Work Text:
It’s been a long twenty or so years since Ike Eveland was born. He had many good and bad moments throughout his life. Many chapters of a story were laid out; the days spent in the academy he studied in, the friendships that wavered and dissipated since then, and other situations that were thrown at him to grow and learn from. Life, in his eyes, was a never-ending rollercoaster. However, one thing remained constant—his passion for the arts. It connected him to the inner parts of himself, and brought out intense emotions that he never thought he could feel in this mundane lifestyle.
Ike remembers when he learned about impassioned anger when working on a single painting. Back then, he was nothing but a young student striving for undeniable flawlessness; in order to keep the scholarship bestowed to him, he had to create original pieces when the professors asked for it. “Ah, this doesn’t look right at all,” He remarked to nobody in particular. Perfection is the standard, that was always the thought in his mind. A paintbrush touches the canvas, leaving behind a blissful stroke of color. It was a hue of red, as dark as most of the finest, brewed wines of the decade. With each added slash, his anger escalated to towering heights. The move of his hand was slowly becoming forceful, and the temptation to throw away the canvas crossed the mind, yet he still continued.
Days like those ended in fitful sleep, and all Ike could think about was his masterpieces. He learned about sadness next. It wasn’t the momentary feeling that most are familiar with, but rather, it was close to despair and melancholiness. There have been nights wherein the artist had felt exactly that, and for sometime, the art started to blur together. Everything looks similar, one professor told him. Nothing he would create would match that of his other peers. More working days passed, but he paid no mind to it. Ike only continued sitting down, wiping his tears at the sheer embarrassment he felt, and tried immersing himself in the creative mindset. “I swear to fucking God, gonna quit one of these days and get a real job in corporate.” He sighed and continued to drag the pencil along the paper.
“You’re muttering to yourself again, Ike.”
Your distant voice called him from his thoughts. Ike turned to look at your figure sprawling on the bed. His sharp eyes squinted, seeming a little disturbed at the intrusion. However, his long and slender fingers contradicted this action, trailing over your bare skin gently. A pregnant silence befalls in the bedroom, yet it was calming and not suffocating. He could only show you a smile, before turning back to the sketchbook that was in his hands. There were a few seconds of contemplation, and soon enough, he placed the pencil away and closed the sketchbook. His hands were in pain after forcing them to draw for an entire afternoon. All he wanted was a long rest.
You felt a gentle stroke on your arm—over the inked tattoo near the shoulder. A soft sound escaped your lips, and Ike repeated the motion until he whispered something. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what is the meaning of this tattoo?” You can only chuckle at the question before cheekily replying with, “I’m not giving myself away this early.” Ike stared at your face, illuminated by the flickering lamp beside the bed. He laughed at your stubbornness, but he did not expect anything less from his muse.
For him, the concept of muses was a strange one indeed. It came from the myth of the Greek goddesses, who ruled over the arts and sciences and provided inspiration in those subjects. Ike saw the masterpieces created by famous artists— how their own muses were destined to be displayed on the walls of those museums. People would fawn over someone’s extravagant beauty, even though time had worn it. Nothing destroyed it, despite the presence of flaky cracks that have formulated in the oil paints. However, he also thought of the aftermath. What would become of that portrait once it's served its purpose? Would it be shelved in an old atelier? Cobwebs and dust over the walls and the floor, and there it lay, waiting for another opportunity to be validated by the people’s eye. Ike refused to think about it. He could not stand the thought of your portraits—his muse—to be displayed in front of a crowd that wishes to prey on your divine beauty, let alone be thrown away once time had done its work.
Oh, how they never deserved you, my love.
Ike Eveland met you in a small gathering. You only made eye contact once, in a state of drunkenness. When the morning came, he had forgotten your resplendent face, as if the alcohol made your presence incomprehensible. It took days to remember the simple glimpse both of you had shared, so he asked the paintbrush to do all of the work. The atelier, in its splendid entirety, answered their owner’s desperate plea. His brush remembered what he could not, and then whispered what it knew to the acrylic colors in the messy, ceramic palette. When the paints finished creating their vibrant, breathtaking hues, they told the canvas about your appearance— all they had heard and seen from that moment itself. His canvas, in turn, showed what you really looked like. It wasn’t a painting—no, it was far from that. Rather, it was an accurate portrait of the fraction of the momentary second you both shared.
In that very second, Ike was sure he learned about love right then and there.
It was an emotion maddeningly colorful, the greatest gift an artist could ever have, and yet a weapon that can be used against. Love was painted as a passionate, crimson red that can only be made because of the person right in front of him at this moment. This one was different from the angry red from his previous works. Ike memorized every detail of you, and took it upon himself to capture it all in a canvas someday. You were perfect in his perspective.
You let out a small laugh at the continued motions of his fingertips on your bare skin. From the current eyesight, you can see him drawing imaginary art, and it was always the same picture: moles used to create a flower’s pistil, or perhaps the constellations in the night sky. All that you can see was the beauty of another painting, erasing those damned flaws on your figure, and replacing them with murals. Ike’s breathing staggered as his fingers wander off to search through your body, as if he was taking the lengths and curves, reminding himself to sculpt a statuette using the finest, white marble that money could ever buy. Call it lovesick, if you will; he accepts even your simplest words and dullest thoughts to be remarkably beautiful and astonishing. Ike drowned in your overwhelming presence, and whether it would be pleasurous or sinful, realistic or fictitious, painful or euphoric— he never cared.
“Will you paint on me again?” A gentle whisper from you brings him back to reality. He quickly nods, and climbs off the bed to retrieve his art supplies. In these moments of intimacy, you never bothered to interrupt his exquisite work that is placed on your body. Your lips are sealed, staying still and only opening your mouth to elicit those unwanted gasps— when the sensitive nerves act against your will. After all, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, as the people say. Who were you, a person far from the title of art connoisseur, to object to another's vision and artwork? You let Ike do what he wanted with your bare skin, because you were his. His muse to leave masterpieces on, then moving further away to admire you.
In your eyes, this was love; dancing along with him in perfect rhythm, and going mad with him at the same time. It’s a splendid romance, an art that other people would never understand. You closed your eyes when you heard shuffling, assuming that it was your artist returning with the materials needed to paint on the skin.
His paintbrush touches your arm, and it was still for a moment as it was suspended between Ike’s calloused fingertips. You felt the cold paint slither across when he drew unrecognizable patterns. “I’ve been wondering, is it another of those constellations?” It was a question that was said out loud, halting the artist from working on his grandiose masterpiece. Eyes flicker in the dimmed light, while his brow furrows at the sudden question. Only giving a small reassuring smile, he dipped down to kiss an area of your stomach, as if to say, “I’m not giving it away this early.” You could only pout with the response he gave out, referencing what you remarked earlier when Ike asked about your tattoos.
He was now more at ease; his once stiff arms now moving fearlessly across your flesh. With each and every act of the paintbrush, the colors start to blend and the lines become blurry, but nonetheless, a picture was formed. Your eyes opened, facing a beautiful reflection on the mirror. It showed the landscape of your body, which was a scene of the stars and constellations filling up the dead of night. You were no artist, but it did not stop you from being as enamored as any other when it came to art. And it so happens to come in many expressions: novels and poetry, paintings and murals, theatrical plays and music. However, as pulchritudinous these all were, nothing came close to the artwork before you. A masterful creation born from the hands of Ike Eveland, an artist you so dearly loved.