Chapter Text
A small roll of bread and a hot cup of tea. Erwin’s savings had been dwindling ever since he moved to London from the countryside against his father’s will.
Once, he had believed he could make it big. He imagined returning home in a golden carriage, laden with wealth and basking in success and glory. After all, he had been regarded as the artistic prodigy in his village. Townspeople frequently commissioned him to paint portraits of their loved ones and praise had come easily.
But on his first day in London, the moment he stepped into the art gallery, his dreams were immediately shattered, his ambition was instantly humbled. Gazing at the rows of charcoal drawings and oil paintings, he was certain those artists were blessed by God himself with a mind of boundless creativity and impossibly skillful hands.
He took out the sketchbook from his breast pocket, the pages yellow and crusty from travels and the miserable weather of London. His own drawings looked like childish scribbles in comparison. He quickly buried it back into his pocket as his face flushed red from embarrassment.
Now, staring at his worn-down, tiny apartment, his stomach growled. He had forgotten when was the last time he had eaten a warm meal, one that had truly filled him up. A lone canvas laid on an easel, its surface as empty as the room itself. A small cupboard with a handful of essentials, with his documents tucked between the spare change of clothes. Two chairs stood by the wall, their legs being chipped away in chunks by either pests or age.
An old, brown leather coat that once belonged to his father hung on the coat rack. When he handed Erwin the coat, he told Erwin that the farm welcomed him anytime if he ever wished to return.
He nodded lightly and muttered his thanks. But he wasn’t going to give up that easily. Returning would mean admitting defeat. And defeat would mean failure. And failure was not something his pride could afford. The pressure to create something grand and spectacular weighed heavily on him. Yet, creativity could not be forced into existence. Art was an elusive being that needed to flourish on its own, the outline coming together naturally, the colours nourished by inspiration.
Inspiration… Inspiration… Inspiration…
That’s it.
His childhood art teacher once said that inspiration came from everyday lives. For onlookers who were not familiar with abstract colours theories and the elegance of complex composition, it is important for them to relate to the piece, to find a part of themselves in the painting - either from desire or dread.
He pushed himself up from the wooden floor and put on his coat. Driven by a sudden urge of motivation, he hurried down the decades-old staircase, cobwebs in the corners trembling with each step.
The cold wind greeted him without mercy. The rumours were true: London’s autumn was much harsher than his village’s. Or perhaps it was because he had barely eaten in days - the chill seemed far more vicious against a body weakened by hunger. There was nothing he could do except to pull the coat tighter around his body and to simply endure.
Walking through the mist and fog that plagued the city, he noticed how out of place he was.
Worn faces surrounded him, their clothes tattered, their hands red and raw from the endless hours spent at the factories. They walked beside Erwin, shoulders hunched, sickly-looking, eyes devoid of light and hope from the tedious cycle of poverty. Their presences were as fleeting as ghosts - soulless husk of humans drifting through the streets.
Erwin wondered if he would end up like them someday, the burden of merely living stripped his dreams away. After all, survival and fantasy were antithesis, concepts that were mutually exclusive.
The opposite road was shrouded in an entirely different atmosphere. Ladies wore the softest garment, their dresses so intricately designed they resembled works of art. They stood tall and proud, whispering behind their lace fans while the feathers on their hats swayed gently in the wind. The gentlemen wore the finest suits, cane tapping rhythmically on the smooth pavement as they walked. Bold, confident laughter echoed across the streets, breaking the tired silence on Erwin’s side of the road.
He belonged to neither world. Both made him feel like an outsider.
He could feel the dagger sharp gazes upon him, scrutinising his clothes, his every move, his face, as if they instantly recognised that he was an outsider - someone pampered from a peaceful farm life whose dreams far exceeded his abilities, one of the countless individuals who had come to London to seek fame or fortune.
He lowered his head to avoid their stares, mimicking those with hunched postures around him.
Then he collided with someone.
“Ah- Sorry, young lad” Erwin apologised.
“Merde. Watch where you’re going!” the boy cussed. The sharp response made Erwin blink. The speaker was short, but something told Erwin he was no child.
“And I’m not a young lad,” the stranger hissed.
That expression on his face confirmed it. His jawline was sharp, his nose elegant and refined, giving his features an almost delicate quality. His hair was trimmed meticulously, free of dirt and neglect visible on many others in the city. His face was pale from neither illness nor exhaustion. Only the dark circles beneath his eyes betrayed his age or weariness.
Then, Erwin noticed his eyes. A dull, stormy grey.
His father used to say eyes told stories and it was one of the easiest ways for him to tell if a client was being untruthful. As an artist, he had always disagreed. Body language was what distinguished people: no one would have the same stance, the same slouch, the same shrug.
