Work Text:
Brushstrokes are featherlight as they graze across the painter’s canvas, tracing cool oils deliberately, carefully outlining the shape of a slim, tall figure. His features bathed in the soft morning light, filtered by the curtains. Each motion is careful, almost reverent, as if the brunette is afraid to disturb the moment, or perhaps, the man himself.
Seated at the grand piano lies a light grey haired silhouette, his fingers dancing effortlessly over the keys, as if the world owed him its silence just to hear him play. The elegant melody makes the painter stop midway from a particular stroke just to admire the other. Brush hovering in the air the brunette’s eyes wander over slim, precise hands gliding over ivory keys to the soft furrow of his brow, to those focused, warm grey orbs that seem to pull light in rather than reflect it. Edgar can’t help but stare, taking in every line and shadow, every piece of him the morning light dares to reveal.
He’s been staring, staring for so long the composer is already halfway through his second song, brown eyes never leaving the other for the painting of course, well— that’s at least what Edgar tells himself.
“Mr. Valden, I can feel your intensity from here.” the pianist murmurs without looking, his tone airy almost bored as he continues to play, “Try to paint, not pine”
Edgar’s eyes widen, the words hitting him like a thrown brick wrapped in silk. A sharp, traitorous blush blooms across his cheeks as fast as his body moves to duck behind the canvas, nearly knocking over a stool in the process.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Kreiburg.” The brunette snaps, “I was simply studying the… light..” his voice is tight with embarrassment as he stumbles over his words, causing the painter to duck further behind the canvas. This only causes a lazy chuckle to escape the other upon hearing the painter’s words, and that only makes Edgar blush even deeper.
“Mm, Of course,” Frederick drawls, barely pausing as his fingers float over the piano keys. “My apologies, while I’m no fine painter like yourself, I must’ve mistaken such intense ogling for artistic focus.” This makes Edgar let out a strangled sound from behind his canvas, sounding something between a scoff and a dying breath. “ Ogling! ?” he sputters, bright red. “Please, Don’t be ridiculous.” Edgar says with a roll of his eyes.
Frederick hums thoughtfully, letting a few delicate notes trail off the keys like feathers. “Ridiculous?” he echoes gently, casually shifting the melody into something softer, slower. “Perhaps. But, if I were to tilt my head just ever so slightly to the left, would that help your ‘light study’? Or would that be too distracting? Hm, Mr. Valden?”
Edgar tisks, trying to sound dismissive, though his voice comes out tighter than intended. “Oh please, your arrogance is far more obstructive than your face ever could be.” The brunette continues, keeping his gaze fixed on his palette as if the exact right shade of grey will spare him from further humiliation.
Frederick lets out a soft, amused hum, shifting only slightly on the piano bench, just enough for the sunlight to kiss the edge of his jaw again, fingers stilling. “A fascinating critique that is… Though, I notice you haven’t stopped painting.”
“That’s because I have discipline ,” Edgar snaps again, dabbing his brush a little too forcefully into the palette. “Something you clearly lack.” He kisses his teeth from the building irritation.
“Mm. And yet you’re the one trembling.”
“Wha— I am not—! ” Edgar starts, whipping his head to face the composer, but he cuts himself off the moment his baby blue orbs find warm grays that hold him too carefully, like they already know what he won’t say.
Frederick's gaze holds him so effortlessly, steady, unwavering. There’s no mockery now, no teasing edge. Just an unspoken question hanging between them. His slim face is captivating, with sharp cheekbones, thin but lush lips, and his straight pointed nose. By no means this man is absolutely handsome, it almost makes Edgar mad if he wasn’t so damn… striking .
Everything about Frederick feels like a contradiction. Soft eyes paired with a razor-edged mouth, elegance tangled with arrogance. The kind of face that shouldn’t be beautiful, and yet is, so much so it becomes a problem. And right now, that face is looking at him like it sees through every layer of his carefully constructed indifference.
Edgar’s jaw tenses. His hand tightens around the brush until his knuckles pale. “Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, voice barely audible. The other raises a brow. “Like what?” His voice is infuriatingly gentle, like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing to the painter. “Like..” Edgar bites his lips, as if to stop his voice from continuing further. A weird fluttering sensation in his stomach makes him shake his head, almost like he’s telling himself to snap out of it. The brunette has never felt so nervous before, not even when he was assigned to paint the Count’s portrait, but Frederick.. Oh Frederick, arrogant yet refined Frederick. With his careless smirks and maddening poise, with eyes that seemed to peel back every layer Edgar had worked so hard to keep intact. He irritates the painter to no end, but, even then. Why does he make his heart race so?
“Like.. Ugh, you’re infuriating, Kreiburg.” Edgar huffs, his frustration now mingling with something else. Something deeper that he can’t quite put a name to. His hands shake slightly as he clutches the brush, trying to focus on the painting, but, it feels like every line, every stroke is now a futile attempt to escape the intensity of Frederick's gaze.
