Portrait of a Man on Fire (Painter/Subject)

[infringe]

A STUDY IN RED ( alecto, josh ) A young painter is commissioned to make a portrait of the peculiar young master of the House of Crabtree, who is known to be a very difficult subject not only to capture but to work with.

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[singinthestorm]

"I..." He trails off, uncertainty stopping up his mouth, the magnitude of the desire filling him seeming too disrespectful to let out. But something within him is demanding it, his fingers utterly slack and immobile, refusing to obey the rational part of his mind.

"Have... you ever posed as a life drawing model, for other painters?" he forces out, his head ducked low, his voice a mere whisper, staring at the page.

[infringe]

He doesn’t reply immediately, studying Josh’s face instead, the way his cheeks pink and his eyes are deliberately looking down as if wishing to melt completely into the paper in his lap.

…it’s almost cute.

“Yes, in fact,” he says finally. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

He starts immediately removing his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt and letting the cravat fall to the ground. The fine fabrics slide off of him like warm butter and soon enough he’s entirely nude, rearranging himself on the chaise once more. Alecto is relaxed and casual, the sunlight streaming in from the open windows all around him cloaking him in gold.

“How’s this?” He asks, resting his chin against his hand.

[singinthestorm]

Alecto strips with utter unself-consciousness, not a hint of shame, shedding all his clothes with graceful, unstudied movements, as easily as if he were utterly alone in his own room, rather than in the light, airy drawing room, with the curtains open to the gardens outside, where passing servants could easily look in.

Oddly enough, as Alecto's entire body is bared before Josh's eyes, his fingers unclench. He knows his thoughts are not wholly focused on his art, but his devotion to it is still the motivating factor, his hands moving once more on the page, tracing out the lines of Alecto's bare shoulders, his torso, his upper arms. There is an odd familiarity to it, despite this being only the second time Josh had laid eyes on him in his entirety - he knows this body, has inferred it from the deep study he has made of every other visible part, neck to wrists to knees.

He falls under that spell and doesn't even answer Alecto's question.

[infringe]

He knows this feeling. The feeling of being known and seen and understood. He wonders if he really needed to remove his clothes at all, or if Joshua Archer has already seen through him enough these past few weeks to be able to intuit his form and all of its detail by sheer imagination.

He wonders also if the painter has already imagined his body in a different way, alone and under the safe, dark cover of evening.

“For the final portrait, would you want it like this as well?” He’s grinning, amused, curious how the other man would respond. As he speaks, he shifts, letting one long leg fall to dangle off the edge of the chaise. It’s not an inherently refined position at all and yet Alecto somehow still appears graceful instead of sloppy.

[singinthestorm]

He startles at being addressed, feeling suddenly skittish, like a nervous deer, and it takes a long fraught moment before Alecto's words actually register to his uncertain ear.

"I... don't know yet," he mumbles, looking down at the page again, though he can't help but glance up at Alecto, at the sun-limned expanse of limbs and bare skin, of the sight of his body on perfect display in the last of the morning sunlight, as the clock strikes noon. "I... what would you like, Alecto?"

[infringe]

"It's not about what I like," he says, and when he realizes immediately after just how chilly his tone had been, he sighs. "...I mean," he ads, carefully, "I prefer not to have a hand in your creative process. Whatever that might mean for you. It works best if everything is done as organically as possible."

Alecto pauses to consider his last phrasing. It was...odd, he's aware. He glances at Joshua, his gaze curious and sharp as always. "...There's no rush," he says, trying hard to be encouraging and patient. "I enjoy being your muse."

[singinthestorm]

That was not the first time Alecto had said something along those lines - that it was Josh's preferences that mattered, rather than Alecto's, despite Alecto being the customer in this situation. For all that they'd become more familiar over the past few weeks, there were still so many things Josh didn't fully understand about his eccentric and inspiring host's expectations for the work he'd been engaged to create. But he does know that there's something within him that's turning the question over internally, that has a vision for what he eventually wanted to produce. He can hear the patience and encouragement in Alecto's tone, but the unspoken weight of expectation still presses down heavily on him.

"I just...don't understand what you're getting out of this," he says, quietly, glancing up again between Alecto and the page and setting down his chalk. "Surely there are other painters - more skilled than I am - you could engage for this."

[infringe]

He sighs, his eyes set resolutely on Josh's face. "I suppose I could. But it's not about skill, Joshua. This portrait will mean a lot to me, you must understand. And I alone will judge its value. I'll know when I see it and from just the studies you've engaged in so far, I'm certain you're capable of delivering what I need."

Suddenly, he reaches out to hold the painter's stained hand. It's a light slotting of their fingers together and a loose grip overall but it is a shock to feel skin against skin after so many days of merely looking.

"...Perhaps you simply need a little more encouragement?"

[singinthestorm]

His pad of paper and charcoals and pencils fall down to the floor as he startles, his fingers clenching reflexively against Alecto's before they loosen again. There is naked longing in his expression, but it is subdued, repressed, as he whispers, "What do you mean by that?"

He can't seem to help running his thumb along Alecto's palm, and then he glances down, suddenly distracted, turning his hand over, facing up. "What...what happened to your cut? It was still here yesterday..."

