gives Edgar inconvenient palpitations, yet one that he can’t help but seek after.
One day Balsa has a match without Edgar, and despite telling himself that he isn’t worried for the inventor, that he isn’t worried for anyone in these matches, Edgar feels a gnawing weight in his stomach the whole time Balsa is out there, running for his life. It isn’t until Edgar sees Balsa coming back to the manor, a slight limp in his step but alive , that he can properly breathe again.
“We got a four-man win,” Balsa laughs proudly and winces right after, his hand going to clutch at his side. Edgar glances at the others returning from the match as well, only noting that they were all well and alive, but brings his attention almost immediately back to the inventor.
“Splendid– Now, go to see Dyer. You are injured and in need of treatment,” he says, his tone not leaving any room for argument. The lack of cheer in his response clearly surprises Balsa, who was probably waiting more congratulatory of an answer.
“Yeah, I was about to head that way.”
Satisfied, Edgar nods and when Balsa turns around to start walking in the direction of Dyer’s room, the painter follows in his steps. It gets Balsa’s attention who stops and turns around to look at Edgar.
“You’re coming with me?” the man asks, his eyebrows lifted in question, and Edgar promptly freezes for a second.
“Someone needs to make sure you actually go through with what you said,” he says defensively and he hates how much it sounds like the excuse it is even to his own ears.
Balsa, thankfully, doesn’t comment on it though and only gives him a knowing smile in return. “I see.”
Frustratingly, Dyer doesn’t let Edgar into her room as she treats Balsa, and Edgar is left waiting and glowering outside the door. He taps his foot impatiently on the floor and scowls at anyone who approaches him, staying rooted on the spot until the door finally opens up again, and Balsa walks out after what feels like an eternity for Edgar.
The inventor notices Edgar, surprised. “You waited all this time for me?”
Edgar feels a blush threatening to rise on to his cheeks, and he quickly turns his head away and averts his gaze from Balsa. “You say that as if you had been gone for ages– of course, I could have spent the time elsewhere, but I’d rather see to it myself that you have been treated adequately as soon as possible. This way I don’t have to waste my time trying to search for you afterwards,” he tries to dismiss Balsa’s comment, to justify his reasons for staying behind to wait for him.
A smile softens Balsa’s features as he listens to Edgar’s explanation and he spreads his hands as if to showcase himself. “Well, I’m all fine and patched up now, thanks to Dyer. No need to worry about me any further.”
Edgar sputters. “I– I wasn’t particularly worried for you – It just wouldn’t do any of us good if you were to be assigned to another match when you are still injured from your previous one. It would be a hindrance for us all .” The blush Edgar felt rising earlier has now definitely found its way on his cheeks, and Edgar refuses to look Balsa in the eyes.
“Oh, of course,” the inventor answers amiably, but Edgar can hear the faint amusement laced into his words– Edgar would very much like to think that he’s not that easy person to read, but in situations like these, Balsa seems to see through him almost effortlessly. It’s frustrating, really. He scowls at Balsa, to which the man just laughs a little.
“In any case, Dyer did her job well. She said I only need to take it easy for the next couple of days, and everything should heal up fine,” Balsa says, the smile still playing on his lips– it’s lopsided and asymmetrical as always, the shape of it already familiar and committed to Edgar’s memory from the countless times he has drawn and painted it; from the times he has gone over the pages of his sketchbook to softly trace the pictures with his eyes. It’s one of the many imperfections that make the inventor so perfect in Edgar’s mind. The painter swallows before he answers.
“That is to be expected– she is a doctor after all. It would be absurd if she couldn’t do the one thing she is supposed to be good at.”
“Yeah. It’s a good thing we have her to rely on.”
“...Yes, I agree. Now, let’s go– she did say you need rest, and dawdling here in front of Dyer’s room for no good reason at all is hardly the definition of it,” Edgar says and grabs hold of Balsa’s hand, tugging it to get him to follow him before the man can even start to protest.
