montmartre part one
Gerard/Bert
AU. Two chapters
Third person limited (Gerard)
written between October 2006 and April 2007.
He doesn't know that Gerard is watching him. Or maybe he does know -- and he just doesn't care. At least, that's what Gerard tells himself as he watches, hypnotised, hour after hour.
He's the only other American here, as far as Gerard can tell from his heavily accented French and frequent lapses into English; here, in famous Montmartre, the bohemian, artsy suburb of Paris, the Latin Quarter where, for hundreds of years, aspiring artists have gathered to imbibe liquor and soak up inspiration from the colourful world that surrounds them. The basilica of Sacre-Coeur in all its gleaming whiteness, contrasting with the whores, the dancers, the actors and musicians, the tourists ...
The street performers.
And Gerard, following in the footsteps of his nineteenth-century heroes Gauguin, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, thinks he might have found his muse -- his La Goulue at the Moulin Rouge -- in the young man who stands so casually, spinning knives and flaming torches in the air as if they were toys, not weapons. Nonchalant is the word Gerard's been searching for, because the young man simply doesn't care whether the blade falls into his hand and shears his flesh, or if the flame falls into his hair, burning down to his skin. Part of him probably welcomes it, Gerard thinks. He's so unassuming, so unaware, wearing a pair of baggy shorts and sneakers with socks pulled up his calves; he's discarded his shirt in the heat of a July day in Paris, and it lies on the footpath, collecting coins as he juggles anything that people request. It doesn't matter how many items, either -- at one point, he's spinning six oranges in the air for a small girl before catching them in his hands and offering one to the child, who giggles and applauds, grinning to reveal a missing front tooth.
Gerard's sitting en terasse outside a cafe, maybe a hundred yards away from the young man, nursing half a cup of cold coffee and wishing he'd brought his sketchbook. He wishes he had the balls to go up to the young man and ask him to pose. And God, how he'd love him to pose ... He's in the mood for nude studies all of a sudden, watching pectoral and bicep tense as the young man entertains, taking in the sight of flat, smooth belly and swelling calf muscle. He wants to paint this guy, draw him, sculpt him, touch him. He mentally outlines the curve of his lips and the planes of cheekbones and chin, tilted up slightly as he focuses -- or pretends to focus -- on the objects he spins in the air. Gerard's only regret is that he can't see the young man's eyes, hidden beneath sunglasses, but he has an inkling that they're blue. He's always had a thing for slender, slightly unkempt young men with blue eyes, and this one hasn't disappointed so far.
He turns a little, and the sunlight catches his skin, turning it to bleached gold. Only then does Gerard notice the tattoos on his chest and arms, which somehow add to his appeal. He plays with fire, allows the needle to pierce the skin and the ink to stain it ... No wonder he cares so little about the damage a knife can do.
He's already a work of art. Perhaps he'd understand.
Gerard reaches into his backpack and pulls out a small notebook and ballpoint pen. It's not charcoal and sketchpad, but it'll have to do, he thinks as he begins to bring the young man to life with pen and ink. The vivid blue of the pen and the harsh strokes of Gerard's rough, motion-dominant sketches suit the subject, in all his flaws, his vulnerability.
After a while, he stops glancing across at the young man and draws from memory, hand aching as it moves frantically across the paper. He's obsessed, inspired; he grunts absentmindedly at the waitress who asks him if he wants another coffee, he barely notices the dip in temperature as the sun begins to sink towards the west. Only when his notebook is full and his pen nearly empty does Gerard stop, rubbing his dominant hand ruefully as it starts to cramp and throb.
When he lifts his head, the young man is walking towards him. He's wearing his shirt again, and his pockets jingle with coins as he approaches.
"Parlez-vous anglais?" he says. His voice is gravelly and his mouth is twisted into an amused half-smile.
"Oui."
"Vraiment?"
Gerard laughs and shakes his head. "Yeah -- yeah. Sorry. What can I do for you?"
"I wanna see the pictures."
He raises his eyebrows and his hand scoots across the table to cover his notebook. "I don't know what you-- "
"Look, I'm not gonna take off with 'em. Just -- you've been here all day, drawing me, and I figure maybe I could take a look."
Gerard's stomach sinks as he realises how pathetically obvious he must have been, and reluctantly picks up the notebook. "Well, uh ... yeah, okay." He sighs. "But they're pretty rough. Probably not very good, so don't get your hopes up or anything."
