Chapter Text
You are a painting.
Your eyes watching as the man that had created you makes a beautiful landscape, each stroke of his brushing giving detail to an otherwise blank canvas, leaving behind vibrant streaks of colour, making the world of the painting seem so much brighter than the flowers blooming just outside the windows.
His hand steady, his gaze focused solely on painting. You wonder if he can even feel the sun beating down on his skin through his thin, paint stained shirt. His face flushing slightly through the heat, his hair looked almost golden in the sunlight, his eyes shining like diamonds, filled with concentration and scrutiny, as if unsatisfied with the mountains that seemed to stretch into the heavens, their peaks turning into hazy silhouettes behind clouds, the rivers flowing with grace, white paint making the waters look as if they were shimmering without a beginning or an end.
But with a sudden knock on the front door, the once crisp and smooth lines turned into a chaotic blur, the vibrant hues collapsing and smudging together through the weight of that single stroke.
The painter scoffed, you could see his youthful face twisting into a scowl as he clicked his tongue.
Unhurriedly, he grabbed an envelope from the near table, you could see as the undried paint on his hands stained the pale white paper. Even if he didn’t intend to, colour seemed to seep into every blank canvas he could get his hands on.
“Is there something you need? Ah, Mr. Grantz,” A arrogant, crisp voice spoke, “I’ll have you know you have ruined another one of my paintings today.”
The postman had an apologetic smile on his face, his hand formed a fist as he laid it over his heart, proceeding to rub his fist in a circle on his chest, yet the painter didn’t seem to understand, “Again with the hand gestures, I can not understand you Mr. Grantz, please, use your words when you are speaking to me.”
Hurriedly, the postman took out a notepad, searching for a pen in his pockets but was handed a pencil from the painter instead.
‘Im sorry’ the note read.
The painter’s eyes twinkled at the sight of the steady lines that formed words, although the graphite made the writing hazy, the painter could still see the clear and confident strokes.
The painter hummed, the faint scowl on his face relaxing into an neutral expression, “Alright, I will refrain from wasting both of our time any longer for this misstep today, but if you plan on doing such a thing again, I will not be so merciful.”
You watched as the man handed back the notepad, along with the paint stained letter.
You watched as the postman tilted his head, the dog at his feet copying his actions, an eyebrow raised as he wrote once more,
‘No address?’
“There is no need for an address, for I have already sent it to the person it is intended for.” The postman stared blankly, frozen, only blinking
“This letter is for you, Mr. Grantz.” The painter clarified.
The dog at the postman’s feet barked, its tail wagging, its face softening into a grin-like smile, nuzzling into the postman’s pant leg, happy for its owner.
The postman himself seemed to reflect his pet’s happiness, the smile on his face could rival the shine of the sun, if he too had a tail, it would undoubtedly be wagging just as much, if not more than of the bulldog.
The painter’s eyes fixated on the postman, squinting as he studied the man’s ruffled blond hair, his amber eyes that reminded the painter of the caramel sweets he once used to eat with his sister.
The postman would look dashing in green.
—————
You are a painting.
Your eyes watching as the man that had created you paints a portrait, each stroke of his brushing giving detail to an otherwise bland looking subject, leaving behind vibrant streaks of colour, making the blond hair of the postman look as if it was made of gold, strands of hair individually painted, the man’s red tunic looked as if it were soft to the touch.
The postman’s face however…
Was blank.
The painter’s steady hand turning shaky, his gaze darting throughout the canvas. The painter’s youthful face had dark circles under his eyes, his brown hair no longer tied with a silky red ribbon, dishevelled as if he had just rolled out of bed, his blue eyes scrutinising the portrait before he suddenly threw it to the ground.
Discarded canvases were scattered throughout the room, some scrawled upon, some torn apart, some seemingly cut up with some kind of sharp object.
The subject and main focus of all the discarded portraits were, of course, the postman. While most were faceless, there were a few of them which did have faces, the postman’s face on the canvases looked as if they were a living image, able to jump out at any moment and smile once again at the viewer.
Yet, as the painter stared at his creations he couldn’t help but be unsatisfied.
Did he feel the same way about you? Unsatisfactory?
It does not matter.
Hung at the highest position on the wall of the painter’s art studio for all to see and admire. The walls covered in hand painted murals, countless flowers, all in varying colours, paintings of fruits, desserts, tea and snacks, birds flying freely, cats and dogs napping under the shade of towering trees surrounding you.
Your portrait, painted with meticulous detail, each brushstroke clearly seen, the texture of your skin, each strand of hair, the purple fabric of your dress drapes upon your figure, each detail intimately drawn, as the artist had taken great care to capture your model’s essence.
Perhaps once another strike of inspiration hits this painter, you will finally have someone to accompany you.
—————
You are a portrait.
Your eyes watching as the man who had painted you sat in front of the door, his finger tapping on the table with a rhythmic pattern, another paint stained letter laid waiting on the table.
The painter’s brown hair laid softly atop his shoulders, no longer wearing a paint stained shirt, instead wearing a pair of silk pyjamas, his feet wearing simple white fluffy slippers.
The birds chirped outside the windows, the flowers swayed in the wind leaving behind a floral scent, the man’s eyelashes fluttered, dozing off like a sunbathing cat.
A sudden knock at the door awoke the napping painter, his eyelids heavy as he gradually stood, his faint footsteps slowly moving towards the front door.
The painter yawned, “Mr. Grantz…” his soft voice, husky and mellow, the painter cleared his throat before speaking once again.
“Is something the matter?” The painter’s eyes examined the postman in front of him, the upset bulldog catching his eye. A low growling sound came from the postman’s pet, a frown-like expression on its face as it stared at the painter, the postman hung his head, his shoulders hunched, his back slouching, it was as if he was attempting to make himself seem as small as possible.
The postman himself was, just like yesterday, still dressed in that red tunic along with his red and gold cap, but something was odd, the painter noticed it as well.
The postman silently held a handful of letters towards the painter, his hand faintly shaking
The painter hummed, his eyes turning to look at the postman’s face, finding downcast eyes, along with an emotionless smile.
“Mr. Grantz… I have another letter I must give you.” The postman’s eyes lit up with joy, only for it to be extinguished just a moment later as memories of the last message the painter had given him resurfaced.
The painter held the letter out, the postman staring blankly at the paint stained envelope, “It would be best if you were to read it here. If you have time to spend, that is, feel free to read it once you’re finished with your work.”
With a hand trembling with nervousness, the postman reached for the letter, quickly placing the letters for the painter in the man’s hands before he suddenly darted away, unintentionally leaving behind a bulldog with its head tilted, hesitating for a split second before darting right after its owner.
The painter watched with amusement.