A tiny part of him is disappointed in the fact that it’s not Balsa’s bare hand he’s holding, but only a touch through the fabric of the gloves the prisoner is so keen on wearing. In the back of his mind, he wonders if Balsa’s hands would be warm.
Edgar leads them towards Balsa’s room, and stops only right before his door, waiting for Balsa to open it for them. The man does so, and Edgar doesn’t hesitate to step over the threshold to enter the room.
He practically pushes Balsa to sit on his bed, insisting that standing up is worse for him. The inventor doesn’t fight back, but what surprises Edgar is the fact that he grabs a hold of Edgar’s hand, and brings him down to sit right next to him.
They sit there in silence, their sides brushing against each other, and Edgar feels slowly how the anxiety tugging at his heart finally starts to ease. Balsa is still hurt– even with Dyer’s medical expertise, it’s impossible to cure wounds like that immediately– but as they’re now away from the hectic atmosphere that rises in the manor whenever there is a match, Edgar feels like he can finally start breathing easily again.
“While I’m happy that you’re here, you don’t actually have to stay with me, you know,” Balsa says quietly after a while, and Edgar scoffs.
“Of course I’m aware of that. I don’t have to do anything– I want to. So do stop trying to make me leave you alone, because I am not going to go,” the painter says defiantly. He pauses for a second. “I am not doing this only for your sake, so don’t go thinking too highly of yourself either.”
Again, it’s quiet for a moment, but the silence doesn’t feel stifling. It’s more thoughtful, really; a second to let the meaning of Edgar’s words sink in.
In the back of his mind, Edgar wonders if he has said too much already– admitted too much. If he has let his guard down so much that he feels himself slipping into a slope he isn’t ready to face.
The only thing to keep his mind occupied should be his art, and winning this game. He has no room for more… complicated feelings while he’s here, trapped in a manor with no escape in sight.
While he is lost in thought, Balsa brings an arm around Edgar’s shoulders and gently guides the painter to lean onto him.
Despite thinking that he should, Edgar doesn’t resist.
It’s now a comfortable, somber kind of silence between them, and the inventor starts to draw small circles with his thumb on Edgar’s arm. Edgar feels how his heart pounds loudly in his chest in response.
“I’m fine, really,” Balsa whispers softly, understandingly. It’s almost too much for Edgar. He leans his head against the prisoner’s shoulder and lets out a quiet sigh.
If Edgar lets his walls down for a moment, no one but Balsa needs to know.
---
Edgar watches as Balsa leans on to Grantz’s side, resting his head on the postman’s shoulder, and a bitter, squeezing feeling takes a hold of him at the sight.
‘It should be me whose shoulder he is leaning on,’ a resentful thought rises unprompted to his mind. Edgar doesn’t even try to diminish the sentiment.
As if it couldn’t get any worse, Grantz gently tilts his head to rest it on top of Balsa’s, and wraps a loose arm around the prisoner. The two men make a nauseatingly sweet picture, leaning in a relaxed manner against each other like there is no one else here, and it makes Edgar feel sick.
The painter clears his throat. “Balsa!”
The said man raises his head at the sound of his name (it makes Grantz lift his head in tandem and Edgar secretly triumphs at the fact) and turns to look at Edgar.
“Oh, Valden. Did you need something?” Balsa asks with what Edgar would describe as a delighted smile. Delighted and joyous, because Edgar came to look for him, surely.
The artist motions his head back towards the general direction of the garden. “Come model for me. The flowers Woods planted a while ago are finally in bloom and I want to draw them before they wither away.”
Balsa tilts his head to a side. “Couldn’t you draw the flowers without me? I mean if those are the point you want to focus on, wouldn’t I just be in the way, really?”
“I– Those are not the only things I want to draw!” Edgar stammers, a tint of red rising to color his cheeks. He side-eyes Grantz, who is still standing at Balsa’s side and looking at Edgar with a question written in his eyes. “I need you there to have some change of pace as well! Do you really think I would have gotten to the point where I am now if I settled on drawing the same thing over and over again?”
