By now he'd filled three whole books, cover to cover, with studies, sketches, and details of Alecto. It's an unimaginable luxury, being able to devote himself so absolutely to a single, all-consuming subject. He had learned how to infer a mood in the minutest shift of that now-familiar face, the deceptive insouciance of his arm draped along the back of the couch. Sometimes it seemed he could draw Alecto with his eyes closed, could discern the sound of his step, the musical ring of that hard-to-earn laughter, even the pace of his breathing, could feel the unique weight of his presence even in Joshua's dreams. There was seemingly no angle, no lighting, no cloud-filtered slant of sunlight that he wouldn't be able to recognize him in. He could mix - had mixed - the exact right shade of his lips, the pale flush of his cheeks, the delicate threads of lighter color woven through his dark hair - had lined up his paints and palettes and brushes in anticipation.
And yet, he hadn't yet managed to bring himself to properly put paint to brush to canvas, the painstakingly mixed pigments drying in splotches, the brushes finer than he'd ever used before, but already becoming worn with the grooves of his fingers against the wood, alone in the guest room, recalling the motions and methods of his art, over and over every single night.
He brings a single sheet of paper today, his charcoal, his pencils, and his paints, newly mixed hues dolloped over the layered remains of the old. Alecto is there already, of course, arranged as he always was, and Joshua starts with a detail of that graceful hand, palm up, his fingers automatically selecting the colors he needs. It's not until he's finished that he registers the thinnest slice of crimson across the fleshy part of the palm, the muscles tensed against unexpected discomfort, despite the languid position Alecto has assumed.
"What happened to your hand?" he asks, coming out of his trance almost with a gasp of reaction, setting his tools doen messily and smudging the edges of the outline.
no subject
And yet, he hadn't yet managed to bring himself to properly put paint to brush to canvas, the painstakingly mixed pigments drying in splotches, the brushes finer than he'd ever used before, but already becoming worn with the grooves of his fingers against the wood, alone in the guest room, recalling the motions and methods of his art, over and over every single night.
He brings a single sheet of paper today, his charcoal, his pencils, and his paints, newly mixed hues dolloped over the layered remains of the old. Alecto is there already, of course, arranged as he always was, and Joshua starts with a detail of that graceful hand, palm up, his fingers automatically selecting the colors he needs. It's not until he's finished that he registers the thinnest slice of crimson across the fleshy part of the palm, the muscles tensed against unexpected discomfort, despite the languid position Alecto has assumed.
"What happened to your hand?" he asks, coming out of his trance almost with a gasp of reaction, setting his tools doen messily and smudging the edges of the outline.