Chapter Text
It seemed like any other afternoon for Gustave. He was making his way home from work along the park’s scenic path, where the flowers were beginning to bloom, and the spring sun lingered in the clear sky, still a few hours from setting.
“Pardon me, young man,” an elderly gentleman called from a bench as Gustave walked by.
With no one else on the path, Gustave assumed the man meant him. Being addressed as young caught him a little off guard—at thirty-three, and often surrounded by his young students, he had become accustomed to being jokingly labeled an old man.
He stopped, turned toward the man, and offered a courteous smile.
The first thing Gustave noticed was that the man was very handsome, despite his grey hair and the fine lines of his features that aged his appearance. Well-groomed, he wore a gold-coloured waistcoat over a crisp white shirt. He sat with impeccable posture, his right hand resting lightly on the head of his cane.
“You have something…” He lifted his left hand to his own cheek and tapped it. “On your face.”
Gustave dragged the rough sleeve of his thin, light grey cardigan across his right cheek, then glanced at the smudge it left behind—a streak of black oil. No surprise, really; he’d just finished teaching his mechanics and engineering class. It was a fun, practical lesson which allowed them to get more physically involved, as opposed to the more boring ones that only covered the theory.
He had noticed the stains on his hand and wrist, though they hadn't quite washed away fully, leaving brown marks that would fade further after a few more washes, but he hadn’t realised any grime had made it to his face. His students had probably thought it funnier not to mention it.
“Oh, um… thank you,” Gustave replied, a bit sheepish.
The man slowly rose, using his cane for support, then shifted it to his left hand. With his right, he reached into his pocket and stepped closer.
“You’ll ruin your clothes,” he said gently, pulling out a handkerchief.
Instead of offering it, he raised the cloth and carefully dabbed at Gustave’s cheek, wiping away the oil. The cotton was soft against his skin. A pang of guilt crept in as he had no doubt the handkerchief was of higher value than his cheap old cardigan.
The stranger had a kind smile and a gentle touch, gestures that suggested he was familiar with caring for others.
“That’s a bit better,” the man said once he finished cleaning Gustave’s cheek.
It would still take a proper wash, with water and soap, to remove the stain fully, but at least his face no longer bore the worst of it.
“Thank you,” Gustave said, more clearly this time.
“You’re very welcome.” The man slipped the soiled handkerchief back into his pocket. “If I may say… you have a very handsome face.”
“Thank you,” Gustave repeated, suddenly aware it was the third time he’d said it, and was yet to say anything else.
Compliments from strangers weren’t something he knew how to handle. He hesitated, uncertain whether complimenting the gentleman back would be appropriate, worried that he would find himself stumbling over his words, as he often did in awkward moments.
“I’m an artist,” the man continued, “and I would very much like to capture your image on canvas, if you would allow it.”
“You want to draw me?” Gustave asked, startled. He had never considered there was anything noteworthy about his appearance, but the man’s intense gaze suggested he saw something Gustave did not.
Perhaps there was something unusual about his features. Artists are often drawn to the peculiar, taking inspiration from all manner of unexpected details.
"I would like to paint you, if you’ll allow me to,” the man added.
“Okay,” he replied, noting the lack of artist tools currently in possession.
The man may be an artist, like he claims, but he certainly wasn't out here sketching the beautiful scenery, immortalising it on paper, but simply just admiring it.
Curiosity tugged at Gustave more strongly than caution. How would this stranger choose to paint him? As a caricature, exaggerating whatever features stood out most? Or in perfect realism, capturing him exactly as he was? He couldn’t help but wonder what people saw when they looked at him.
After all, paintings are not mirrors which reflect how a person sees themselves, distorted by the glass and metal, and the angle at which they are viewed. A painting reflects how someone else perceives you, and is perhaps, in some ways, more true than any reflection.
“It seems we have skipped introductions,” the man said, extending his right hand. “I’m Renoir.”
“Gustave.” He took Renoir’s hand, giving it a firm shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Are you free right now, Gustave?” Renoir asked. “I have an art studio nearby.”
Gustave nodded, knowing he had no further plans for the day other than to go home, make dinner, and relax. “Lead the way.”
Gustave had expected the man to walk at a slower pace, but Renoir moved with surprising swiftness. The cane, it seemed, was more a fashion statement than for support. Or perhaps he was simply eager to reach his studio—an artist on the brink of a creative spark, practically buzzing with the need to get paint on canvas.
