Work Text:
It was Holy Saturday in Florence — the cradle of the Renaissance — when the scent of incense and partially melted candle wax blended with the familiar smell of damp earth, revealing the rain that had fallen moments before. The sky, still gray, hung like a ceremonial mantle over the heads of the citizens who, in a clamor that filled the narrow streets of the city, chanted prayers and liturgical hymns. They walked with slow steps as if they were all a single body, moving in a solemn procession that wound along Via dei Calzaiuoli, passing in front of the modest workshop of a young artist who, at that very moment, was immersing himself in his studies with the intensity of someone seeking to decipher the world’s smallest secrets as if they were the greatest of discoveries.
There, surrounded by an impressive clutter of paintings in various stages of completion, half-drawn sketches, and partially disassembled contraptions, sat Leonardo da Vinci at the height of his twenty-seven years. By that point, he was no longer the apprentice of the celebrated Andrea del Verrocchio — he had earned his artistic independence and been accepted into the Guild of Saint Luke, granting him the right to accept commissions on his own account. Although he was not yet counted among the city’s most illustrious names, his talent was whispered with reverence in workshop corridors and in the discreet salons of the Florentine elite, who murmured bets that he would be the newest promise for the coming years, likely the latest to be welcomed under the patronage of Lorenzo de' Medici.
At that moment, he lay hunched over a workbench, working on a private sketch for a recently accepted commission. The dark circles under his eyes bore witness to the torment of his self-imposed polyphasic sleep schedule, but he knew that if he didn't finish that damned drawing at that very instant and dared to even stand up to fetch a simple glass of water, he would almost certainly never lay hands on the thing again. So absorbed was he in his labor that he remained indifferent to the rite taking place outside his workshop, having no intention of paying tribute to the city's religious festivities. It was no secret to anyone that he couldn't care less about anything concerning the church, unless it represented a new commission. After all, he had his own daily bread to earn, and for that, he might sacrifice a few hours of his day pretending he knew how to pray. But since that was not the case, he persisted in his heresy of categorically ignoring the Hail Marys recited beneath his window, his eyes devoted exclusively to the careful lines he painstakingly traced upon the parchment.
However, as the procession ground to a halt in the middle of the street — right in front of his workshop, much to the polymath's despair — murmuring prayers in unison, the priest leading it approached the door, tapping gently on the wood to request entry. The sound made the redhead sigh and run his hands through his well-kept, curly hair in sheer frustration.
At first, Leonardo felt compelled to pretend he hadn't heard; perhaps the priest would move on to bless the neighboring house and leave him in peace, right? Soon, however, he discarded the idea. After all, the artist cherished his brilliant little head being attached to his body and had far too many troubles with the law to flout religion so explicitly — the scandal from three years prior involving his "heated playtime" with some companions was still the subject of occasional whispers in the taverns he frequented. So, with a final grumble of resignation, he walked to the door and opened it, grudgingly allowing the man to enter his workspace with a gentle, strangely genuine smile stamped across his face. In the end, that was who he was: fixated on his world of thoughts, yet generally sociable enough to maintain a rather extensive circle of friends for someone who worked so much he barely slept. The truth was that Da Vinci didn't mind people visiting him during his workday, nor did he care if they watched him paint or draw, so long as their presence didn't disturb him — which, in the case of this particular visitor, was not the case.
While discreetly smoothing out his eye-catching and incredibly clean tunic — a detail that alone revealed his almost obsessive zeal for aesthetics, even while handling charcoal, pigments, and oil —, Leonardo cast a brief, unenthusiastic glance at the visitor, though he maintained his smile, which leaned far closer to formality than actual warmth. The garment, dyed a vibrant rose pink and cut with a lightness unusual for male attire of the era, was another of his visual eccentricities. It matched perfectly with the long copper curls that billowed behind him like winter embers as he walked: too short by Florentine standards, yet fluid, impeccably tailored, and irresistibly elegant. His entire figure stood in stark contrast to the short, bald man standing on the threshold, gazing at him with a serene look while holding a pitcher between his fingers.
