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

He halts when the conversation does, taken aback, still a little uncomfortable under Alecto's regard. He's dressed neatly and had clearly taken some care with it, but each article is well-worn, carefully mended, painstakingly maintained. Whatever skill he had in art has clearly not borne out in any kind of commercial or financial success. He has his folio clasped in front of him, standing at an awkward attention as he tries to figure out where he is meant to sit.

"Good evening," he greets, with a slight dip of his head, before finally spotting the other place laid out at the table, opposite his host. Despite his obvious nerves, his movements are gracefully economical, and he settles down in his chair easily, looking down at the modest spread in front of them with curiosity, delight, and not a little relief, as though he'd worried about being presented with something unfamiliar.

All these little details don't pass Alecto by. He studies Josh quietly, watching as his servant pours the man a drink and prepares for him a bowl and plate. "There's no need to be so formal," Alecto says, though his own body language remains somewhat cold and distant, despite his words. "You'll realize we keep things here very relaxed. Finery, etiquette and the such, they're exhausting. Save that for the city."

The truth is, Alecto wasn't always wealthy. His family were commoners at the very start, centuries ago. The only reason he has so much social - as well as literal - currency in hand is due merely to time. There are many perks to being immortal, indeed.

They eat and the conversation starts off stilted and odd, but eventually warms up. At some point, Josh says something a bit tongue-in-cheek and Alecto, much to his own surprise, bursts out laughing. He can't remember the last time someone amused him so. Even the maids tidying up the kitchen behind them jolt and freeze, shocked at hearing the sound of their young master enjoying himself.

Alecto's words don't have quite the effect that he was likely intending, backed as they were by his deliberately distant tone. But Joshua had no choice, in any case - whatever Alecto's expectations, he had no experience with such things, had no experience with guesting at a rich patron's home, whether or not formal etiquette was expected - and his tentative commentary on the food - which, though simple, was all delicious - the house, his lodgings, and the island itself, eventually wend their way into something a little more like an actual conversation. At first he can't help but dart glances between Alecto and the folio he'd placed next to him, holding a few samples of his work that he was at least a little bit proud of, but the food and surroundings and the easy, unaffected manner that peeks out in between Alecto's chilly tone - particularly in brief addresses to his servants - work a little magic on him, and he starts to relax, little by little.

The laughter is a delightful surprise, and Josh barely stops himself from staring, his heart beating a little fast. Alecto's entire face was transformed with unexpected warmth by it, and something in Joshua aches, wanting to hear it again, elicit that response again, though he's not entirely sure what it was he had said that had amused him so much.

As the dishes are cleared away, he shifts a little in his chair, and reaches for his folio again. "Did you...still want to look at my previous work, Alecto?" He asks, tentative again, shyness creeping back in at the return of a transaction to their temporary relationship. "It's nothing impressive, but I did bring a few things..."

"Mm, scusi, you're right. I did want to take a closer look at that." He wipes his hands on the cloth napkin beside him with a careless grace. The servants bustle about, clearing the table silently for them as Alecto reaches for the folio, fingertips dancing along the edges as he starts to flip through its well worn pages, the candlelight nearby gently illuminating every new reveal.

"...Lovely," he murmurs to himself as he studies a variety of sketches, aborted ideas, random studies. All over there are smears of charcoal given life under a studious, dedicated, and passionate hand; carefully applied pigment adding depth and perspective and light. Sprawled everywhere else are fragments of strangers: faces half finished, as if caught mid turn, just a brief impression of a gaze, of a singular and temporary moment cemented forever in a few strokes of ink; lifted hands rendered with startling detail in warm, red chalk, reaching for something unseen.

Alecto finds himself thoroughly charmed by this small collection as he nears the end of it. It leaves him almost a little breathless, as if he had witnessed something private and soulfully personal.

