fuguestates | Portrait of a Man on Fire (Painter/Subject)

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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."

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?"

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."

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.

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.

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?"

His smile crawls slowly onto his face again. "Certainly," he says. "Would you like to help me?"

His hands move to shed his jacket, letting it fall to the floor in a pile of wool.

He lets go of Alecto's hand, but he can't quite bring himself to step back, to put any additional distance between them. His eyes are avid as he watches Alecto's movements, his lips parted slightly, and then, almost of their own volition, he raises his hands up to the collar of Alecto's shirt, fingers deftly untying his cravat and undoing the topmost buttons.

If Alecto is surprised by this, he doesn't show it. Instead, he lets his own hands fall limp at his sides. The shirt slides off of him slowly, down the slope of one pale shoulder and then then next as if it were water flowing down his skin.

He doesn't rush the other man or direct him, content to be his canvas in this way too. "Where do you want me?" he says, voice low and patient, realizing only a moment too late that his words might have more than just one implication.

He tilts his head, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, briefly absorbed by the play of shadows and cloth against Alecto's pale skin, softly illuminated by the last few rays of evening sun. He doesn't even notice the way his own fingers go slack, letting Alecto's fine shirt fall to the floor with an uncharacteristic carelessness.

"The chaise by the west window," he says decidedly, still not stepping back, his fingers busy now with Alecto's belt. "The light is best there."

The belt unfurls around his hips quieter than he would have expected. "Alright," he replies, still unmoving as if he were an alabaster statue newly come to life and still getting use to it.

"And what would you like for me to be doing?"

Now he steps back, his mind suddenly seized with the need to create. Alecto's impending nakedness now seems to be nothing more than the appropriate state of his muse, the subject distilled to essence, rather than any kind of titillation or prurience. He's aware, in a distant, absent way, of the burn of arousal within his core, the vague thought that this was a prelude to some other activity, but for the moment he cares for nothing else than capturing what is there in the moment, in front of his eyes.

"Whatever you like," he says, absent and distracted, as he bends to retrieve his sketchbook and charcoals, with the same gravity as a soldier donning his armor. "I just need to see..."

He can't help but quirk a smile, the scar on his lips lifting unevenly. "I see," he says, as if deep in thought with just himself, before moving to settle onto the chaise, leaning back against the finely patterned blanket draped haphazardly across the cushion.

And then his hands begin to wander like shadows upon the walls at dusk. His fingertips dance lazily down his stomach, tracing the dip of his hipbones before moving further to circle the base of his cock. His eyes are locked upon his painter's face, curious about his reaction.

He seems wholly absorbed in his work now, fingers working furiously on the page, only glancing up now and again as if for confirmation. As though Alecto is burned already into his mind, a singular obsession. As though he can only bear to take him in in small glances, spacing out doses like an addict with an impossibly rare and deadly vice.

They're poison, all of them. Each and every person bearing the name of Crabtree. As punishment they would be forced to bear the weight of eternity and know nothing but loss and the cruelty of time. Even love - yes, especially - would be used against them.

Alecto knows this, thinks about what his sister used to ask in the dead of night - "Does evil come from within us or from elsewhere?" - as he puts two fingers inside of himself, slowly, knees falling wider in reaction to the sudden stretch.

He's aware, at a distance, of physical arousal, like an old ache - a seemingly constant companion, always at his side, his cock throbbing, already fully hard, in his pants. But his body's physical reactions are muted somehow, despite their urgency, in comparison to the way every iota of his mind is devoted to the aesthetic of Alecto Crabtree's body, the lines and curves and planes that comprise it. His charcoals are almost nonsensical at first, his fingertips coated completely black as he sketches and rubs at the page, the image slowly coming together - the delicate drape of shadows over each limb, the details sharp but seeming inconsistent until one realized that what the charcoal depicted was everywhere Alecto wasn't, as though covering up the pale whiteness to make the picture emerge. Joshua adds the intricate tracery of shadow, of depth, to Alecto's body with worshipful touches, charcoal flaking gently off his hand as he follows the tracery of the exact opposite path of the light falling over him, all those intimate, hidden places, now revealed by his nakedness and display.

His fingers freeze, between the depiction of Alecto's spread legs, after caressing the darkness behind his knees, the alternating play of shadow along his inner thighs, and then his pitch black thumb brushes along what would be the furl of his hole, between the impossibly tantalizing curves of his ass, just as Alecto works his own two fingers in.

Portrait of a Man on Fire (Painter/Subject)

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