The young man lifts his hand to silence him, and Gerard obliges. He can't help thinking about the gesture though; it's imperious, dominant, and he likes that. It fits the character he's created for this person. This muse.
"Wow," the young man breathes as he flips through the notebook. "Wow."
"You -- uh, you like them?"
He looks up. "They're better than the real me, um ... "
"Gerard."
"Gerard," the young man repeats, fingers lingering on one of the sketches. "So ... got any of your stuff in the Louvre yet?"
He bursts out laughing. "No. I think you pretty much have to be dead to get your work exhibited there. Or, at least be a great artist." Then he shrugs. "I'm good, not great. There's a difference."
"If you know that, then why are you here?"
He sighs and looks down at the table. "It's all I want to do. All I've ever wanted to do, you know? I don't care if it kills me. It's my dream. I want to live doing it and die doing it."
There's a pause. "My name's Bert," he says. "Let me buy you dinner."
Gerard shakes his head. "No, don't waste your money on me. I'm fine."
"Bullshit you are," he says, taking in Gerard's crumpled clothes, his bleary eyes. "You had one cup of coffee before lunch, and you're still here. You must be starving."
"Well, yeah, but you -- "
"Listen, man. This is only my day job," he whispers, leaning in confidentially.
"Day job? What do you do at night?"
"Wait tables and stuff. I can get you a discount at the place where I work."
Gerard ponders this for a second. "Okay. But on one condition."
"What?"
"Pose for me."
He laughs. "I thought I already had."
"I mean in my studio, where I can paint you. You sit still -- or lie still, whatever -- and I paint you."
"Oh. Yeah, sure."
Bert takes off his sunglasses, and his eyes are blue.
***
Over dinner, and a rather delightful pinot noir, they swap life stories. Or at least, Bert does. He's travelled to Paris because he wants to see the world and "there's gotta be more to it than the fucking States, you know?" He talks music, movies, religion, while Gerard shovels food into his mouth like a death-row prisoner with his final meal; he hadn't realised how hungry he was until the food arrived. Bert just watches, amused, and orders another dessert for Monsieur l'Artiste.
"No-one's ever drawn my picture before," he says once the creme brulee dishes have been cleared away.
Gerard raises an eyebrow and presses a napkin to his lips. "Why not? You're be-- "
"I'm what?"
"Um ... you're fascinating."
"Fascinating doesn't start with a 'b'," Bert points out with a grin. "Now what were you gonna say?"
Gerard feels his face turning red. "I was going to say beautiful," he says quietly. Bert smiles again and runs his fingertip along the rim of his wine glass.
"You think?"
"Sure." Gerard drops his gaze to the tablecloth, thoroughly embarrassed, and decides to stop talking.
"You're not too bad yourself, you know," Bert says after a moment. "Fatten up a bit and you'd be gorgeous."
"I don't mean like that," Gerard says, looking up to see a mischievous, sparkling pair of blue eyes staring into his own. "You just -- you inspired me, and I haven't been inspired for a long time. So thank you."
Bert laughs softly and leans back in his chair. "Keep that shit up, I might have to jump your bones."
Chapter Two
AU. Two chapters
Third person limited (Gerard)
written between October 2006 and April 2007.
He doesn't know that Gerard is watching him. Or maybe he does know -- and he just doesn't care. At least, that's what Gerard tells himself as he watches, hypnotised, hour after hour.
He's the only other American here, as far as Gerard can tell from his heavily accented French and frequent lapses into English; here, in famous Montmartre, the bohemian, artsy suburb of Paris, the Latin Quarter where, for hundreds of years, aspiring artists have gathered to imbibe liquor and soak up inspiration from the colourful world that surrounds them. The basilica of Sacre-Coeur in all its gleaming whiteness, contrasting with the whores, the dancers, the actors and musicians, the tourists ...
The street performers.
And Gerard, following in the footsteps of his nineteenth-century heroes Gauguin, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, thinks he might have found his muse -- his La Goulue at the Moulin Rouge -- in the young man who stands so casually, spinning knives and flaming torches in the air as if they were toys, not weapons. Nonchalant is the word Gerard's been searching for, because the young man simply doesn't care whether the blade falls into his hand and shears his flesh, or if the flame falls into his hair, burning down to his skin. Part of him probably welcomes it, Gerard thinks. He's so unassuming, so unaware, wearing a pair of baggy shorts and sneakers with socks pulled up his calves; he's discarded his shirt in the heat of a July day in Paris, and it lies on the footpath, collecting coins as he juggles anything that people request. It doesn't matter how many items, either -- at one point, he's spinning six oranges in the air for a small girl before catching them in his hands and offering one to the child, who giggles and applauds, grinning to reveal a missing front tooth.