He can tell his painter is a humble man of humble means. It was easy enough to surmise from just his clothes today and mannerisms but even more so now that examples of his work have been revealed. For an artist, is there anything more intimate? Unconventional materials turned to paint on several pages give multiple reference studies a unique texture or hue not normally seen in the works of the classically trained (and adequately paid), for example. It's clear that Joshua has had to make do with what was available, has been forced by circumstance and a lack of steady support and patronage to become imaginative, resourceful, and creative.

Alecto finds that he's...surprisingly charmed by this and he turns his attention fully back onto the man sitting before him, holding his own hands as if willing them to behave and not give away his nerves.

"Why did you decide to become a painter, Mr. Archer?"

Edited 2022-10-03 18:58 (UTC)

Showing his work to someone else always felt deeply personal and intense and this was no different, no easier. If anything, it somehow felt even more challenging. There was something in the way Alecto was examining his work closely, his dark eyes sweeping each page with an unexpected and yet unsurprising sense of expertise, examining details and technique with an experienced eye, that gave Joshua the impression that he was deeply acquainted with artistic techniques. He forces himself to look to the side, to the table, to the rest of the room - anything to avoid the magnetic draw of his host's very expressive and mobile face reacting to Joshua's handiwork; he's not sure what he would do, if he saw disappointment there.

So the question catches him entirely off-guard, thrown by the sudden return to formality, after being invited to use a first name.

"I... I don't know that I decided, exactly," he replies, sounding more than a little bit baffled. "I just. I can't imagine not making things. Even when I was younger, I was always being scolded for letting my mind wander." And now, away from home and independent, forced to support himself, he was far more likely to skip a meal or five than to fail to replenish his meager supply, seeking out cast-offs and discards and eking a few more images' life out of those remains. He had never dreamed of supporting himself on his art - a few coins here and there to supplement the odd jobs he was able to pick up, the satisfying stretch of creating something to order and sharing it with the subject and seeing their reactions - but he still devoted himself to it, in every moment he had to spare.

"Even now I'm..." he bites his lip, looks down at the table's surface. "I don't know if I can call myself a painter. This is the first real commission I've ever been approached with. But nothing else seems to fit."

He nods, apparently impressed by this answer, these small anecdotes. "Spoken like a true creative," he says, though it's hard to tell whether that was a critique or a compliment. "The craft of artwork is always some inexplicable magic, some act of possession. An artist never chooses, hm? It's always the other way around. Beauty bewitches them to act, to create."

Alecto speaks with his hands - a sharp, dismissive flutter here, or a languid undulation there - and they betray his feelings far more than his facial expression or voice ever could. There's something bitter in the way he ends his thoughts just now, in the way his fingers seem to clench at the open air, but surprisingly, he turns a tight little smile towards Josh, as if resigned to something he can't explain (or won't).

"Tomorrow morning, I'll sit for you and we can begin."

His brow furrows slightly, hearing something else in Alecto's tone, teasing at the edges of his brain, an artist's eye for detail conflicting with his limited social consciousness, but he nods in agreement. What else could he do?

"Wear - " He takes a breath, a little surprised at his daring. "Wear something you're comfortable in, if you could. I... I won't be able to start painting right away. There's no reason to dress up, just yet."

He gathers up the pages, tucks them back into the worn folio and tucks it against his chest. "I'll take my leave then, Alecto," he says his voice a little breathy, ducking his head in an awkward but sincere bow, and backs out of the dining room. His sleep is fitful but deep, his dreams a cacophony of color, dawn-tinted waves breaking on rocky shores, and he wakes early to a tray of breakfast outside his door - an unimaginable luxury - even before he'd intended to leave for the walk that he hoped would become part of his daily routine. So he is content and as composed as he ever was when he retraces his steps back to the drawing room again, clutching a blank sketchbook and a few other supplies to his chest, his fingers already itching to get started.

He is, surprisingly, already there, his presence overwhelming as always, a singular point of gravity in the middle of the room.