Yet, standing in front of this man, he finally understood. Inspiration ignited his heart like an uncontrollable fire, seizing every rational thought. His mind churned and hummed in ways he had never experienced before, lines, shadows and compositions began to form before his eyes.
“Why are you staring at me like a fucking pervert?” the man muttered. “Move.” The moment he said the word, he shoved past Erwin, leaving him dumbfounded.
“Wait-” The word escaped before Erwin could stop himself.
The man turned and giving him a warning look
“I- I- I’m an artist,” Erwin began, wincing at how ridiculous it sounded. How would he convince a complete stranger to become his muse?
“Je t’emmerde,” Levi responded under his breath, though Erwin had no idea what it meant.
“I’m looking for a model. Sir, I think you’ll be the perfect fit.”
The man was already walking away.
Erwin took a few quick paces and quickly caught up.
“Please, sir. Just consider it. I can offer anything.”
“Anything?” the man asked pointedly, eyeing Erwin from head to toe.
“Anything,” Erwin replied without hesitation.
“Fine,” the man sighed.
A smile spread across Erwin’s face, his eyes brightened with relief and excitement.
“I am Erwin Smith. May I ask your name?”
“Levi.”
“How about your last name, sir?”
“Just Levi.”
Levi followed Erwin through the crowded street, their shoulders occasionally brushing against the patrons. Levi shifted uneasily as a drunk man bumped into him, recoiling from the touch. Pulling out a handkerchief with floral patterns from his pocket, he wiped on the invisible dirt that the man left behind on the sleeve of his coat.
As they turned to the dingy corner of London, Levi raised his arm to cover his face. Erwin grew up in the farmland surrounded by livestock and manure, he never paid attention to the smell that clinged to the air of his new home.
Despite his obvious discomfort, Levi didn’t say a single word when he walked behind Erwin up the winding staircase. There was a strange curiosity about him. His eyes lingered on every corner of the building, studying the walls and crooked steps with an intensity that bordered on fascination.
Erwin fumbled with the keys three times before unlocking the door.
Levi didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Putain! Do you ever clean this place?” Levi asked, looking around critically.
“Well, I hadn’t had much spare time since moving in a month ago,” Erwin justified.
Before offering him a chair, he dusted away the layer of dust with his sleeve.
Levi sat down with a sour look.
“Don’t worry,” Erwin said. “Artists are professionals when it comes to nude drawings.”
“Nude?” Levi repeated, eyes widening. “That is NOT what I’ve agreed to.”
“Oh-” Erwin froze. “If it’s something that makes you feel uncomfortable, I won’t force you to-”
“Who said I won’t do it?” Levi muttered, his voice was as little as a whisper. “I agree to be your model to satisfy this dream of yours. Just for tonight. Then I will be gone.
Levi looked away. “But I have two conditions. First, if anyone asks about me, you’ll keep my presence a secret.”
Erwin nodded immediately.
“Second,” Levi continued, hesitating. “If your art becomes successful one day, you’ll owe me a favour. I don’t know what it is yet, but when I decide, you’ll do it.”
“I understand,” Erwin said, hope lit up in his face. As Levi spoke, he was already imagining the drawing. Every detail of the stranger sparked a new trail of ideas.
Levi took off his light cream coat, folding it neatly before putting it on the floor beside him. One by one, he started to unbutton his pristine white shirt. His eyes never wavered from his own clothes, never once landing on Erwin. After each arm had been freed from the shirt, he moved onto his belt. Clink. Levi discarded it on the ground with a soft chime.
“Can you turn around?” Levi asked, face flushed with embarrassment. “I know that you’ll stare at me naked later. But this part is a bit awkward.”
Erwin did so immediately, facing the window. He stood up to close the thin curtains. Though with how soot-stained the window was, no one could take a peek at what was happening inside anyway.
“I am done,” Levi announced. “You can start now.”
Levi’s skin was flawless, not a single trace of blemish or scar bore on his body, a stark contrast to the workers in London or even those who grew up on the farms. When Levi had initially asked him to keep his presence a secret, Erwin had suspected a connection to the criminal underworld. Now, however, the body before him told a different tale, one of comfort and wealth, a world far removed from his own.
Erwin remained silent, taking it all in.
His cock possessed the same delicate quality as the rest of his body, a pale hue tipped with an adorable pink. It glimmered faintly in the muted sunlight filtering through the curtains. Elegant was what came to Erwin’s mind. Could one even use this word to describe a cock? It was slender, but the length was sufficient for satisfaction. Erwin felt himself harden, an unexpected reaction that almost drew a yelp, but he stifled it.
Professionalism, he reminded himself.
He took out the supplies from his drawer and began the initial sketch. The pencil moved confidently across the paper.
Levi stayed perfectly still, quiet, the perfect model for an artist.
