He nods at Alecto's words, his fingers still gently stroking against his hand, but after a moment he seems to come back to himself and startle, as though he hadn't been wholly aware of what he was doing.
"I'm sorry, I- " he glances down at Alecto's fine, pale hand, now smudged with gray and black from the residue of charcoal and graphite dust, "...perhaps we should stop here for the day," he says apologetically, and awkwardly returns Alecto's hand, suddenly feeling deeply self-conscious of the marks from his own fingers now marring Alecto's skin (determinedly ignoring the twinge of heat that runs down his spine at the same thought). If the man had had calluses before, he didn't have them anymore, and the contrast between them was so obvious. Joshua is deeply, unexpected aware of exactly what that gulf between them was, for all that they'd settled into this odd fellowship and exchange. He doesn't wait for an answer, simply picks up his supplies, stands with a hurried bow, and flees back to his rooms, his dirty hands further smudging the depiction of Alecto's own on the torn-out page, feeling somehow guilty.
It's later that evening that he finally opens to a fresh page. Unexpectedly, he sets his charcoals and pencils aside and lays out his paints instead. It almost seems that he falls into a trance, painting from memory - afternoon sunlight filtering in past the gauzy curtains, and those so-familiar fingers, long and slender, wrapped delicately around the stem of a rose. There are still thorns, but the injustice of the injury is rectified here - Alecto's fingers are perfectly placed along the cut green stem, every inch of visible skin flawless and whole, though the careful shadows and curves insinuate the bumps and indentations of the stem against his fingertips, the folds of his joints and muscles curved in an exact configuration, but utterly relaxed, not a hint of tension apparent despite the positioning.
It is early morning by the time he feels satisfied with his work, and yet he stares at the drying paint, frowning, feeling unexpectedly drained, and yet elated at the same time. The image looks - exactly right, exactly how he held Alecto's hand in his memory, exactly what he saw when he closed his eyes. But that hunger in the back of his mind, that had seemingly always been present since he'd first laid eyes on Alecto, is a loud, droning roar in his ears.
He wakes up late the next morning - later in the morning - even missing the seaside walk that he and Alecto had somehow formed the habit of taking together. He dresses hurriedly, messily, and stumbles through the now-familiar paths through the house to the drawing room again, unsure of what he'll find there.
no subject
"I'm sorry, I- " he glances down at Alecto's fine, pale hand, now smudged with gray and black from the residue of charcoal and graphite dust, "...perhaps we should stop here for the day," he says apologetically, and awkwardly returns Alecto's hand, suddenly feeling deeply self-conscious of the marks from his own fingers now marring Alecto's skin (determinedly ignoring the twinge of heat that runs down his spine at the same thought). If the man had had calluses before, he didn't have them anymore, and the contrast between them was so obvious. Joshua is deeply, unexpected aware of exactly what that gulf between them was, for all that they'd settled into this odd fellowship and exchange. He doesn't wait for an answer, simply picks up his supplies, stands with a hurried bow, and flees back to his rooms, his dirty hands further smudging the depiction of Alecto's own on the torn-out page, feeling somehow guilty.
It's later that evening that he finally opens to a fresh page. Unexpectedly, he sets his charcoals and pencils aside and lays out his paints instead. It almost seems that he falls into a trance, painting from memory - afternoon sunlight filtering in past the gauzy curtains, and those so-familiar fingers, long and slender, wrapped delicately around the stem of a rose. There are still thorns, but the injustice of the injury is rectified here - Alecto's fingers are perfectly placed along the cut green stem, every inch of visible skin flawless and whole, though the careful shadows and curves insinuate the bumps and indentations of the stem against his fingertips, the folds of his joints and muscles curved in an exact configuration, but utterly relaxed, not a hint of tension apparent despite the positioning.
It is early morning by the time he feels satisfied with his work, and yet he stares at the drying paint, frowning, feeling unexpectedly drained, and yet elated at the same time. The image looks - exactly right, exactly how he held Alecto's hand in his memory, exactly what he saw when he closed his eyes. But that hunger in the back of his mind, that had seemingly always been present since he'd first laid eyes on Alecto, is a loud, droning roar in his ears.
He wakes up late the next morning - later in the morning - even missing the seaside walk that he and Alecto had somehow formed the habit of taking together. He dresses hurriedly, messily, and stumbles through the now-familiar paths through the house to the drawing room again, unsure of what he'll find there.