"Good morning," he says when he hears the sound of Joshua walking in. Alecto is sprawled already on an armchair, his legs thrown over the plush arm, directly in front of a wooden easel that had been set up the night before. He has a closed book in his hands, his finger holding his place between the pages. He is dressed comfortably (as had been requested): a simple off-white linen shirt with an open collar, the fabric loose around his neck and clavicle, paired with tightly fitted, tan-colored fall front trousers.

"I had these prepared. Hopefully, they're to your liking." He gestures to the several stretched canvases, papers, and an abundance of paints, inks, and chalks put off to the side of the stool behind the easel.

Well. He had said something comfortable...

"Thank you," he says, looking over all the supplies, but not picking any of them up just yet. Instead he takes a few steps back and forth along the edges of the room, careful not to disturb anything placed there, and observes the lighting, the way the furniture is arranged, before he selects a chair and pulls it closer to where Alecto is already sprawled over the arm chair, with only his sketchbook and a few pieces of charcoal.

"I really appreciate your generosity. I'll make sure to familiarize myself with all the materials on my own time," he says, by way of reassurance, flipping the book open to the first page. "I don't want to take up too much of your day while we're still in planning stages." He knew how to use all of these things, of course - but his career had always been defined by scarcity and improvisation. It would take at least a few practice sessions to be sure of his colors and techniques again, at least if he was intended to produce something worthy of his subject.

He doesn't give Alecto any direction, simply bends his head over his sketchbook and starts - filling in undefined splotches of gray and black on white paper, slowly picking out contour and shadow and curve, the hint of arrested movement. There's a moment, the trick of the light falling on the page, before the seemingly random sweeps of charcoal on the page resolve into Alecto's crossed calves, cut off at the ankle and the knee, capturing the lean curve of muscle beneath his tight-fit trousers, the slightest wrinkle of the cloth lending additional texture.

Without a word, Joshua flips to a new page, and begins again.

They spend every afternoon for the next two weeks in this way: Alecto arranged gracefully across some form of chair, stool, or ottoman, and Joshua with his head down, buried in his work, his fingertips stained red, black, and chalky white.

Alecto observes his painter as much as Joshua studies him, commits to memory the arch of his high cheekbones, the curl of his golden hair, the way his brow would furrow gingerly when he was particularly focused. He looked particularly charming like that, Alecto thought, so lost in the details of his work that it was impossible for him to hide his clear love of the craft.

They start to talk, of course. Alecto couldn't stand the intense silence for very long and would often comment on anything that came to mind. Recently, he brought up something he had read in a local penny dreadful, a series he had been particularly taken by and had discovered, on pure accident, that Joshua was also an avid reader. A sort of warmth began to finally spread in the space between them and after nearly a full month, Alecto realized how much happier he had been having his painter in his home, at his dinner table, and by his side during their frequent morning walks by the sea cliffs.

But curiously, after all this time, a single portrait had not yet been completed. And the dark rot of his previous commissions, stacked and covered in hiding in the North Wing, is making Alecto worry.

A day ago, he cuts himself on a rosebush in the garden. It stuns him, the red line against his palm. Even more so when it doesn't immediately close and starts to ache.

Time is starting to tick again for Alecto Crabtree.

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.

"Hm? Oh, this?" He speaks as if he had forgotten entirely about the thing, though in reality, he has been deeply worried. He lifts his hand, gazes upon it, the way the sunlight from the open window streams in and make the healing cut appear a bright red. Alecto hasn't seen this color on his body in a long, long time.

His bottom lip trembles slightly as he takes in a breath. He turns his face slightly away so that Joshua can see nothing more than just the fine slice of his jawline. "It's nothing. I was tending to the garden yesterday and got caught on a thorn." Pause. "I hardly even noticed."

Almost before he quite realizes what he's doing, he sets his things down and reaches out for Alecto's hand, peripherally conscious of the black smudges of charcoal and pencil, his fingers absolutely reverent and gentle as he cups Alecto's hand in his two, peering at the cut. "You..." he strokes his thumbs very carefully over the unbroken skin, not getting anywhere close to the cut, but feeling the tension in the muscles that he'd registered only subconsciously, reflected in his art.

