Work Text:
My pale, slender hands, tinged with the glimmer of dried paint, gently comb through the curls of your golden hair locks. They yield, falling obediently between my fingers, reflecting the midday sun that streams through the window of the studio, filtered by the raised, translucent blinds. The sun illuminates your radiant skin, trying to lift your eyelids and strike your slumbering azure eyes with its blinding brightness, and I cover your eyes with my own palm, barely touching you, so that it doesn't disturb your restful sleep.
You are unimaginably peaceful when asleep. Every inhale and every exhale is heard from you with such genuine ease that it is only possible to catch the undulation of your chest if you stare at it for minutes, with such silence that the thud of your own heartbeat contradicts the half-asleep silence that stands motionless in the molten, hot air.
Your slightly parted lips occasionally utter some unintelligible words. I've painted them so many times, and it always seemed to me that I couldn't convey them in such a state of inexpressible peace, such an indescribable silence. You lie on your back, as if in tall grass, with your hand behind your head, so that it's not too hard, and part of your relaxed torso rests almost entirely on my thighs and your legs, which are bent in a Turkish position.
Painting you like this is something else, something different, something you wouldn't experience if you were painting you from life. You've posed for me standing, sitting, lying, just like now, with and without props, in a variety of poses, in a variety of guises, setting a variety of moods, but none of it compares to your golden, fair head, innocently resting on the wooden floor at my knees.
I feel the muscles in your fragile neck tense as you try to lift your head and look around as you wake up. You squint against the light and look up at me with a clear, slightly dazed expression. I lean over you like a vulture and brush the wavy black bangs out of my own face.
"You fell asleep while I was painting you," one of my hands still brushing steadily through your hair. You don't seem to be in a hurry to resist it, or perhaps it's just the effect of sleepiness. My other hand reaches for a painting brush on the side, grabs it without looking, and gently runs its thumb over the still-wet tip, painting my fingers one by one in a noble shade of indigo. "About four hours ago. I'm almost done."
"Alr… Already?" You blink a few times, processing the information, and raise yourself up on your elbows, tilting your head back to maintain eye contact. I hold back a smile, feeling how my own cheeks crumple, forming symmetrical dimples. "For God's sake, Basil, leave my hair alone, you're still covered in paint."
I don't pull my hand away; instead, I slowly unclench my fist, releasing the myriad of crumbling strands and slowly withdrawing my palm from the endless density of sun-kissed curls. As you feel the freedom from my grip, you lift your torso, sitting in the same position, and cast a sideways glance at the painted canvas unfolded in front of you, silently asking for permission to examine it. After a second's pause, I give in and nod, turning the low easel towards you, revealing a painting glistening with raw oil.
You let out a breath of admiration.
Thin ribs, covered with delicate porcelain-like skin, the curve of your neck, transitioning into your contrasting collarbones, all of these features come to life in a new way when you sit up, and captivate my gaze in an inexplicable way.
No matter how many times I painted you, I could never get enough of the way you are. Every inch of your body is unique. I could know every vein on the back of your hand, but I couldn't fully capture it as contrasting, as fragile, as glassy as it was. I could know your lips by heart, by taste and by touch, but I couldn't fully portray them as desirable as they seemed when one saw them in person instead of in thousands of portraits.
This is always the case. From time to time. You're looking at the picture. I'm looking at you. And we both see different things to some extent. And we both, to some extent, see the same things.
Your crystal-fragile fingers reach out to the ribbed surface of the canvas, to run their entire being across it — to feel it not only with your eyes, but also to feel the roughness of the multi-layered composition with your hands, to touch the art, the product of a patchwork of inspiration that created something both tangible and intangible — and my own hand rushes to grab yours, holding you in place, causing you to flinch in surprise.
"It's still wet," I warn, feeling my hand slip off the delicate wrist, leaving a trail of dark blue oil paint. Instinctively, I pull my hand away, my palm stained with a dull shade of sky colour that now covers not only my skin but also yours. Your pale, ceramic-like skin.
You freeze, leaving your hand suspended, frozen mid-action, and the irises of your eyes, a drop of azure lighter than the mark on the knuckle of your wrist, meet mine, frozen in place. The barely visible moles, contrasting with the porcelain of your cheeks, glow like a poisonous sprinkling on your face.
They tease. They laugh. They invite.
My freshly painted fingers grasp your cheek in a tender manner, barely touching its delicate surface, wrapping around it, gently lifting your chin up, never breaking eye contact even for a moment. There's something in the way you playfully roll your eyes, knowing that your position will inevitably serve as a canvas for me. Something I haven't dared to perceive in you before.
Painfully slowly, deliberately prolonging the moment, I run my thumb over your half-parted lips, leaving a trail of faint, celestial-coloured strokes that perfectly outline the pale cluster of capillaries, contrasting with the angelic whiteness of your skin, the scattered moles, the rosy-shaded cheekbones, the sharp, defined jawline.
You don't dare to resist it with a single millimeter of yourself.
"This canvas isn't your last, Basil," you exhale, no longer holding back a smirk that spreads radiance across your facial features. "And you still find a way to blend me and the paint together. It's a common occurrence."
The corners of your lips twitch in a fleeting grin, clearly attempting to add something else; but this faint flash quickly subsides as my own lips cover yours.
The onslaught of drying paint and your breathless exhalation, caught off guard by my action, the contrast of desired bitterness and equally sought sweetness, the throbbing dizziness in my temples, and the scent of the fresh art materials; a moment that is impossible to capture once it has passed, a moment that is impossible to capture even after a decade; I pull away, gulping in air, only to close in on you again in an unutterable rush, giving in to myself, merging with you; you wipe your lips with the back of your hand, smearing the paint on your cheekbones, on your fingers, on your cheeks, your knuckles, your nose...
And the trail of ardent kisses, tingling along your neck and shoulders, shimmers on your porcelain collarbones with every single shade of dark blue.