As they walked, having idle conversation along the way, Gustave wondered briefly if he’d been a little too quick to trust a stranger. He hadn’t asked for proof of Renoir’s profession, after all. But when they arrived at a building that was unmistakably an art studio, and Renoir unlocked the door, Gustave felt reassured. At the very least, it was proof enough he wasn’t being led into anything questionable.
When they stepped inside the building, a rich, earthy scent of clay greeted them. The smell only deepened as they walked further in.
“Clea must have been here earlier,” Renoir remarked, as if that explained everything.
Whoever Clea was, she must have a talent for pottery or sculpting. One wall of the studio was lined with intricate clay figures, strange creatures that looked like they’d stepped straight out of a dream, or perhaps more likely a nightmare. In the corner were turntables, and along another set of shelves, neatly arranged bowls and vases showed off excellent craftsmanship.
Renoir led him into the next room, where the sharp, lingering scent of oil paint and turpentine filled the air. Easels leaned casually against the walls, and a tidy stack of blank canvases waited patiently beside them.
The curtains had been pulled open to reveal large windows, and welcome in the last hours of daylight.
Given instructions to wait while Renoir set up his easel, Gustave simply observed. Renoir shed his waistcoat, replacing it with a paint-stained apron, and rolling up his sleeves.
He moved with quiet deliberation, arranging palettes, tubes of paint, and brushes with a precision that seemed almost ritualistic. After setting a chair by the window, Renoir gestured for Gustave to sit. He did as instructed, his posture stiff, hands resting tensely in his lap.
Renoir stood before him and rested a steady hand on his shoulder. With the other, he gently lifted Gustave’s chin, tilting his head so their eyes met.
“Your shoulders are tense. Just relax,” Renoir murmured, his voice low and soothing, carrying a calm authority. He adjusted the angle of Gustave’s head again. The sunlight caught the left side of his face, leaving the right side in shadow, creating a contrast of light and dark against his features. “Like this… stay still now, and look towards me.”
Gustave wasn't accustomed to this—sitting still, that is. He was far too used to occupying himself with anything that would keep his hands busy. It wasn't so bad in his left hand, his prosthesis rested numbly in his lap alongside his restless right hand. It may have been more comfortable to have taken the whole thing off; remove the excess weight that tempted his shoulders to sag, but it was too late for that. Renoir had asked him to stay still, and he was determined to comply.
He was surprised Renoir hadn't commented on his arm yet. Perhaps he hadn't noticed as his sleeve concealed it; the man had certainly looked at his face more than any other part of him. Or perhaps he had noticed and was just trying to be polite. At least this was better than the times people would awkwardly glance at it without saying anything, while their faces gave away their unease.
While Renoir seemed like a delightful person, Gustave found it very intimidating having a pair of eyes so focused solely on him with such intensity. Conversation could have helped fix the stale atmosphere the silence had created, but Gustave worried he'd only distract the artist from his work, and moving his mouth could ruin the precise position Renoir had requested of him.
Minutes dragged on. The urge to move was unbearable, and Gustave began to regret agreeing to this unexpected form of torture. It was only a portrait from the shoulders up—surely moving his fingers wouldn't interfere with Renoir's painting.
The moment he started picking at the nail of his middle finger with his thumbnail, a sharp tsk cut through the quiet. Gustave froze his actions instantly. When Renoir rose from his seat, his expression tinged with mild displeasure, Gustave forced himself to contain his worry, but he was certain his expression let it show.
Renoir approached him and held out a putty eraser. Gustave took the soft, squishy material from the man, and kneaded it between his fingers. Like a makeshift stress ball, it would keep his hand somewhat occupied, and was a better option than picking at his fingernails.
“Sorry,” Renoir said, his gaze was soft and slightly sorrowful. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Renoir had looked down at Gustave's hands, if he hadn't noticed the prosthesis earlier, he would have certainly become aware of it now.
“No, I- I’m sorry. I’m not a very good model. I shouldn’t have- Sitting still is-”
“You’re perfect,” Renoir interrupted, the words spilling out with such intensity that Gustave felt his cheeks burn and his mouth go slack.