It didn't look that painful, but - "Are you sure? You're...so tense..."

He can't meet Alecto's eyes with his face turned away like that, but he peers at him anyway, searching, noting the way his lip trembles, the sharp intake of breath.

He starts at the feeling of skin against skin. His face remains somewhat stiff and alert, eyes widening in surprise. But, he doesn't pull away, nor does he say anything cruel or unpleasant.

Alecto turns his face back, glancing down at their joined hands, resists the odd (very odd indeed) inclination to thread their fingers together. "I'm sure, Joshua," he says in such a soft and tender tone it might actually have come off as more shocking than if he had yelled or snapped. "It's just that it's been...a while since I've...hurt myself in such a way. I suppose I thought myself invincible for quite some time."

Edited 2022-10-06 00:23 (UTC)

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.

Early that same morning, the sky still grey with the previous night, Alecto had sat by the window and stared at his hand. The palm of it was smooth and supple again, no trace of a wound ever having been there. His nails were slightly longer too, an uneven set compared to his left hand.

He breathes a shaky sigh of...relief mixed with trepidation. It's working. It must be.

He spends the next few hours alone, lost deeply in thought, wandering the house by muscle memory until he arrives to the drawing room by sheer accident, completely unaware of the time. It's then, the other set of doors directly opposite of him fling open and, due to their old and loose hinges, slam against the walls with a bang. Alecto blinks, immediately looking up to see his painter, rosy-cheeked from some earlier exertion and his brows pinched together in their usual anxious shape...

Alecto's smile is warm, genuine, and pleased. "Joshua," he says, calling the man by his given name for the very first time since they've met. "I missed you at breakfast."

He stops short, panting slightly, and startles at Alecto calling him by his first name. Once invited - so casually and automatically - he hadn't been able to make that switch back to calling him by his title, though Alecto had always kept him at armslength, calling him by his surname.

"I... I'm sorry, I - overslept," he says, lamely, suddenly feeling deeply self-conscious, running his paint-flecked fingers through his untidy hair and mussing it further, trying to suppress the urge to fidget under that smile - a real smile, not the pallid, polite expressions that usually made their home on Alecto's face. "Were you waiting long?"

"Not at all. I had quite a nice morning in fact."

His smile stays as he stalks over to the chaise once more, his shoes clicking against the hardwood. He sits, crossing his ankle over his knee. "Don't apologize if you've done nothing wrong," he says, breezily. He gestures to the seat next to him, Joshua's usual one. "Should we begin?"

For once, Alecto seems...eager to start the process.

It's on the tip of Josh's tongue to joke - because I wasn't there? - but he's silent in the face of Alecto's unexpected smile, the warm, inviting bloom of it, the tension that seemed to always live in the set of his jaw dissolved utterly away. He sits, obediently, and then seems to belatedly remember that he didn't even have his supplies with him, and pushes himself back onto his feet to fetch the expensive, top-of-the-line materials that Alecto kept stock of in the room back to the chair again.

He starts, today, with Alecto's mouth, with the fine-boned curve of his jaw and the shadows of his slender neck, picking out minute shifts in expression, the slightest twitch of a muscle, Alecto's lips parted around a deeper inhale than usual. He works lower - picking out the Adam's apple and the hollow of his throat, peeking out just above where Alecto's undone cravat was folded unevenly against pale skin, revealing just a hint of his collarbone. His fingers stop, suddenly, a sense of uncertainty stealing over him. He was certainly capable of drawing and painting clothing, had developed a good sense for drape and texture with his paints. But something in him balks at the exercise, and he stares down at the paper, his cheeks pinking with an odd realization.

He notices when the familiar scratch of red chalk on paper stops and silence fills the space left behind. He turns, rather elegantly, a slice of dark hair sliding over his face.

“What’s the matter?”

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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