Work Text:
The wine is still tart on Benedict's tongue, and his blood is pulsing in his temples. The house is quiet after the smokey chaos of Henry's studio, and he is too restless for sleep.
He paces the room, unburdening himself of collars and buttons. Memories of the evening dart across his mind like sunlight on the surface of a pond. Here and there, between the circle of easels and the soft tits glowing in candlelight, is an unbearably bright glimpse of Henry's gaze, steady upon him over the curve of a naked male shoulder.
He shakes himself, desperate to banish the scene. He picks up his sketchbook and flips through it until he comes to his hand studies. He tilts his head at them, wondering if perhaps the fingers should not be a little longer, a little more slender, some hair at the knuckles and across the back. Cupping a glass of brandy so, pointing with a cigar, so, digging just so into the muscles of someone's back...
He throws the book down at the thought, no, no, no, this cannot do; this cannot stand. He cannot go back. He must never.
And yet the book has fallen open to a blank page, enticing him back to that dangerous path of inspiration. His fingers itch for his charcoal, his mind flits over the shape and shadow of curls falling over a brow, of the lines in one's smile, of loose collars and open mouths, and eyes which lock upon you across a room.
He sinks into his chair and buries his head in his hands. This will not do.