Work Text:
There's brown paint on the floor.
Quite a shame. Wasn't a cheap tube either. Edgar knows it must have spilled when he had let his mind drift out. Wandering eyes too lost in the muddled yellows and greens to pay attention to the object gripped in his hands.
Teacher always said he was too clumsy for his own good.
Edgar leans slightly off his stool to retrieve the paint, paying no mind to the mess it left behind. The floor of his studio had been littered with paint and plaster for years, failed art experimentations and comfort among the clutter.
He liked it that way. Familiarity. It kept him grounded.
When he retrieves his brush from the muddled, paint-mixed water he forgets where he left off. Edgar taps the end of his brush against his chin, resisting the urge to chew on the already marked-up wood.
He hadn't fished the left side of her face, or her hair, not to even mention her eyes. He had plenty of places to tackle, it was just a question of where to start first.
"What do you think?."
He doesn't usually ask her about topics like this, he knows art isn't her forte. But when an artist's intuition fails it's usually best to infer with its muse.
"Hm, I don't know. Depends if you plan on giving me clothes or not."
His gaze turns over to melly, who's been seated in the corner for the last… however long he'd been at it this time. Edgar huffs, blowing a stray curl from out of his sight line.
"It depends, would you like a tasteful nude, or something more suitable to be hung in the foyer."
Edgar knows Melly can pick up his sarcasm. (Not that it's an entire lie, he has multiple figure studies that look an awful lot like the Entomologist stashed away in his sketchbooks)
He waits for her laugh, and it arrives, as it always does, like clockwork. As sweet as the honey freshly collected in their pantry. Her voice echoes against the corner. "You know you're the only one allowed to draw me unclothed, if the " oh so great artist " desires it then I shall oblige."
Edgar rolls his eyes fondly, placing his brush in a generous amount of leaf-green oil paint as he begins to lay out the groundwork of the woman's coat.
"Hm, maybe next time."
They're both quiet for a moment. Edgar was once again lost in thought. And though buried in his mind he can still recognize the sound of Melly's boots clicking against the hardwood floors. He's not startled when she slowly wraps her arms around his waist. Despite the stool being tall enough to reach the easel, Melly still towers over him.
She rests her cheek on the crown of his head, a soft hum worming its way out of her lips. Edgar recognizes it, he can't forget. It makes him smile as he shuts his eyes in defeat.
He knows what happens now, and he's learned a long time ago there's nothing he can do about it.
"I don't see any red on your pallet, Darling."
Edgar watches her extend her hand out, harshly connecting it with the still-wet painting. She slowly drags her hand across the Canvas, right over the eyes, and her palm leaves a dark shade of crimson. A strong smell of metal and ash melted into the paint.
Edgar sighs, not anger, no, never anger, never at her. Disappointed, pitiful . He doesn't flinch this time when her hands snake up his chest, like a viper's poisonous bite they grip his chin, all but forcing him to turn his face to look At her.
He positions himself in his chair before she gets the chance to. His back is to the painting now, his slouched figure facing her. After all this time, after every episode, Edgar can still never understand how a thing without eyes can hold so much sadness in them.
It leans down to him, Gently caresses his cheek before placing its once gentle lips on his Callus and chapped ones. He should feel disgusted. He'd never been one for bugs, but now when the maggots crawl from beneath its skin it's almost soothing. When it breaks from the kiss the same crimson from its lips stains his.
She stands straight, powerful, like his melly used to. It's times like this when he can almost forget limping out that exit gate, gripping her battered, broken body with all his strength. He can almost forget the absence of a funeral to mourn at, the nonexistent grave to bring flowers to. A twisted recreation from the forms of his shattered mind would never be her, but he was done fearing it.
It speaks for the final time, taking her image with it.
"What did you used to say about Red, Edgar?"
He swears it leaves behind a puddle of blood every time, but when he looks back nothing is there. He stared back at the painting and the next thing he knows it was in tatters on the ground, his callused hands covered in splinters from the broken wooden frame.
Edgar rises from the stool, his shaky legs taking him halfway to the door before he stops. He looks around, eyes soaking in the surroundings. Paint splattered everywhere, broken canvas Littering the wall, a large hole in the wall from a canvas flying at the first sick imitation of her that decided to show its face in this room.
He takes a deep breath in.
He should really clean up around here.