Work Text:
Alicia curls a lock of hair around her finger, the rest of it pulled back in a high ponytail that sways as she giggles. She swings her feet from where she sits, watching her brother fail for the umpteenth time to put paint to canvas. "What a shit design," she comments, "how unlike you, Verso."
"Yes, well, it's better than nothing." Frustrated, Verso gives up on trying to salvage the design and draws a red mark across the landscape. A heavy slash that blots out the underlying sketch. He hasn't been inspired in days. Weeks even. Months, if he was being honest. Another failure.
He hates that he is expected to supply the upcoming gala with a piece. But he would hate more to disappoint the good name Dessendre. A name that was both a blessing and a curse.
"I have an idea," Alicia tells him, and that can never be a good thing. Years spent happening upon mischief at her side bring an unwitting smile to the corner of his lips. He fights it back before she can see. "Oh, come on, you know you're interested. Don't play coy!"
Pretending to be annoyed, he asks, "What is it this time?"
"Hmph!" She puffs out her cheeks and turns away from him, arms folded over her chest. "Is that the tone you use to ask for something?"
With a roll of his eyes, he sets his brush aside and wipes his hands on the smock over his clothes. "Sorry, sister dearest. You were saying?"
She cuts her eyes to him and relents, too excited to share her idea. "A nude model," she blurts in a rush, "you should consider it."
Verso sighs. Ah, his sister is at that age, huh. "I have told you before. Desire, temptation, yearning - they have all been done to death. What need do I have for a nude model, when these are not themes I wish to convey?"
Hiding her smile with a hand, Alicia's next words are muffled, "Oh, you would be surprised." She drops her hand, straightening as she prepares to hop down from the desk. With a graceful plonk, she tosses her arms up as if a gymnast and she has scored a landing. "I know just the person for you to draw," she sing-songs, just as a knock sounds at the door. "You can thank me later."
Alicia answers the door for him, excitement in her voice as she converses with a distinctively low tenor on the other side. A man then. Disgruntled by her presumptive nature, he takes off his smock and joins them at the door. An excuse and an apology are on his lips before he catches sight of curly brown hair and warm brown eyes. His words die.
An incessant itch to draw nags at him. Persistent and burning. Something about the way the man holds himself, tight and coiled, makes him want to unravel what lies hidden. Hypocrisy at its finest.
His gaze snags on the wooden prosthetic of the man's left arm and he aches to know. Of course Alicia would pick a puzzle of a man to taunt him. The two of them finish their conversation and turn curious eyes to Verso, awaiting his final decision.
He opens the door wider, an inviting smile on his lips. "Please, come in. Allow me to introduce myself."
Alicia hides another grin, victory in her steely gaze.
The man's name is Gustave, he comes to know, and they talk at length after Alicia bids them good day. It is fascinating to hear him recount stories from work. An engineer contracted with the Institute of Art, remodeling the new gala hall that the Dessendres are paying for.
He hadn't known that, too disconnected from his family. And yet, that explains where Alicia met him. She frequents the Institute, he knows, looking at old works and wistful of what could have been. Verso doesn't long for the past he left behind though. Only does his due diligence and moves on.
A thought that leaves him circling back around to the piece he needs to decide on and complete. As well as the 'solution' Alicia thinks he needs. This man, he hazards a guess, doesn't even know what Alicia signed him up for and he tests the waters, asking, "Are you ready to start?"
Gustave gives a cheery nod and stands, saying, "I have never modeled before. What would you have me do?"
"Take off your clothes to start," he says, as nonchalant as possible, and he is rewarded with the man turning red instantly.
"Pardon?" Gustave folds his arms over his chest, defensive. "There must be some mistake. I am not here for that kind of service."
Verso barks a laugh and covers it up with his hand. Bemused, he finds, that he allowed that to slip out. "First time nude modeling," he teases, "and you don't even know how to remove your clothes."
