Work Text:
"I'm out of the ultramarine! Again!"
The answer comes back, fast and predictable.
"Mix it yourself, cocksucker! What am I, your slave?"
I don't know why I pay his wages. All I get is abuse and enormous monthly bills from Fortnum and Mason's. I've tried to encourage the idea of a starving artist, but he points out that I'm the artist and he's the only reason I ever sell a painting. Which isn't true, by the way, but I can't deny that my series showing him as some kind of feral creature from the very best of nightmares does have a following amongst a certain type of collector.
"Schuldig! I really need it!"
"Oh, for Christ's sake."
He's there almost before I finish speaking, the fresh pigment ready and glistening. I know better than to show surprise, or any emotion past gratitude for his mere existence.
"Thanks. I'm ready for you --"
"Yeah, yeah. Who fucking isn't?"
He grins, sharp white teeth flashing in tanned skin, and climbs back onto the couch. I have the figures roughed out, and today he's playing the superior role, crouched sinewy-naked above the dummy placed on the cushions to show positioning. He looks down, eyes half-lidded, cock already half-hard, his hair pushed back so that the wild expression is clearly visible. When this painting's finished it will show Schuldig in the act of love with himself - believe me, it's no more than appropriate - and I've already been offered £150 by a private collector. I've been offered a lot more for the original, but he's not for sale.
It's not quite Belle Artes, but there are worse things in life. As we're both about to find out.