“So, I assume you’re from France,” Erwin tried to break the uncomfortable silence. “Are you looking for work or simply travelling?”
“A bit of both.”
“And your family?”
Levi hesitated for a second before answering, “They are not in the picture.” There was enough pain in those words that Erwin chose not to press further, instead he told Levi about himself to fill the quiet void between them.
“My father owns a farm in the Midlands. When I told him I wanted to come to London and become a proper artist, he objected immediately. He said a stable life was a blessing, and that ambition is merely stupidity in disguise.”
Levi frowned upon this, his eyebrows scrunched up in concentration.
After a long pause, he muttered, “C'est des conneries!”
Erwin glanced up from the sketch.
“That means it’s bullshit,” Levi added.
“I’ve noticed that most of the French phrases you’ve said so far sound suspiciously rude.”
“Tsk.”
As he continued refining the sketch, he asked, “Do you ride horses frequently?”
“Yes,” Levi said. “How did you know?”
“Your core muscles seem taut and your inner thighs are toned. It’s common for those who are trained in equestrian to display such traits. Back then on the farm, people used to commission me for portraits. It was difficult to draw the proportions correctly. When I first started, I would either make the legs too short or too long. I was then recommended to use anatomy books for physicians as reference - they were more useful than black and white photographs of muscular men. The sketches I practiced were horrendous to witness: they looked more like blocks rather than humans. Eventually, I got used to it. You’d be surprised by how much you can tell of a person, just from the basic components of their bodies. For example, when someone does heavy lifting on a daily basis-”
Erwin stopped himself and apologised, “Sorry, I must’ve bored you with my words.”
“No,” Levi said genuinely. “I find it interesting.”
The hum of low conservation echoed in the room, as Erwin spoke about his goals, his ambitions, the life he left behind. Somehow, Levi’s brief replies made the cold night feel a little warmer.
To Erwin’s surprise, it was the most mundane stories that seemed to capture Levi’s attention. The ordinary things in life: drawing water from the village well, helping with the harvest and chasing escaped chickens across the field, those were all stories Levi listened intently.
“I can’t imagine growing up surrounded by cattle and flocks of chicken,” he mused.
The conservation gradually faded, only the scratching of pencil against paper remained. Erwin worked tirelessly, afraid that if he paused for a second, the image would disappear and the inspiration would vanish. He felt alive in a way that he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was just like when he picked up a pencil for the first time at four years old, the old spark came back after all these years.
Erwin would glance up to compare the sketch to the man before him. Each time, he found Levi watching him. His grey eyes followed every stroke on the paper, glinting with curiosity.
When Erwin finally set down the pencil, dawn was beginning to creep through the curtains, the morning light spilled into the room.
“It’s finished,” Erwin said quietly. He simply stared at the drawing, which had captured Levi perfectly, not merely his appearance, but also something deeper underneath the facade: the loneliness beneath his sharp tongue, the origins he refused to share and the almost childlike fascination he carried in his eyes.
Erwin turned the paper around for Levi to see as he was putting on his clothes.
“You really are an artist,” was all Levi could manage.
Before Erwin could respond, Levi stepped closer and leaned in. The distance between artist and muse disappeared. The kiss was unexpected and impulsive. When their lips touched, it was like gravity naturally pulling them together. Levi’s arm wrapped around Erwin’s neck while the other hand cupped his cheek. Before he could cry out, Levi’s tongue had already slipped into his mouth.
Tingling sensations raced down Erwin’s back as he closed the gap between their mouths. He could taste Levi’s hot breath, feel the thud of his heart.
Levi’s lips were soft, like the rest of his body, silky and pillowy against Erwin’s cracked ones. The thought embarrassed him, causing him to almost recoil. But the moment he tried to push away, Levi pulled him back, despite the fact that he was gasping for air himself. The once tender gesture had now turned into an act of monstrous desire.
Erwin closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the moment, every thought in his mind vanished. One kiss. That was all it took to unravel him. Levi kissed him like he might never get another chance, and Erwin returned the embrace with the same passion that Levi hoped to get from him.
When their lips parted, Levi’s eyes widened, as if suddenly realising the weight of what just happened. He scrambled back to his pile of clothes like a scared kitten.
“That’s- that’s how we express our gratitude in France,” Levi blurted out. Suddenly, buckling his belt seemed like a task with great interest. He refused to look at Erwin.
“I was under the impression that the French only kissed people on the cheek,” Erwin teased.
Levi pretended not to have heard him.
“Forget that happened,” Levi muttered.
Without another word, he grabbed his coat and headed to the door, vanishing into the fog that surrounded London.
Erwin hurried to the windows just in time to catch a final glimpse of him disappear into the stream with workers making their way toward the factories.
Then, he was gone.