Putting two and two together, Gustave swears. An endearing wrinkle forms at his brow. "That girl, she knows -" Self-conscious, the man grabs at his wooden arm. "There has been a misunderstanding. I am sorry to trouble you like this, Monsieur Dessendre."
"Please. You speak amongst friends. Verso is fine." He gestures for Gustave to relax, a twinkle in his eye. "I never intended to take her up on the offer. But now that you are here, I do have an idea."
How long, he wonders, has it been since he has wanted to draw for the sake of drawing? To capture something before it could slip away from his mind. The first glance from Gustave sparks such a need. A want to carve it into paper and remember it always. A fleeting, transient dream that lingers on the edges of his mind and screams.
He conveys none of this as he clears a spot near the window, sets up a stool, and asks Gustave to have a seat. The lighting isn't great with the clouds blocking out the sun, but there is something about the melancholy of it all, as Gustave glances outside with his head facing away from him. Verso burns to trace the lines, grabbing his sketchpad and a piece of charcoal.
Eventually, Gustave turns to face forward and watches him draw, a soft expression on his face. He scraps the previous sketch and starts another one; this needs to be perfect. Why can he never get it right? Why is it always -
"I agreed to be here because I admire your work," Gustave admits, unprompted, fidgeting in place as he folds his hands over his lap. "It has been a long time since a piece of art has stirred my own inspiration. I wished to return the favor when Alicia asked."
His hand stills, frozen in place, as he asks, "Sorry, are you also a Painter …?" And hopes for a moment that he is wrong, that he has misunderstood, but Gustave has a guilty look now and he knows it is worse than he thought.
"A Writer," corrects Gustave, "albeit that has never been my passion."
Irritation floods him and he makes the last lines of his sketch harder and more pronounced. A testament to what he hides behind a polite mask. "Oh?" he says. "And which of my paintings inspired you?" An engineer, Gustave said when they met, as if he isn't the embodiment of what Verso longs to be. Free of the constraints. Choosing another path despite a gift that should be everything he is.
"It was an empty world you drew," Gustave starts, gaze far away as he recalls the canvas, "but in the center, it felt like a cry for help. A little boy sitting surrounded by silence. But in reality, he is surrounded by everything."
Verso remembers that one too, gives up on his latest sketch, and demands, "Why are you really here?"
With a sudden, unwavering focus, Gustave offers a hesitant smile. "Perhaps your story intrigues me the most." Knowing eyes glance at the piano in the corner of his apartment room. One that has been growing dust every day now. The longer he takes to paint, the longer he goes without.
"You know not what you are trying to read," Verso snaps, pointing to the door. "Out, and do not come back." It's too much, and he refuses to be seen.
While he is heeded at first, Gustave returns. A quiet knock at the door. An attempt to be let in.
Verso dismisses him each time. Exchanging clipped pleasantries that mean nothing. He will not let anyone use him; he is tired of being used.
But Gustave doesn't give up. He brings meals to share; and it seems poor manners to let the food go to waste. They share a quiet that Gustave allows to continue. Not pushing, not asking, simply being there without asking and then disappearing just the same.
A ghost, Verso would have thought. A haunting even. If not Alicia's persistent demands for him to stop ignoring her best friend, and talks of how Gustave was the sweetest, kindest man. She obviously did not know the man's true nature. Yet Verso is the same; he doesn't know anything about the man.
When he flips through his sketches by the month's end, with the chokehold of an upcoming due date nipping at his heels, he is stunned to find pages and pages of Gustave's serene profile. Pictures of his eyes, highlights of his lips. The way he waves when he says goodbye. Each piece of him etched in black, stolen without permission.
And a theme springs to mind, an apple of temptation that flickers to life. On one hand, it could finally, finally push the man away. And on the off chance it doesn't - well, maybe it would chase away the relentless thoughts. The endless wondering.