“I don’t know, you’ve seemed to be satisfied with drawing just me repeatedly,” Balsa smirks. Edgar gapes at him.
“That– That is different! With a human model there is diversity in a way there is simply not with flora– you can focus on studying the anatomy, or the facial expressions, and a human body is an excellent tool for learning how to draw things in a perspective as well, and–”
“Oh, I know, don’t worry– I’m just teasing you, Edgar,” Balsa interrupts him with a laugh, and it’s unfair how this is the moment Balsa starts to call him by his given name. “I’ll come model for you,” he continues, as if he had said nothing out of ordinary.
Edgar feels like his entire face is burning, and he turns his head to a side in a futile effort to hide his blushing. “Of course. Come now– we’ve wasted enough time already with this meaningless chatter. I want to get some work done before the sun sets.” The painter walks over to Balsa, and grabs a hold of his hand so he can lead the man away (away from the too clingy postman).
He glances back at Grantz just before they exit the room, and Grantz offers him a bit confused but an encouraging smile. The petty part of Edgar wants to glare at the man, but in the midst of his core he knows it to be unjustified. He settles for huffing out and rolling his eyes, which the other man seems to understand as a sign of good will and nods back.
Edgar wonders if he has grown too soft.
---
Edgar is assigned to a match together with Alonso, Morton and Reznik – it’s not the most… enjoyable team for the painter with Alonso and Morton’s loud personas, but surprisingly enough, they make it work. They all get out alive with a victory in tow, with only Morton and Reznik suffering bigger injuries.
When they get back to the manor, Ellis, who was clearly waiting for their return, runs straight to Reznik’s side and starts fussing over her– the mechanic is obviously flustered over the attention she’s receiving, but she accepts it all the same, a small, albeit a shy smile playing on her lips.
Edgar watches the display of affection for a moment with an impassive face before his eyes sweep over the room in an unconscious search for the man in a striped shirt. He doesn’t have time to locate Balsa though, as Alonso suddenly laughs and throws his arm around Edgar’s shoulders way too casually, and the artist bristles.
“Do not touch me without my permission, cowboy!” Edgar snaps, and shrugs the offending arm off his shoulders. “I’ll have you know, I am not a fan of this easy skinship you’re seemingly so dependent on.”
Alonso lifts his hands up placatingly and backs off. He’s about to open his mouth when, to Edgar’s horror, Balsa’s voice interrupts him.
“Wait, really? You never seemed to mind whenever I get more touchy with you,” Balsa ponders out loud, and when Edgar turns around to look at the man, there is a confused furrow in his brows.
Alonso, the absolute cretin, glances between Edgar and Balsa, and slowly gets a cat-like grin on his face. Edgar, utterly red in the face, sputters.
“It’s different with you!” he says, refusing to elaborate and look Balsa in the eye, but his answer seems to just confuse the prisoner more.
“How so?”
“It– It just is!”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Alonso and Balsa exchange looks, and Edgar thinks he spies a smirk on Balsa’s lips but when he looks over, all traces of the supposed smirk are gone, replaced only by a simple smile. Alonso, however, is still visibly grinning.
“Man, you should just be more honest with your–” he starts to say, teasingly, and Edgar cries out.
“And you should mind your own business, cowboy!”
He’s about to continue his tirade when the sound of Balsa’s laughter interrupts him. Instinctively he turns to look at the man, and then instantly regrets it– his heart squeezes at the sight of Balsa hunched over himself, holding his stomach as he lets out a laugh after a laugh, the joy he’s feeling portrayed all over his features.
The artist promptly closes his mouth, feeling the urge to swallow so he could get the sudden dry feeling away. Alonso raises his eyebrow meaningfully at Edgar’s staring and silence; Edgar meaningfully turns away from the cowboy, hiding his still red face and showing the taller man only his back.
“I’m sorry, Edgar,” Balsa breathes out after he calms down, “You’re just too easy sometimes.”
