Work Text:
He wasn’t supposed to see it.
Today there is a tour through the Dessendre manor, headed by Renoir himself: Showing private art pieces of the family to select people after the potential war between writers and painters finally seems to have been avoided. A message of peace, building a bridge between the factions. And Gustave, son of one of the highest ranking members of the writer’s guild, was invited as well.
Verso didn’t know he’d be here, taking the place of his mother for this important event. So when he’d left the door ajar to his private study, deeply engrossed into the portrait he’d been painting for literal months now - aiming to catch the right colour of gold on brown locks, adding the rich but nigh invisible green to the irises, giving utmost attention to each and every freckle he had spotted peeking out where Gustave’s shirt has blessed him with a view of naked skin - Verso didn’t expect the door to suddenly, loudly fall shut, and to turn around and see a flabbergasted Gustave standing there in his best midnight blue suit.
His brown eyes with those emerald tones Verso knows he will never fully be able to mirror on any canvas now stuck on his very own half-finished painted self.
Verso’s mouth falls open, silent - lowering his brush as his heart pounds in his ribcage.
“Hum… this…” Gustave begins in a whispered tone after a tense silence, slowly coming closer to his stunned painter friend. Awe seems to fill his eyes as he approaches and studies the portrait in more detail. “You… paint me?”
“Not with chroma.” Verso blurts out and immediately curses at himself for it. But he must clarify this immediately, as to not scare Gustave even more as he probably already does. It is not a living canvas - no violation of ethics - but a traditional painting made for viewing pleasure and nothing else.
Verso’s worship of Gustave stands naked and clearly visible in every brushstroke, more meaningful than any spoken out confession would ever be. Especially since the torso, arms and legs he attached to his friends painted face are naked - his vision of the incredible beauty he dreamed to be hidden beneath Gustave’s fine clothes.
And here Verso thought he’d never be brave enough to address his feelings. A deep blush spreads on his cheeks and he lowers his gaze to the marble floor, not able to look at the man that happened to find out about his secret devotion in this most embarrassing manner. “I’m… sorry. I should’ve addressed it sooner …”
“Do I really look this beautiful to you?” Not pointing out Verso’s fragile state of mind and much too captivated by the artwork, Gustave wonders aloud as he now stands in front of the canvas, reaching out to the linen and stopping his hand just an inch away, as to not smear any of the freshly painted pigments. His fingers hover over his painted self, tracing its slender form in admiration.
Blue-grey eyes watch him, stunned, finding not the disgust he thought he would see in Gustave’s expression. “Yes.” Verso breathes out, joining the other’s study as his lips form a shy, crooked smile. “Though I am… I admit that I am not too happy with how it’s going, only drawing by memory it’s not… it doesn’t look like you.”
“Does it need to be looking like me?” Gustave turns to send Verso a soft smile that makes his heart soar, utterly disarmed by the turn of events. “Isn’t it rather supposed to… capture my essence - is that how your father described it?”
True. Art is a mirror, showing not just reality but the artists thoughts about the subject. Verso’s view of Gustave.
With a nod and a knowing expression, Gustave gives the painting another reverent glance. “If I may offer up some critique though…” - Verso stiffens considerably as Gustave’s eyes fall back on him - “I think he is lonely.”
“Lonely…?”
“Yeah. His gaze… the soft, demure expression.” Gustave points at the empty space in the corner of the painting, what his mirrored self could be looking at. “It should fall on the one who deserves to be looked at this way. Who puts all of his adoration and love into this…” He faces Verso again, and his gaze is the very same he tries to immortalize on Canvas. “He should be looking at you.”
Verso’s brush falls out of his hand and to the floor, the sound of wood hitting marble resounding in the atelier. “Gustave…” He whispers his name and gone is his mask, voice now full of the same adoration he has put in his painting.
The other responds to his softly spoken name like a plea, crossing the distance between them and picking up Verso’s now empty hands with his while meeting his worshipful gaze with his own loving stare.
“Ask me. The question that is on your mind, my painter.”
“Would you… model for me? Please?” With trembling hands, Verso goes down on his knees and kisses Gustave’s fingers. His heart soars as he hears Gustave’s breath catch and feels him clutch his hands even tighter. “I want to immortalize your true essence. Your beauty… you are the most breathtaking man I’ve ever met. My muse… I beg you, please be my muse.”
A dust of red forms on Gustave’s cheeks and it takes all of Verso’s willpower not to reach up and kiss them. “Yes…” He answers and smiles, chuckling as Verso all but rushes to pick up his brush again. “Now? Alright…”
Unhurriedly, Gustave makes sure to fold his suit, shirt and pants as he undresses, watching Verso’s expressions in utter delight as his warm, blue eyes never leave him, studying every inch of revealed skin and trembling with the need to draw all of him.
Standing naked in the middle of Verso’s atelier and watching him paint in silence, Gustave feels nothing but happiness to have found him here and to have revealed their secrets. The secret of Verso’s utter devotion - and Gustave’s secret of wanting to receive it. From now till the end of time, preferably.