His breath caught in his throat when he looked up at Renoir. No longer hidden behind the canvas, but bathed in sunlight, the artist’s face seemed almost divine, and left Gustave momentarily awestruck. He never expected he would find a man who looks twice his age to be this attractive, and the thought alone sent a nervous jolt through him, a mix of confusion and longing he wasn’t prepared to face.
Renoir reached for his jaw again, and Gustave hastily closed his mouth, forcing himself to maintain the neutral expression he’d been holding for the portrait. The nearness of him, the way Renoir leaned in to study every detail, and the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down Gustave’s spine. Then, just as gently, Renoir adjusted his position back to how it was, so that the sun was reflecting off his face just as it did before. Gustave’s pulse quickened as Renoir’s thumb traced a slow, deliberate line along his jaw before finally pulling away.
“I won’t keep you much longer,” Renoir said as he returned to his seat and picked up the palette, “and you don’t have to stay perfectly still, just try not to move your head, if possible.”
Keeping his eyes focused on the man behind the canvas, Gustave noticed Renoir add more red paint to his palette, mixing and blending to create his own ideal shades.
A mixture of nerves and excitement tightened in Gustave’s chest. He found himself eagerly, but also anxiously, anticipating the reveal. How did the painter see him? He'd called him perfect. Surely not, with his body marred with stains and scars that the painter had yet to see the full extent of, Gustave failed to see how anyone could view him as such. Though the thought of the possibility sent a warm, uneasy flutter through him.
Unprompted, but perhaps trying to ease the awkward tension in the room, Renoir began to speak, filling the silence. He wasn’t asking questions or saying anything that would expect a response from Gustave, allowing the model to remain still as he quietly listened to the older man's ramblings.
He spoke of the art studio, how it doesn't see much use, but there are a few art classes that take place throughout the week. He doesn't teach any of them, claiming he doesn't have the knack for teaching, but his late wife, Aline, did. Her ability to teach painting was an art form in its own right. She became his greatest inspiration, the heart behind many of his paintings. She had even taught their children, though only his eldest daughter, Clea, truly took to art.
Gustave relaxed to the sound of Renoir’s gentle voice, feeling the tension in his shoulders slowly unwind. The man became a little less of a mystery with each passing word, though it was clear there was still so much left unspoken. Gustave found himself wanting to know more, yet any question he might ask felt uncomfortably like prying.
It was only when the colours of the room shifted, as the setting sun cast an orange glow across the studio, that Renoir finally set down his brush and palette, announcing with quiet satisfaction that the painting was complete.
Gustave eased himself out of the chair, muscles complaining after holding the same pose for so long. His legs trembled momentarily as he stood. He made his way around the easel, heart thudding with anticipation, and when he finally saw the painting, he almost didn’t recognize himself.
Where the sunlight had touched the left side of his face, Renoir had layered white and soft yellows, giving his skin a radiant glow. The shadowed side contrasted sharply, deeper reds captured the heat of his flushed cheek. The entire portrait seemed to shimmer with warm colours, this painted version of him felt more alive, more luminous, than he had ever imagined himself to be.
"It's beautiful," Gustave gasped.
"You're beautiful," Renoir replied, causing Gustave to blush again. "I've not felt this inspired to paint in a long time. Thank you for agreeing to this."
Gustave turned to face him, only to find Renoir's gaze already on him. Gustave's brown eyes met with Renoir's grey.
"Do you need to name it, the painting?" Gustave queried, distracting himself from the intimacy of the moment.
Renoir’s mouth curved into a small, curious smile. “You sound like you have something in mind.”
Gustave hesitated, looking back at the canvas. “You’ve painted me like a sunrise bringing warmth into a new day,” he murmured. “It made me think… ‘Tomorrow Comes'.”
"Then that's what we'll call it," Renoir agreed.
Gustave realised he was still fiddling with the putty, it had become warm in his hand. He held it out, offering it back. Renoir cupped both of his warm hands over Gustave's and held them there.
"Speaking of tomorrow," Renoir said, "it would please me greatly if you could spare some time for me again."
"Really?" Gustave asked, uncertain of himself.
Renoir was undeniably an impressive artist, but Gustave doubted he had the makings of a proper model. Still, he didn’t want to disappoint the painter and looked forward to the prospect of spending more time with him.
Renoir drew back his hands, taking the putty with him. "Could you come again tomorrow?"
"I have work again, until four," Gustave said, "but I can come after."
"Good. I look forward to it."