[infringe]

"That's a secret," he murmurs and gives Josh's hand a small tug, trying to capture his attention once more. They're seated so closely already that Alecto barely has to lean forward to close the distance between their faces -

In the past, this has always helped things, had always been the root of the entire process, the core of this unique magic. Alecto couldn't explain why but so far, it hasn't failed him yet.

[singinthestorm]

His fingers squeeze tight, automatically, and then he lets go, bending down to pick up his papers, and blindly groping for at least a few of his other tools before stumbling backwards, away from Alecto. "I-" he stutters, fidgeting, "I - we shouldn't -" but oh how he wanted to, "I should go."

[infringe]

If Joshua's reaction upsets or disturbs him, Alecto doesn't show it. Instead, he watches the painter turn to leave before he slowly gets dressed and walks out, heading towards a particular cliff's edge he knew the other man favored.

The winds are warm but wild this late in the afternoon, tossing Alecto's clothes about him in a whirl as he calls out Joshua's name.

[singinthestorm]

He retreats, but he knows he doesn't really want to stay away. If anything, the offer had been far too tempting, too much the physical culmination of all the desires he'd felt building within him for all these weeks. But at the same time, there's a part of him that's reluctant, afraid of what it would mean for things to change so seemingly irrevocably.

There's a spot just off the pathway that overlooks the water, one that the two of them often passed on their morning walks, with a few pine trees lined up along the edge of the cliff, their branches hanging above the waves. Josh settles on one of the rocks, looking out at the horizon, his knees drawn up to his chest. When he hears Alecto's voice - still calm and composed - he hesitates a moment before he calls back, carried by the wind: "I'm here."

[infringe]

He makes his way over, flings his coattails out behind him and takes a seat calmly beside Joshua, careful not to be too close to him.

"...I suppose that was a bit presumptuous of me," he says, after a moment's silence, though he doesn't sound regretful in the least.

[singinthestorm]

That was not what he was expecting to hear at all.

"What?" He asks, startled into answering, into rudeness. "No. I. It was something I said, wasn't it? I shouldn't have..." He's not sure what he'd done wrong, only that he must have, that whatever it was that had sparked those thoughts, that had convinced Joshua that his host, his patron, (your muse) had intended to...

[infringe]

Alecto has to laugh again, just a bit, the sound piercing and sudden and surprisingly warm. There are many things he could say, things that might comfort to even jab, things that might help Joshua turn the attention off of himself as he desperately tries to escape the glaring light of focus.

But, Alecto says nothing and chooses instead to surge forward, grabbing Joshua by his shirt and colliding their mouths together.

[singinthestorm]

The moment Alecto's lips touch his own, Joshua melts. He leans into the contact, his mouth opening pliantly into the kiss, and he sighs, not so much a sound or reaction as a settling, as though a tightly held resistance had suddenly drained away.

[infringe]

There it is. Alecto almost smiles. I knew it.

He lets his tongue explore, pressing into Joshua's mouth slowly, feeling the way the other man melts into him and follows his lead.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he tease after a little while, his hand clasped to the back of the painter's neck, keeping him held close.

[singinthestorm]

He stares into Alecto's eyes, a delicate flush suffusing his cheeks, windblown already from the cold ocean breezes. "Um," he says, eloquently, holding utterly still, seemingly afraid to move, as though Alecto might interpret any motion as a rejection. "Do...do you do that often?"

[infringe]

He laughs a little. "What are you trying to imply?" But then, Alecto is leaning in again, kissing the corners of Joshua's mouth, his hand resting on the man's chest. "No, in fact. Only with painters I find particularly talented, I suppose."

[singinthestorm]

Even knowing how picky Alecto was, that still felt like a surprising plurality of painters. Josh nods, trying to sip the honey from the compliment while avoiding the odd sting, and dares to lean forward, chasing Alecto's mouth and pressing a chaste but earnest kiss against his lips. "Talented at painting?" He can't help but ask, feeling more than a little self-conscious, "Or?"

[infringe]

Another chuckle, low and hot. "Indeed. Among other things. You'll be surprised, what a talented artist can manage to do with his hands." Alecto's fingers go down to brush against Joshua's own, tracing the rough patches along his knuckles, the small callouses there between them.

"Come back inside with me," he says, suddenly. "We should let you finish up while the light is still good."

[singinthestorm]

Joshua was, perhaps, naive and inexperienced in comparison, but he wasn't so sheltered that he couldn't understand the implications in Alecto's words, the deliberate touch of his fingers against his own, even if he had no idea how to respond, how to sort through the unexpected turmoil being brought to light.

"If you say so," he says meekly, and obediently uncurls himself from his seat, but Alecto is still holding on to his hands, and he doesn't quite know what to do.

[infringe]

He tugs the other man's hands gently and links his left with Joshua's right, their fingers laced. Alecto then starts to walk, leading back against the wind and into the house.

The drawing room is as they left it, and when Alecto folds himself back onto the chaise, he doesn't yet let go. Instead, he looks up at the painter, curious what he might do next.

[singinthestorm]

He follows Alecto obediently from the cliffside back to the house. Everything in the drawing room is just as it had been when he'd run off, but at the same time it feels that everything has changed. His fingers flex, instinctively, against Alecto's hand, and he curls his wrist, as if trying to hold him back, tighter.

"Would you," he starts, with a slight stammer in his voice, but an underlying tone of unexpected boldness, "would you let me see you again, Alecto? All of you?"