“What do you mean ‘too easy’ ?” Edgar demands, offended.
To his frustration, Balsa just grins at him. “Don’t worry about it. But it’s good, I promise.”
Edgar huffs. “I do hope you are aware that I don’t like to be played with like this.”
“Yeah, I am. I’ll stop now,” Balsa smiles and throws his arm around the painter, and Edgar hates how that alone manages to soothe his indignation. Maybe Balsa had a point.
The inventor leads them gently away from the common room everyone else is in, starting to talk about his projects on the way. He doesn’t move his hand away from where it rests against Edgar’s shoulder, and Edgar doesn’t shrug it off.
-----
It’s another day when Edgar watches from afar Balsa interact with other residents of the manor with a bitter taste in his mouth. Today it’s Subedar who in Edgar’s opinion is way too handsy with the inventor for what seems like a regular conversation– the mercenary throws around friendly punches and lets his hand rest against Balsa’s arm for too long for Edgar’s liking.
“Hi, Valden,” a soft but cheery voice greets him, and Edgar jumps a bit in surprise. He turns around and sees Reznik standing next to him, a smile gracing her lips. Edgar subtly clears his throat.
“Reznik,” he nods at the girl, his face neutral– though it doesn’t seem to fool the mechanic.
“I scared you, right? Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to.”
Edgar can feel the slight warmth coming on to his cheeks. “You would have to do much better in order to truly scare me,” he sneers, trying to downplay his reaction, but it doesn’t work as he planned.
“Is that a challenge?” Reznik grins and Edgar’s eyes widen slightly in response.
“No! Do not get any ideas from that, you dolt.”
The mechanic laughs softly. “I’m only kidding, don’t worry!” She then moves to sit next to Edgar and looks down at the sketchbook in his hands. “What are you drawing?”
Edgar looks down on the page he has open, and feels how the heat he felt only on his cheeks starts spreading on his whole face– the paper is full of sketches of the inventor; some of them drawn from a reference; most of them drawn by memory.
Reznik looks at the drawings in silence, and when she raises her head to look back at Edgar, she is wearing a soft smile. “These are beautiful, Valden,” she says, her voice genuine, and Edgar scoffs softly.
“Of course they are– I have not dedicated all my time and effort to my artistic pursuits for my work to be anything less than mesmerizing.”
The mechanic’s gaze follows where Balsa is still talking with Subedar, and by this point Ellis has found his way to their company as well. She glances briefly between the sketches and the man they depict before lifting her eyes back to Edgar.
“I think you should tell him how you feel. Anything can happen in this manor– it’s… good to take action, so you don’t regret not telling him of your feelings earlier,” Reznik speaks gingerly. They both watch the three men talking, but as Edgar looks at Reznik, he notices her eyes following Ellis with a longing sort of look.
He clicks his tongue. “You should heed your own advice then.”
The mechanic lets out a sheepish laugh, her cheeks red. “I guess that is true…” She then claps her hands together and turns to Edgar with a small grin. “What if we make a deal– let’s both tell of our feelings.”
Edgar rolls his eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not! If the other confesses, then the other has to do it too! We can act as each other’s support in this.”
“I do not need any support regarding such a trivial thing as ‘feelings’.”
Reznik gives a pointed look to the sketchbook in the artist’s hands, filled with pictures of Balsa. “You really seem to do, though.”
Edgar sputters and slams his sketchbook shut, his face almost as red as his capelet. Reznik gives him a wry grin.
“Just think about it, okay?” she then says while leaning back. Her eyes still track Ellis, who is happily telling another story to the two other men, and the evident feelings in her gaze make Edgar want to draw her as well.
“Stay like that,” he tells her, opening his sketchbook yet again, but of course she immediately turns her attention towards the painter instead of actually listening to his words.
“Huh?”
Edgar lets out a frustrated groan. “No, don’t look at me. I told you to stay put, didn’t I– turn back as you were.”
