Work Text:
Upon arriving at the manor, Edgar was a cold statue who roamed the halls, canvas tucked under his arm with nothing to say but words of criticism. Never with a “hello” while passing through, people assumed the only reasons he’d come out of his cave would be for meals, bathroom, or the matches residents of the manor were required to participate in. In truth, it was to find inspiration. To see how his peers smiled at each other and lied, to encompass that feeling of being a witness as he watched them speak so casually with dishonesty. These pieces were dark, plucked from the deepest parts of a twisted artist’s mind, and he always thought it ironic when one would walk by and vocalize their thoughts on the piece. He’d dismiss them with a scoff as it was so clear they didn’t understand the true intent hidden behind the brush strokes.
This behavior, so cool to strangers and without an inkling of warmth, is what caught the attention of a certain postman. Victor too was a people watcher, filled with many criticisms of the world but too apprehensive to state them. Of all these people, he admired Edgar’s honesty not only through his art, but the small interactions he shared with others.
Victor would never want to bother a man such as this himself. It wasn’t intimidation that drove him away though, it was the thought of the wrong words being said that made him anxious. It was the thought that insincerity could leak through his tone, or that he would reflect what they together criticised. It was the thought of having nothing to say, and what he wishes to be excitement and friendliness between them would fade to a cold nothingness as he shared with many others. Like a moth to a flame though, Victor could not cease his longing to be close to this cold man. It was after a match that Victor was feeling particularly brave. Edgar arrived at the last second rescuing Victor from a chair. He knew his intent was to secure a win, and there was no deeper meaning behind the rescue, but still he wanted to send a few words of appreciation.
Through Wick, Edgar would receive a small piece of paper, it’s corners folded neatly to conceal the message. It was unusual to receive a letter post-match, but still he opened it to quench the curiosity of what it might say. Two simple words were scrawled across the paper in neat handwriting. “Thank you,” it said and as Edgar’s gaze followed the chubby dog back to its owner, he’d for the first time realize the beauty who sent letters during matches. A boy with golden hair and eyes to match. He wore a red uniform and as he caught Wick in his arms, he would meet Edgar’s gaze and smile.
It was soft, and Edgar felt appreciated for something other than his art--a skill which had been tainted by expectation. Unlike the twisted faces of the vermin who once surrounded him, Edgar noticed something beautiful in this smile and the need to capture this in his art was aching. Uplifted by the feeling, Edgar would touch his brush to fabric and paint. Unlike his usual dreary paintings, this was something that conveyed something bright, speaking of communication that Edgar was unaware he yearned for. Those who saw the piece were actually quite infatuated by it. They didn’t know Edgar could paint something so beautiful without the madness of his usual paintings. However, they knew not to say anything as to not receive a cold, wordless response or change his good mood.
Soon though, Edgar would find the happiness had faded as he struggled against a blank canvas. Lingering in his mind was Victor’s gentle smile and his golden eyes. What a pretty color it was, but as it occupied every space in his mind there was a growing drought of inspiration. As he would do before, he had decided to take a walk around the manor and found himself curled up on a chair far from the rest with a warm cup of tea in his hand. It wasn’t his usual process to sit down, but he found that the other inhabitants of the manor had surprisingly good taste and decided to enjoy it. As he draped his legs off the chair, he felt a familiar set of paws on his legs. He felt a deep feeling in his chest as he reached for the letter trapped between Wick’s oversized teeth and upon opening the letter, he would read the words “How is your tea?”
Twisting his body to see Victor, he’d notice the shy boy would quickly look away after meeting eyes. Still infatuated, Edgar had decided to stand up and take a seat. They were silent for a moment, as both boys didn’t usually start conversations, nor did they care to. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence as they sat together, and as they did so Edgar thought about the question. He would find himself telling Victor that it was probably his favorite part of conversation. The color, holding the cup, the way he can get lost in the stirring liquid. He wasn’t doing that now, though. He found himself looking at the golden cup and then at Victor who’s smile once again brought him warmth.
His painting had come back to normal when matches occurred, but still there was another feeling he wanted to capture. A feeling that was new to him, the feeling that occurred when he met his muse. On one of his bad days, he would find himself in front of his canvas wondering how he had ever pressed his brush to it before. How was it possible that he had ever created a painting of his own raw emotion? How he has created so many, even though he have not an inch of inspiration or creativity… and then, through the corner of his eye he saw a white slip of paper slide under his door on the dark marble floor.
Walking forward with hope of who it might be, Edgar picked up the piece of paper. The handwriting was recognizable, though without the teeth marks, and the writing read “are you OK?” It was scrawled out with uncertainty, yet need and determination and with the same determination Edgar threw open his door with the hope he might still be there.
He was and Edgar shouted his name. “I would like to paint you,” he said nervously as Victor turned to look at him.
This was the first time anybody had been invited to Edgar’s room and Victor was careful not to touch anything, though admiring the dreary paintings strewn across the walls and stacked on top of eachother. Most people in the manor had a roommate or two, but with the rowdiness of every resident he could see how whoever was to stay with Edgar had drifted off somewhere. Edgar had the room to himself it seemed.
“Take a seat wherever you like,” the painter said with distant memories of previous times he had painted a portrait of someone. The distaste he felt through their fake compliments and fake smiles… Victor would be different, Edgar began to hope. He began to convince himself.
Light wasn’t often a factor in Edgar’s new paintings, though it had been in his older ones. He never liked grayscale scenes, though he constantly found himself using darkened blues and purples, as well as the occasional splash of red as he painted what inspired him in the manor. This felt like a step back… back to the rare sun-filled days of light beating on his eyelids and then placing whatever tool he had to paper or cloth to capture what he felt. By the end of the long hours Victor had spent as Edgar’s subject, Edgar would find himself with a golden painting. Tanned yellows in the back where his room showed grey, with gold, peach, and dark velvety reds in the center where his subject sat blushing, a pink hue on his cheeks which Edgar hadn’t noticed. The dark edges gave the feeling of tunnel-vision… the idea of importance lying in only one thing. One human being.
Honestly, Victor began to feel tired as Edgar got up to check outside the window. Darkness was looming through the curtains and Edgar felt the need to shut them and light candles in the room. Now finished, Edgar asked Victor to come to his side and see his painting. An unusual feeling it was, showing his painting to someone else. A gift he made not as an obligation, but to satisfy his own desires. It wouldn’t matter if Victor liked it or not, no--but for once Edgar thought it might be nice.
For a while, Victor tried to make out exactly what he was seeing. Compared to the paintings he had seen before, all with a dark atmosphere and sadness to accompany the gloomy days which plagued the manor, this one was warm… happier. It was that feeling of getting to eat freshly baked bread from the pastry shop early in the morning. Victor couldn’t help but smile as Edgar turmoiled over his silence. It wasn’t unusual that Victor was silent, afterall Edgar had never even heard his voice… to him, Victor’s voice sounded like puppy claws clacking on the floor of the manor or the folding of paper as he eagerly opened each note.
Victor knew he wasn’t good at talking, and he knew Edgar didn’t usually like when people talked about his paintings so to show his appreciation, he gently took Edgar’s brush hand between his palms like he was saying grace--speaking to whichever god gave Edgar the gift of creation and through his lips he uttered two simple words, “thank you,” in a quiet and unused tone.
“Thank you…”
Edgar was astonished and flustered. Part of him wanted to pull his hand back, while the other part wished to stay and dive deep into Victor’s embrace. It was then that he began to realize how deeply an artist can feel for his muse, and how deeply he felt for the silent boy.