“Am I now?” The older let’s out a laugh, but this one feels different than the others. It’s not mockery nor is it teasing, it’s something pure, it’s unfiltered, genuine laughter. And suddenly, the painter can feel the butterflies again, swarming and fluttering until he feels breathless. “You say this, yet, it is you who keeps inviting me back.” Frederick continues, his words settle into the room like falling ash, soft and warm and undeniably true.
Edgar freezes at this, grip on his brush loosening, but he doesn’t drop it. Instead, he stares at the canvas as though it might suddenly offer him an escape. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. “Hm, That’s merely because I don’t have to pay you for modeling.” The painter lowers his eyes to meet the hash of red and grays splattered across his palette, a stark reminder of who the brunette is painting. “Don’t tell me your ego is inflating over a few sessions of free labor.” Edgar smirks, feeling proud.
Frederick just sits there for a moment, letting out a low breath after, the kind that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t weighed down by something else.. something quieter, almost disappointed. “Ah. There he is,” he murmurs, standing to his feet. And the creaking of the floorboard from the composer is almost enough to make the brunette jolt. “Mr. Valden, ever so sharp when he’s cornered.” Frederick steps closer to the other ever so eloquently, as if he’s waltzing across a ballroom. His presence wraps around Edgar like a second coat of paint, thick and inescapable. He can feel the shift in the air, the heat that comes from proximity, and his heart stutters against his ribs like a panicked bird.
“I’m not cornered,” Edgar mutters, his voice clipped, defensive. “No?” Frederick’s voice is soft, like silk being pulled through fingers. “Then why do your eyes avoid mine like they might say something your lips won’t?” Edgar bites the inside of his cheek, cursing himself for reacting at all, gaze still stuck on the pallet as if it might save him from this nerve racking situation.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself Kreiburg.” Edgar scoffs, “I avoid your eyes because I’m trying to work, ” Edgar says stiffly, though the slight crack at the end betrays him. He dips his brush into the muted red, trying to ignore how his hand trembles again. “So, if you would kindly step back to your piano that I can continue.” The brunette gulps heavier than he anticipated, he’s nervous despite how hard he’s trying to shield it, and it’s unfortunately transparent.
Frederick doesn't move. Not at first. He stands there, studying Edgar with those maddeningly calm eyes that see too much, that press too close without ever touching. There’s a pause, a moment where the air feels thick, syrupy, caught between words unspoken. Then, he speaks, low and smooth like a cello in the stillness. “Funny,” he muses, tilting his head. “You always get like this when you’re flustered, Edgar .” His first name. Not Mr. Valden. Not even painter . Just Edgar.
Said like a secret .
Edgar’s breath hitches, just a whisper of sound, but it’s enough. He hates that Frederick notices it. Hates it more that he always notices it. “Your delusions are astonishing.” He bites, hoping the sting of his words will be enough to drive the other back, but Frederick doesn’t seem to care. “Then, look at me.” There it is, that impossible demand. Not shouted, not begged. Just offered, simple and still. Like a challenge. Like a promise. Like a hand held out in the dark. It makes Edgar’s jaw tighten and sweat start to form, doesn’t want to. God, he knows he shouldn’t. He should focus on his palette, on the canvas, on anything but the man standing so impossibly close. Anything but the storm brewing behind warm grey eyes.
But slowly, painfully, traitorously, he does.
He looks.
And it ruins him.
Frederick’s lips curled into something too soft to be a smirk, standing only inches away, face open, eyes steady. There’s no smugness there now. No arrogance. Just him. Unmasked and unbearably present. His silver hair glows faintly in the morning light, casting soft shadows over the sharp planes of his face. And those eyes.. those eyes, they search him like they’re flipping through the pages of a book only Frederick knows how to read.
Edgar’s lips part, but no words come. He doesn’t know who moves first. Maybe he does. Maybe it’s him. Or maybe Frederick leans in like gravity itself bends toward him. But in a moment so quick and slow all at once, they’re closer than they’ve ever been, breath mingling, mouths almost touching, the air between them trembling like the surface of a still lake just before the fall of a single drop.
“Frederick..” Edgar breathes, unsure if it’s a plea or a warning. “Tell me to stop,” Frederick murmurs. But Edgar can’t. He doesn’t want to.
And then, soft lips clash on top of his.
It’s soft. So painfully soft. Not hungry or rushed. Just warm and steady and devastatingly gentle, like he’s been waiting for this, wanting this, but knew better than to take it until Edgar gave him that one sliver of permission. The brunette stands frozen for half a heartbeat, and then melts, brush falling from his fingers, hands finding purchase in the folds of Frederick’s coat as he leans in, heart thrashing against his ribs like it’s trying to tear itself free. The kiss deepens slightly, slow and searching, and Frederick’s hand cradles the side of his face, thumb brushing against a cheek still flushed from their exchange.
And when they part, it’s barely by an inch.
“I hate you.” Edgar breathes out, eyes heavy and full of admiration. Frederick just chuckles knowingly, breath warm against his lips. “I think we both know that’s untrue, Edgar.”
And for once, the painter doesn’t argue.