“Oh, I– Okay?” Reznik doesn’t quite have the same distinct look in her eyes as she did before, and while Edgar is miffed over the lost opportunity to capture the emotions there within his art, he still takes the opportunity to draw and practice.
Their impromptu modeling session doesn’t last for long, but Edgar is fine with that– he still got a few pages worth of sketches done. Reznik leaves soon after they finish, and Edgar lets her go without an argument.
“Think about what I said,” she says as her parting words, and Edgar just huffs in response.
But while Edgar has no plans whatsoever to follow through ‘the deal’ Reznik insisted they’d make, her words linger in the back of his mind nevertheless.
---
Edgar never realized how… strong Bourbon’s Dovlin actually was. He has drunk it before while in a match, yes, but this time he had received the drink twice, and now that they’re all back in the manor safe, Edgar is starting to feel the effects of it.
He has never been that fond of alcohol, preferring to stay clear-minded in all situations– Edgar has seen enough of the fumbling and stumbling idiots who have made themselves a friend to the intoxicating beverages to know that he will never make a fool out of himself like that.
But this time, Edgar hardly had a choice; drinking the Dovlins he was offered was the wisest decision at the time. By now his head feels kinda fuzzy and he feels like his steps are lighter than they were before. Edgar feels like laughing at even one of Alonso’s terrible jokes, and oh wait, why is Alonso watching him like that–?
Maybe he actually did laugh out loud.
He laughs again.
This isn’t actually that bad of a feeling after all, he decides.
“How much of the stuff did you give him?” he hears Alonso ask Bourbon.
“Just two bottles,” the barmaid answers.
“Maybe stick with only one in the future.”
“That might be the best...”
Edgar thinks he could be offended at their words, but right now, he can’t bring himself to care– not when he spots Balsa entering the room.
“Luca!” he cries out happily, and sees how the inventor’s face takes on a note of surprise before a glowing smile replaces the expression– oh, Edgar called out his first name, didn’t he? He has always wanted to call him Luca. This seems to be as good a time as any to start doing that then.
“Hey, Edgar,” Luca greets him as he gets closer. “How are you feeling?”
“Phenomenal– Bourbon’s drinks are quite exq– exqi– excellent, if I may say so myself,” Edgar answers, and the way he stumbles with his words gets a laugh out of Luca. He stares at the taller man with wonder, wanting to hear that sound again and again.
“Yeah, they are,” Luca agrees easily. Of course he would– Edgar is right, after all.
The painter looks at Luca, drinking in the sight of the amused expression on his face. It looks good. Edgar wants to paint him, immediately.
He takes hold of Luca’s arm and starts dragging him towards his room. “Follow me! I have a huge inspiration and I simply must work on it right away,” he declares, and Luca follows him without a complaint.
When they get to Edgar’s room, Edgar makes Luca sit on his bed and goes to search his painting equipment– he has the urgent need to capture the man in front of him into one of his canvases, paint all the bigger features and the smaller details that all make up the man as he is.
Edgar hears the sound of paper shuffling, but he doesn’t think much of it until he hears Luca’s voice. “I didn’t realize you’ve drawn me this much.”
The artist turns around quickly to face the prisoner– a bad idea, as a sudden wave of dizziness hits him, and he stumbles in his steps. Luca casts the sketchbook aside and rushes to his feet so he can catch Edgar before he falls and hurts himself–
And so Edgar finds himself in the arms of the man he has tried to tell himself over and over that he doesn’t fall for.
There is a moment of silence between them where they both just look at each other, unmoving. Luca’s face is so close to Edgar’s, and Edgar’s eyes seem to wander to the shape of the inventor’s lips by their own accord. They are… nice lips.
Edgar wants to know how they would feel pressed up against his own.
He is shaken from his thoughts when Luca rights them and gently guides Edgar to sit next to him on the bed. The inventor gingerly reaches out for the previously discarded sketchbook. Luca starts going through the pages, taking in the contents of it– almost every spread is filled with pictures of the inventor. Some of them are more detailed, ones that Luca clearly recognizes and remembers from their modeling sessions; some are quick sketches, illustrations drawn out from memory.