With a suppressed sigh, Leonardo took a slow, precise step to the side, clearing enough space for the priest to enter, knowing that the faster the man did his work, the sooner he would leave. Yet he did so without uttering a word, resigning himself to crossing his arms and awaiting the usual Vatican litany, to which he would merely nod and respond with a mumbled "amen," devoid of emotion or faith. Thus, his cerulean eyes followed the man as he entered the atelier, and a shiver soon ran down the artist's spine upon realizing what the shorter man was about to do. The sacristan, his worn cassock swishing with every step, wielded the aspersorium with the solemnity of an inquisitor, dipped it into the small silver jar he carried, and, without the slightest sense of moderation, began sprinkling holy water around the room as if driving out an entire legion of demons.
The artist clenched his jaw, biting his tongue to avoid unleashing a torrent of profanities so heretical that not even Boccaccio, in all his irreverence, would have dared utter them aloud. Those aquamarine eyes, which had previously been fixed solely on his (un)invited guest, now darted in utter distress across the partially finished canvases arranged around the room. His eyelids twitched with growing anxiety as the priest, completely oblivious to his obvious disservice, added splashes of holy water to the compositions like an untalented apprentice desperate for his master's attention, ruining the work while believing he was helping. The polymath's gaze darted from side to side as if his eyeballs might suddenly pop from their sockets, assessing the gradual destruction of his beloved creations: a newly commissioned oil portrait with its layers still wet; meticulous anatomical studies of a lizard on hand-stitched paper, organized with obsessive precision; a half-disassembled automaton whose delicate mechanisms would not react well to moisture. And, of course, the paintings — a dozen of them, a mix of commissions and personal experiments, now severely damaged in a matter of seconds.
“Curse him…” he thought, narrowing his eyes and hunching his shoulders slightly, just as a droplet of holy water splashed onto the left margin of a charcoal sketch on Fabriano paper that he had been working on for two days straight. Damn it, he would never be able to salvage that…
"Why are you wetting my paintings?" the polymath eventually inquired, his velvety voice rich in smoothness, masking the terror of endless days of labor and inspiration being ruined before his eyes.
The priest, for his part, was unaware of what those works meant to the artist. And even if he had been, he wouldn't have cared in the slightest.
"It is my duty, my son," the sacristan explained in a mild tone. "After all, whatever good we do on Earth, we shall receive twofold in Heaven."
The genius nodded, visibly displeased, running his fingers through his tresses with a thoughtful expression, as if behind his serene gaze something was bubbling, taking shape before Da Vinci himself even realized it. He stood there in silence until the visitor finished his duty and took his leave, much to the polymath's utter relief.
"Your blessing, Father," the copper-haired artist requested as he escorted the man to the door. His face wore a false expression of serenity, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed his forced composure.
"God bless you." The expected response came as the priest left the workshop to stand before the procession waiting outside. Leonardo knew he truly would need such a blessing as he stepped back inside. In a burst of creative impulsivity, he filled a considerably large vessel to the brim with water before positioning himself at the window, where he could glimpse the crowd saying a final prayer before continuing on their way. Restings the pitcher on the sill, he fixed his eyes on the sacristan, whose own eyes were not looking up at him.
"Here is double the payment from above for the good you did me by destroying half my paintings," he murmured under his breath, a mocking smile touching his lips. Without a second thought, he poured the contents of the container over the man leading the caravan.
He didn't wait long enough to see the reactions outside. Instead, he returned to his work, a subtle smile on his lips, feeling avenged. He confided the prank to one of his notebooks, preferring not to voice any comments aloud. After all, even if something were said against him, there would be no proof to blame him for whatever it meant. For in the anecdote he had created through that deed, his name was nowhere to be found.