Arriving like clockwork, Gustave knocks on his door. And Verso doesn't hesitate to answer this time, something in his expression giving away his plans for the evening as Gustave studies him and makes a little noise of surprise.
"You have decided then?" Gustave asks, as if this is always how it would have been. A prelude. "You kept me waiting."
As soon as the door closes, Verso smirks and locks the door. "Strip," he orders, leaning back on the door. That knowing expression morphs into flustered disbelief as Gustave gapes at him. "Oh, you didn't see that one coming? Now who is keeping me waiting."
Slowly, Gustave shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up at the coat rack near the door. Near Verso. The man takes a quick step back, turning to face away as he starts unbuttoning his shirt. As amusing as it is to watch, Verso tells him, "You know where the washroom is by now. Use it. I left something for you to cover up with as well. I may have settled on a theme but it is nothing so vulgar that I would ask more of you."
"I see," Gustave says with a careful cadence, "let me … one moment." He disappears into the other room and Verso readies easel and paint. No more sketching, now he would make it real.
When Gustave returns, a simple stretch of cloth draped around his waist, Verso instructs him to rest on the bed. And he complies, tensing when Verso follows and rearranges the cloth to flow around him and reveal more of his legs. He doesn't let his fingers stay unwelcomed and moves back to his canvas, wherein Gustave relaxes and comments, "No pose you wanted?"
"I want you to be honest," Verso dismisses, "and that will happen without my interference."
He outlines the shape of Gustave first, paying no mind to the fidgeting, the amateur attempts at posing. Falling into a rhythm until Gustave gives up trying and half falls asleep. Eyes lidded and shoulders slumped, head lulling slightly to the side. He looks one moment shy of falling over and Verso brings that to the canvas with a vicious press of lines.
There is something that he knows that his paintings have always lacked. Something that he finds as he begins to gentle his motions in creating, takes the time to capture the minute details. A pinched brow, a half-formed yawn.
In the end, Gustave does fall asleep, curled up in his bed and defenseless. Verso covers him up with the blankets proper and then returns to the canvas. Locked into adding color as evening fades to night and night into dawn.
"Is that me?" Gustave asks when he awakens to Verso cooking them breakfast in the sectioned off kitchen. It still isn't done, barely anything that Verso would consider worthy of praise, but he has to turn the stove off and remember to breathe. Because Gustave is looking at him with shining eyes full of wonder. "Is this how you see me?"
"Perhaps," he hedges and wipes his hands clean. "Breakfast is almost ready."
"Would you like to know how I write you?"
Verso closes his eyes when Gustave approaches him from behind, an unsure hand on his shoulder that turns him to face the searching gaze that he tries not to see. He mulishly looks away, stubborn as he says, "Does it matter?"
"That depends. Are you not a big fan of romance?"
Unbelievable, he thinks, and swings his gaze back to lock on playful brown eyes. "What -" he starts to say before Gustave leans close, their breaths mingling.
"Am I being too forward?" And it is only then that Verso registers that the man is still very naked and intending to kiss him.
For once, he lets the imperfection of the moment consume him and he relinquishes his guard, rising to meet Gustave before he can take it back. Before he can regret.
They slot together like missing pieces of a puzzle and he savors it, holding Gustave's face in his hold to chase every inch of his mouth. Intending to memorize every line, every detail. A little bit of madness in the desperate need to know this man.
With a breathless laugh, Gustave separates from him. "You act like I am going to disappear. I am not going anywhere." Gentle fingers card through his air, snagging on his scalp and scratching. "I will always come back. Always."
Verso doesn't let go, stubborn as he presses their foreheads together.
"I'm cold," admits Gustave after seconds have dragged into minutes and the heat of the kitchen has faded, "care to have breakfast in bed?"
Reluctantly, he agrees - along with the promise that he doesn't attend to give Gustave the chance to change his mind. It earns him another laugh and a sharp, "Would I have made a move if I didn't intend to follow through?"