It’s quiet between them, and Edgar feels how his heart pounds in his chest and his hands sweat a bit. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Luca closes the book and looks up at Edgar’s face with a tender smile.
“Hey, Edgar?”
“What?”
Edgar feels warmth on his hand, and glances down to see Luca’s hand on top of his. He gets a warm, tingling feeling in his stomach.
Luca’s tongue comes out to wet his lips briefly, and Edgar’s eyes follow the movement. “Do you like me?” he asks, and Edgar stops.
He could deny it. He never had any intention to like him– to like anyone here in the manor. He’s here for his art only. Getting involved with Luca would only be a distraction from his goal.
But as he now looks at Luca, letting his eyes wander all across his face, taking in the hopeful expression he wears, he can’t bring himself to deny the fact– not when these feelings that have grown inside him, despite how unwanted, are one of the best things that have happened to him.
So perhaps due the fact that he is still inebriated, he decides to let go: “...You’re a smart man; I’m assuming you already know the answer to that.”
There’s an upwards twitch to Luca’s lips. “I have my hypothesis, but I’d like to confirm it.”
“Well, this ought to be enough of a confirmation then,” Edgar says, and snakes his arms around Luca, and brings him down for a kiss.
It takes a second for Luca to register what is happening before he brings his hands to cup Edgar’s face and answers the kiss. They move together, and it’s a bit clumsy, a bit uncoordinated, both of them trying to learn how to move in sync– but Edgar wouldn’t exchange this moment for anything.
Then, in the middle of the kiss, a sudden memory hits the painter.
Edgar breaks away from the kiss, and Luca is already leaning in for another one when the artist raises his hand to block him. Luca whines a bit in response, but Edgar hushes him.
“Not yet! I have something important to do– follow me,” Edgar slurs a bit, and starts dragging the inventor behind him before the man can even start to think about protesting. He’s going through the manor, clear in his goal– Luca tries to ask him where they are going, but Edgar just shushes him.
They reach the mechanic’s room, and while Luca is obviously perplexed as to why they are here, Edgar marches forward with determination. He throws the door open and– perfect: Reznik and Ellis both jump at the sudden intrusion and turn to look at the two men who barged into Reznik’s room.
“Valden? What are you–” Reznik starts to ask, but Edgar doesn’t have the patience for this.
Again, he grabs hold of Luca and draws him into a kiss– Edgar can tell Luca is surprised by this, and he doesn’t answer quite as enthusiastically as before, but he still kisses back. Edgar nibbles a bit of Luca’s lip before he pulls away and turns to look at Reznik and Ellis with a self-satisfied look.
“I did it! So it is your turn now!” Edgar exclaims with a grin, and a blush takes over Reznik’s entire face as she starts sputtering. Ellis looks between the two of them, clearly confused by this exchange.
Deeming this as enough, Edgar turns on his heels and drags Luca back out of the room, and just as he’s closing the door behind them, Ellis’ happy voice is heard from the room: “Congrats, guys!”
They stand there for a second before Luca finally opens his mouth. “What was that about?”
Edgar dons a smile on his lips. “You will see.”
A few days later Edgar and Luca are in the middle of another painting session in the manor’s garden when Reznik and Ellis enter the space, hand in hand.
Edgar looks over at them, directing his gaze meaningfully towards their interlocked hands and raises his eyebrow at Reznik in question. He gets an answer in the form of an excited grin on the mechanic’s lips.
“Wait, was that–?” Luca starts to ask, piecing things together, and Edgar nods before he can finish his question. The inventor lets out a laugh, and Edgar’s lips quirk up in response.
The smile stays on his lips as Edgar brings his attention back to his painting, on to the picture of the man that despite all his efforts managed to carve his way into the artist’s heart. And while at first all these feelings were unwanted, now Edgar wouldn’t trade them for anything.