Work Text:
Uranus stood before his painting, paintbrush laying limp in his hand as it dripped paint, the blue liquid leaving new marks atop the sea of colors staining the hardwood floor. He was breathing harshly, he realized, breath ragged and uneven as if he had run five laps back to back. Mist escaped from each exhale, despite the room being warm around him.
Nothing made sense.
Not the way Uranus’ painting room ( “ It’s a studio Neptune— ” ) blurred around him in indistinguishable shapes and colors. Not the way he felt out of place, like he should be somewhere far from where he was now. Not the way the feeling of being watched made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
And definitely not the painting before him.
It creeped Uranus out, to be honest. Painted in the style of Cubism, geometric shapes clash together in ways unnatural and unnerving, breathtaking where it should be clashing. The image of an aquatic something, of an aquatic someone staring hopelessly with grief and perhaps even agony layered in a sea of only blues. It surpassed even the normal state of Cubism, features unseeable to the human eye protruding like stars shining in the night to Uranus, shines of a tail made of scales and fins.
It was sickeningly beautiful.
Uranus traced the image with his eyes; he observed the artwork that he made in a frantic, crazed sort of matter. He followed the strokes that made up the wound across the figure’s eye, dark blue wisping away in the water as they looked up at someone out of frame in a terrified, betrayed sort of way. For something of only blues, even the small gaps of light shining through the strange swaying kelp pieces were recognizable among the monotone palette.
As ringing began in Uranus’ ears, and his vision started to get blurry — awareness desperately clawing at him and trying to drag him away from what had to be a dream — he could feel himself wisping away from the painting, from the eyes. He was getting his freedom and he should be happy because he was going to be safe yet he wasn’t because he didn’t want to leave the sea again, didn’t want to leave behind—
Uranus woke up.
Light shone brightly past his drawn curtains, silence creeping throughout the room rather than the sound of muffled water. He was not in his studio. Not anymore.
There was no mist curling in front of his face.
There was no looks of grief and agony.
There was no paintbrush in his hand.
There was no eyes watching him.
There was no painting.
(All that was left behind was a strong longing for the cold waters of the ocean.)