By His Hand

In exercise in romantic writing. Like I needed the practice.

 

It is rather self-consciously that the young man takes to his seat, wincing as he tries to situate himself on the unforgiving wood. Icy air seeps through the space under the door, licking at his exposed face and fingers. His eyes narrow as he watches the artist roughly stoke the dying embers in the brick fireplace. The meager heat is slow in reaching the artist’s chilled young muse. Nervous fingers pull at the ascot pressing tight round a slender neck…the young man starts when his hands are slapped away, and calloused fingers position his pale face. In his mouth, his tongue is heavy with the fading after-taste of a wine he did not drink. His artist meticulously prepares his station, critically eying his silent model. As he reverently picks up his brush, the only sounds in the tiny studio are the crackling fire and the distant cries of playing children. Humming sweetly, the artist dips the brush into his paints.

It seems impossible not to clench his teeth as brush meets canvas. The artist clicks his tongue, pausing only briefly to glare at his fidgeting subject. The young man stiffens, his posture becoming rigid and awkward.

“Your likeness will be painted, Sir, but it is upon you to decide the memories which will be provoked by its face.” The young man grimaces, and then makes a visible effort to relax. Returning to his canvas, the artist grunts lightly in approval.

“Could you not call me ‘sir’ while you’re staring at me like that?” the younger man asks, his lips moving as little as possible. The other man chuckles softly, eyebrows lifting as he continues to draw the brush across the canvas.

“If you hope to have this completed before both our deaths, then I suggest that we maintain even the slightest level of decorum,” he pauses, and a hint of mirth crosses his face, “Caspar.”

The young man, Caspar, blinks, his lips twitching in a brutally quashed smile. In his eyes flickers something akin to enchantment. The young man says nothing, though something about the clenching of his jaw suggests that there are many witty responses pressing up against the backs of his teeth.

Weeks seem to pass, though it is probably closer to an hour or two. Caspar’s body is tense, his eyes glazed with a sort of bored exhaustion. The crisp chill of the air has been tampered by the fire, and now is heavy with the scent of the glowing coals. Outside, the sun has begun to dip below the horizon, bathing the cozy studio in hues of cinnamon and tangerine. The artist makes a careful dab at the canvas before stepping back, narrowing his gaze at his creation. The lithe model holds his breath for the verdict.

“I think…” The air is still for a few endless seconds. “I imagine it is quite finished. There is something odd about the lie of your waistcoat here, but I should be able to settle that another time.” He sets his brush down atop the stained palette. “Would you care to look upon yourself?” There is not a small amount of amusement in his low voice.

Unsure, Caspar rises, taking a moment to rub the feeling back into his limbs. He eyes the artist over the top of the canvas – there is a plain challenge in his companion’s gaze. Hands clenched at his sides, the young man takes one step, then two, standing beside the older. His breath catches. His likeness is not how he imagined – indeed, he cannot say how like it is to the original; the face is much too smooth, the hands much too graceful. But there is something around the dark eyes that is terrifyingly familiar. There is his own sardonic glint, that spark of knowing, and something – a hint of something only the artist sees.

It is perfect, and he says so.

“I hope that this shall suffice for your need?” The artist glances sidelong at the man beside him, cautious suspicious threading his tone. Caspar nods, a lilting smile pulling at the corners of his lips. The two look upon the portrait, their thoughts on the simultaneously same and different secret they see in the image’s eyes.

           

Years later, the studio has not changed. It is still cramped, still chilly, even in the height of summer. The windows have a fine sheen of grime coating the panes, as if they have not been appreciated recently. The easel is empty, a glass of dry brushes resting on the lip. The chair before it is vacant.

A fire dances listlessly in the grate, illumination the man sitting hunched beside the hearth. His paint-stained fingers curl half-heartedly around the neck of a near-empty bottle. His head lolls heavily to one side. Despite his current state, the man’s eyes are open, staring unerringly across the room at a canvas propped against the wall. It portrays a young man, a heat in his eyes that it took the artist the better part of an hour to perfect. On the floor beside it likes a note, crumpled and abused:

 

You’ve created my likeness, as I asked, though I imagine he is more as you see me than as I am. I am dying, Henry, as you will soon learn. It is my sole wish to leave behind a legacy, as it were, and, as I have never mastered the arts, I decided to place that task upon you. Thank you for producing me so wonderfully. By your hand, I shall live forever.

           

Yours,

Caspar

 

The bottle slips to the floor, smashing wetly against the warped planks.