Chapter Text
Inspired by Sandro Botticelli’s 'Mars and Venus' and Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s ‘Oarsmen at Chatou’
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I could never seem to tear my eyes away from his creamy texture, impasto in all the right places.
It’d be so much easier to move on, find a nice Renaissance man to pine after instead if only I could pick my ornate golden frame up and drag it to another corridor.
Even through the rush of students shoving their way to arithmancy or transfiguration, there he was, lounging carelessly on the shore.
His short, thick strokes highlighted the cavalier way he threw his head back everytime he laughed. His friend was trying to convince the Parisian women to join him in a small boat on the bank, apparently not successfully.
Every so often I swear he steals a glance in my direction and the oil in my veins seem to thicken. Then again, he’s bound to look this way occasionally, right? We’ve been dangling from the opposite walls for years now.
I can’t help but scrutinize all of my inadequacies over and over again. We are just too dissimilar. His flawless opaque canvas contrasts drastically compared to my glazed one. The light dances much more precisely in his world than mine. He had interesting French women to entertain him, I was tormented by chubby cherubs that didn't speak a lick of any language I'd ever heard.
He was vibrant blues and oranges, I was just dark and moody.
His skin glowed golden in the pigments of the afternoon sun illuminating his painting. My own pale skin seemed to be even more porcelain with brushstrokes so miniscule that the gradations were all but invisible.
He glanced over once more in my general vicinity. There was a sudden feeling of nausea that overswept me. Is that what love feels like? Bile rising to your throat?
I stepped toward the edge of my painting, tempted.
What would I even say to him?
I could offer no words. My sudden appearance into his portrait would be uncouth. No, as a lady I cannot be too forward.
I paced back to the middle of my portrait, ignoring the snide, knowing looks from the cherubs.
A thoughtful ginger girl paused momentarily in front of my portrait.
I narrowed my eyes at her. The children occasionally enjoyed harassing the artwork, but it was usually four wild haired boys.
The girl moved on, as the living always do.
A glance at his portrait across the corridor told me he had left his frame.
I resigned myself to recline on the dewy, thin stroked malachite pigmented grass, rumpling my pale dress.
I finally found the will to close my eyes, feeling exhausted from my daily inner turmoil. What I wouldn’t give to be able to pick my portrait up and just forget his vibrant vagueness.
The sound of squeaky laughter filled my portrait.
I debated whether or not to chastise the giggling cherubs. While they couldn’t understand me, they certainly could gather the general idea.
I popped my eyes open, ready to wag my tongue, but a faint movement in my painting seemed to distract me.
At the very edge of my painting was the vibrant man I spent years wistfully watching. He was brash, forward even. It was quite rude to just show up at a proper lady’s portrait.
He offered me a wide smile, the vibrancy of his blues and oranges toned down by my canvas. His soft, blurry edges much sharper now.
He raised a hand toward me, signalling what I assume to be a greeting.
Instead of being properly affronted, I gave him a small smile in return and raised my hand as well.
My French was not passable enough to talk to a portrait that was painted by a Parisian man.
To hell with etiquette, this is the 20th century.
“Bonjour,” I tested my shaky voice, “Parlez-vous anglais?”
“Yes,” He beamed.