Work Text:
Art was his everything.
His talent, his skill.
It was easy remembering the different movements, the different forms, the many names of famous artists. It was less easy remembering his parents' faces—a sfumato too hazy, colors dulled, and shapes unidentifiable.
(In the end, they weren't enough.)
Art was his expression.
His outlet, his freedom.
It was exhilarating, how different artworks made him feel real and raw with emotion—how a simple piece impacted him to the point of tears. The laughter and jabs and bandages on his cheek didn't feel like anything in comparison—bullies were mosaic, small fragile pieces, only glued together to look bigger than what they actually were.
(In the end, they didn't understand him either.)
Art was his life.
His home, his love.
Charlie surveyed the artworks filling up the room. Varying hues of red, black, and white came in all shapes and forms, but the subject was always the same—a gallery born of, if not regret for his mistake, then a silent yearning for something more.
He picked up his brush and started to make a new painting.
(In the end, Riccardo left him too.)
(In the end, art was all he had.)