Work Text:
“I didn’t know you liked drawing so much.”
“I always have.”
“Then how come nobody knows of this place?”
“Some things are best kept secret. Now, be quiet. I need to focus.”
The King of Briar Valley had a small atelier where the dungeons once were: without telling the former Queen, he completely transformed the dark, cold basement where prisoners were held. Oh, of course, it was still dark—but a lit candle would reveal that the metal bars were no more, that various paintings were hung on the walls, hiding the chains from which criminals were detained. And it was still cold, still troubling, to think that where prisoners once starved, despaired, and died, completely alone, Silver laid nude, on a velvet couch, watching Malleus draw him.
“When did you stop detaining criminals here?”
“Four hundred years ago.”
“How did it feel?”
“What do you mean?”
“To sleep. To know that, under you, somebody was dying a slow death.”
Malleus put his pencil down. He looked at the drawing before him. “You say disturbing things with the softest, calmest tone of voice I have ever heard. Even scarier to think that you don’t seek to judge me. You genuinely want to know, don’t you?”
“Well?”
“I didn’t think of it. I was young. I thought it was right.”
“Were they humans?”
“They were.”
“I see.”
Malleus picked up his pencil, now looking at Silver. “Now, really, be quiet.”
For a man who liked showing off his skills, be it in sports, music, and academia, Malleus let nobody know of this hobby. He had been drawing for seven hundred years, that was what he told Silver—he was self-taught. Hundreds of sketchbooks piled up in a separate cell, more than half a millennia worth of drawings. It wasn’t until Malleus and Silver got married that he learned of it. Nobody knew. Not even Lilia. Architectural plans, studies of bodies, fae, humans, models he had found in books. Copies of portraits that were hung in the hallways. Sketches of fruits, sketches of gargoyles. A table with books and roses, a bottle of wine. Tubes of paint—he had been using them recently. (They were a human invention, dating from a little less than two hundred years ago. They facilitated outdoor painting, apparently, which caused a movement of artists from the City of Flowers who attempted to capture nature in fleeting moments.)
And a dark green, velvet couch. Nobody laid on it before Silver. It was a recent addition; the boy was the King’s first live model.
Malleus studied him attentively, learned to know every crevice, every fold, every curve of his body. He had a sketchbook full of drawings of Silver. His face, his body, his hands. Standing up, lounging. A candle illuminating him. Tensing his muscles, a crown of ivy adorning his head. Rose thorns tearing him apart, blood painting his skin. Holding his sword, holding a wine glass, holding grapes, holding his husband’s staff—an act of lèse-majesté.
Every touch of Malleus’ pencil on the paper, Silver felt on his skin. A dive into his flesh, into his soul. Malleus knew everything about Silver. He was the King’s muse. He felt beautiful, he felt pretty under his husband’s gaze. He felt small, fragile, like an expensive jewel. He felt seductive. He felt like a raw, unpolished gem, priceless, studied, observed for long, long hours.
Malleus? He was focused. He didn’t like talking while drawing. His strokes were attentive, delicate, and quiet, he held his pencil with three fingers as if they were a light feather. He didn’t use much strength when holding anything, be it his pencil, his fork, his staff, his violin, or his lance. A stark contrast to his strength, almost brutish, hard to control. If he used all of it, surely he would snap that pencil in half and tear a hole into his sketchbook. He wouldn’t only break their bed, as he did once a week, but he would also kill Silver.
The boy smiled at the thought.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“I like that smile on you. Keep it.”
But Malleus was beautiful, too. His calm and focused face, pale, smooth, absolutely flawless, framed by long, shiny, straight raven hair—he had a strand behind one of his ears so his vision wouldn’t be obstructed. Eyes like green garnet, his birthstone, rare and precious, his gaze adamantine, dominant. His body unmoving, protective, it always stood tall, unperturbed, like a tower. Silver loved being in his arms. He loved being protected by Malleus. And all Malleus did was protect, didn’t he? His love, his people, his castle, his history. But not at that moment. No, at that moment, he was vulnerable, struggling, his brows furrowed in frustration, a fang biting into his lip. His face often had that expression when he drew. It was a pretty face, similar to the one he had when he made love to Silver. He was rarely satisfied with his work. There was always something missing, according to him. He was too hard on himself—Silver could never see any issues with his sketches.
He looked at his drawing for a minute, raised his pencil, took it to the paper, hesitated, put it down. He crossed his arms, looked at Silver, then back at the sketchbook. He sighed, uncrossing his arms.
“Done.”
Silver sat up and his body hurt, atrophied. He hadn’t moved a single muscle in an hour. “Can I see?”
“Sure. But I’m not satisfied.”
He stood up, walked up to his husband, and looked at the sketch. “Whoa!”
There he was, Silver. Transported to paper, translated by Malleus’ hand. His smile feathery soft, subtle; the light in his eyes pearlescent, sinuous droplets of water. His skin, his muscles carefully rendered, vaporous, melted into one another; Malleus once called such technique sfumato. His hair shimmered, somehow, as he lounged on that velvet couch. He looked divine. He looked worthy of worship. He looked like he emerged from the Underworld to bring life to nature and rid the Earth of death. He looked like he descended from the Heavens to bless the people with fertile lands, dance, and plenty of wine. He looked like temptation, one that would soon turn his devotees mad, an ecstasy that would possess them.
“I look like this?”
“No, you don’t.” The King looked up at him. “You’re more beautiful.”
“I think I look stunning here. You did well.”
Malleus took his waist and sat him on his lap. His hands settled on his thighs and he caressed them, gently, still examining his drawing. “There’s something about you that’s… ethereal. Hard to translate into writing, drawing, or music.”
He took in the scent of Silver’s skin. “You’re hard to grasp. Like snow, you melt in my hands. Like snowflakes, you’re so beautiful. So unique.”
He kissed Silver’s shoulder. “So I want to immortalize you. I want to capture you and your beauty. Have you live forever in my mind. In my hand. I want to carve you. Sculpt you. Have you live on as art. Because that’s what you are.”
His hands traveled to Silver’s waist. “When history turns the page and forgets about you, you’ll remain alive in my memories. In these drawings.”
“… Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Why me?”
His hand took Silver’s—their rings collided. “Because I love you, Your Majesty.”