(no subject)
The hut was seemingly empty for when Charlie arrived home. No sound, but enough light to show that a mix of red rose petals and confetti, conveniently provided by the island that morning, had been laid on the floor, outlining a path that led from the front door to what could be loosely termed 'the study' but more resembled Charlie's art studio. The path of petals, sparkles and bits of paper continued to the easel Ianto had built for her, a piece of fabric covering whatever was on display there.
'To Charlie' a plain card stated in elegant red script. She was meant to remove the sheet.
Ianto was no great artist. He had an eye for details and proportions, straight lines and forms, but no sense for bringing them all together to make great, realistic art. But he'd managed as well as he could in a style that, while not up to critical snuff, held a sense of great care and consideration for the subject.
The subject was their relationship, spanning many frames and several canvases, from their first meeting to the moment they currently found themselves in. Their introductions at the clothes box, then a few glitter covered and half-clothed encounters afterward. One hanging cranes, one in the wrong body. Presents exchanged on the beach, as well as heated words. Uncomfortable confessions before projectors and watching a shrine burn. A history in pictures, some even in bed. There were captions, funny when they needed to be and solemn when it was called for. And silence when it sufficed. All leading up to a very drunken figure down on one knee and, in the next frame, the same figure at the door of a study, waiting for the girl with red hair to turn away from the easel.
And that's where Ianto knelt.
'To Charlie' a plain card stated in elegant red script. She was meant to remove the sheet.
Ianto was no great artist. He had an eye for details and proportions, straight lines and forms, but no sense for bringing them all together to make great, realistic art. But he'd managed as well as he could in a style that, while not up to critical snuff, held a sense of great care and consideration for the subject.
The subject was their relationship, spanning many frames and several canvases, from their first meeting to the moment they currently found themselves in. Their introductions at the clothes box, then a few glitter covered and half-clothed encounters afterward. One hanging cranes, one in the wrong body. Presents exchanged on the beach, as well as heated words. Uncomfortable confessions before projectors and watching a shrine burn. A history in pictures, some even in bed. There were captions, funny when they needed to be and solemn when it was called for. And silence when it sufficed. All leading up to a very drunken figure down on one knee and, in the next frame, the same figure at the door of a study, waiting for the girl with red hair to turn away from the easel.
And that's where Ianto knelt.