Work Text:
Your pencil was making swift strokes on the paper as your eyes flicked between the journal on the table and your subject. You watched his arms, muscular and thick, swing down as he chopped through a log. He used the back of his hand to wipe away the sweat from his forehead, and then reached out for another log, placing it down and once again chopping through it.
You enjoyed watching Charles work, doing different tasks around the camp such as cutting logs for the firewood, fixing up the old wagon or taking care of the horses. He did all those things with grace and ease that always captivated you and that’s why you were drawing him now. The way he was swinging down the ax captured your attention, the way his muscles flexed, and you couldn’t help but get out your journal, quickly scribbling down before he finished his chore.
“Drawing him again, aren’t you?”
You almost jumped out of your chair when you heard Tilly’s voice behind you. You were so engrossed in your thoughts and your art that you didn’t hear her approach you from behind.
“Tilly,” you breathed out, your hand on your chest, “You can just sneak up on people like that.”
“Sorry,” she said with a smile that said she really wasn’t.
You tried to discreetly push your journal to the side, but Tilly was quicker, snatching it away and looking over your sketch. You tried to pry it from her hands, but her grip was solid, and if you kept fumbling with her, you were bound to bring more attention to the two of you. So instead you huffed and turned your head to the side, not wanting to see her face as she looked over your drawing of Charles.
She said your name, making you turn back towards her. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “You have to show it to him!”
“I can’t, Tilly,” you said, shaking your head. “I have put too much of myself into it.”
“What do you mean?”
“If he sees the drawing, he’ll surely understand how I feel about him.” You took the journal from Tilly’s hands and looked over the sketch that you’ve done so far. “Every line that I have drawn is like a love confession. This drawing is nothing if not a love letter to him.”
“Love letters are meant to be sent, not kept in the sender’s possession.”
“That, you might be right about,” you said, closing your journal. You looked in the direction where Charles was chopping the logs, but he was gone now. You’d have to find another opportunity to finish the portrait.
It was a few days later when an opportunity presented itself. You have just finished your chores for the day, and saw Charles by the hitching posts, tending to the horses. He was, as always, engrossed in his work, oblivious to you as you took a seat in by a tree nearby, taking out your journal and drawing him.
The shade from the tree kept you cool and safe from the sun's rays as you sat against it. With the journal in your lap and the pencil in your hands, you went to work, continuing where you left off. The portrait, at that point, was almost finished, it just needed some minor alterations with the shading and the details.
Charles was none the wiser, you thought, as you kept looking at him, memorizing every detail that made him him and transporting it onto the paper. When you told Tilly that every line that you drew was like a love confession, you weren’t exaggerating. If someone was to see the portrait, they would easily tell that it was made by someone who loved Charles. The attention to details, to every freckle, wrinkle and scar, could only be done by someone who loved the subject, loved Charles.
“Tilly was right, it is a beautiful portrait.”
Your head snapped up to where the voice came from. Charles was leaning against the tree, looking down at you, a soft smile on his lips. You could practically feel your face heat up and your heart beat wildly against your rib cage. The mix of embarrassment and surprise that flooded through your veins was so strong, you felt you were gonna faint.
You turned to look at your journal, and then at Charles, stammering and trying to think of something to say. Should you apologize? Give him the drawing? Mount one of the horses and ride out into the sunset?
In the distance, the sound of camp could be heard; a mix of chatter, arguments, and laughter. But where the two of you were, it was quiet, and Charles swore he could hear the sound of your heartbeat against your chest.
He sat down next to you so he could better look at the journal in your hands. The drawing was indeed beautiful, just like Tilly said a few days ago. She pulled him away from his chores to tell him about the portrait that you’ve been drawing, and how beautiful it was and that he should see it. He thought that she might’ve been pulling his leg. A portrait of him? Who would in their right mind spend time to draw him, of all the people, he thought. Seems that that person is you.
After a moment of silence, you mustered up the courage and said, “Do you like it?”
He chuckled and replied, “I do, but…” he trailed.
“But?”
“It’s too beautiful, and I’m anything but that.”
“The portrait doesn’t lie, Charles. I simply captured what I saw.”
Both of you were surprised at your boldness, and Charles asked, “Is this how you see me?”
Charles wasn’t the most confident man when it came to his looks. He was confident in his strength, in his intelligence and his skills, but beauty wasn’t one of them. He was okay, he thought, not the worse, but also not handsome by any standards. So to see this portrait, and see the love with which it was drawn, to see all the details that you paid attention to such as his scars, his lips, his eyes, it struck him.
After a moment of silence you replied, “It is, Charles. You’re beautiful, don’t deny it.”
Despite seeing the portrait you’ve drawn, he was still surprised to actually hear you say it. The words left him speechless, and he found himself averting his gaze, a light shade of pink already making its way to his cheeks.
The effect of your words didn’t go unnoticed by you. You reached out and placed your hand on his cheek, turning his attention back to you. How could he think he was not beautiful, you couldn’t understand. You traced a scar on his cheek with your fingers; you wondered where he got it. You took liberty, and traced his lower lip with your thumb; his lips were big and plump, and you have caught yourself way too many times thinking about how they’d feel against your own, the same thought now coming back full force.
You wetted your lips by an instinct, the act not going unnoticed by Charles who kept his eyes on you the entire time. You raised your gaze, and your eyes met. The air was thick with tension as you inched closer towards each other, more and more, until you met, your lips colliding against each other.
Your imagination couldn’t do this moment justice; it felt so much better than anything you could imagine. His lips were soft and gentle against yours, and the kiss itself was nothing if not tender and soothing. Your journal fell on the ground, forgotten, as your hands made their way to Charles’ hair, tangling your fingers in his locks and bringing him closer to you, deepening the kiss. One of his own hands was on your cheek, caressing your skin, wanting nothing more than to memorize the feeling of you.
If the two of you weren’t busy exploring each other’s mouths, you’d see, in the distance, Tilly smiling to herself, proud of her work as a cupid. You’d have to thank her later, she thought. Maybe you could draw her a portrait.