Gerard's sitting en terasse outside a cafe, maybe a hundred yards away from the young man, nursing half a cup of cold coffee and wishing he'd brought his sketchbook. He wishes he had the balls to go up to the young man and ask him to pose. And God, how he'd love him to pose ... He's in the mood for nude studies all of a sudden, watching pectoral and bicep tense as the young man entertains, taking in the sight of flat, smooth belly and swelling calf muscle. He wants to paint this guy, draw him, sculpt him, touch him. He mentally outlines the curve of his lips and the planes of cheekbones and chin, tilted up slightly as he focuses -- or pretends to focus -- on the objects he spins in the air. Gerard's only regret is that he can't see the young man's eyes, hidden beneath sunglasses, but he has an inkling that they're blue. He's always had a thing for slender, slightly unkempt young men with blue eyes, and this one hasn't disappointed so far.
He turns a little, and the sunlight catches his skin, turning it to bleached gold. Only then does Gerard notice the tattoos on his chest and arms, which somehow add to his appeal. He plays with fire, allows the needle to pierce the skin and the ink to stain it ... No wonder he cares so little about the damage a knife can do.
He's already a work of art. Perhaps he'd understand.
Gerard reaches into his backpack and pulls out a small notebook and ballpoint pen. It's not charcoal and sketchpad, but it'll have to do, he thinks as he begins to bring the young man to life with pen and ink. The vivid blue of the pen and the harsh strokes of Gerard's rough, motion-dominant sketches suit the subject, in all his flaws, his vulnerability.
After a while, he stops glancing across at the young man and draws from memory, hand aching as it moves frantically across the paper. He's obsessed, inspired; he grunts absentmindedly at the waitress who asks him if he wants another coffee, he barely notices the dip in temperature as the sun begins to sink towards the west. Only when his notebook is full and his pen nearly empty does Gerard stop, rubbing his dominant hand ruefully as it starts to cramp and throb.
When he lifts his head, the young man is walking towards him. He's wearing his shirt again, and his pockets jingle with coins as he approaches.
"Parlez-vous anglais?" he says. His voice is gravelly and his mouth is twisted into an amused half-smile.
"Oui."
"Vraiment?"
Gerard laughs and shakes his head. "Yeah -- yeah. Sorry. What can I do for you?"
"I wanna see the pictures."
He raises his eyebrows and his hand scoots across the table to cover his notebook. "I don't know what you-- "
"Look, I'm not gonna take off with 'em. Just -- you've been here all day, drawing me, and I figure maybe I could take a look."
Gerard's stomach sinks as he realises how pathetically obvious he must have been, and reluctantly picks up the notebook. "Well, uh ... yeah, okay." He sighs. "But they're pretty rough. Probably not very good, so don't get your hopes up or anything."
The young man lifts his hand to silence him, and Gerard obliges. He can't help thinking about the gesture though; it's imperious, dominant, and he likes that. It fits the character he's created for this person. This muse.
"Wow," the young man breathes as he flips through the notebook. "Wow."
"You -- uh, you like them?"
He looks up. "They're better than the real me, um ... "
"Gerard."
"Gerard," the young man repeats, fingers lingering on one of the sketches. "So ... got any of your stuff in the Louvre yet?"
He bursts out laughing. "No. I think you pretty much have to be dead to get your work exhibited there. Or, at least be a great artist." Then he shrugs. "I'm good, not great. There's a difference."
"If you know that, then why are you here?"
He sighs and looks down at the table. "It's all I want to do. All I've ever wanted to do, you know? I don't care if it kills me. It's my dream. I want to live doing it and die doing it."
There's a pause. "My name's Bert," he says. "Let me buy you dinner."
Gerard shakes his head. "No, don't waste your money on me. I'm fine."
"Bullshit you are," he says, taking in Gerard's crumpled clothes, his bleary eyes. "You had one cup of coffee before lunch, and you're still here. You must be starving."
"Well, yeah, but you -- "
"Listen, man. This is only my day job," he whispers, leaning in confidentially.
"Day job? What do you do at night?"
"Wait tables and stuff. I can get you a discount at the place where I work."
Gerard ponders this for a second. "Okay. But on one condition."
"What?"
"Pose for me."
He laughs. "I thought I already had."
"I mean in my studio, where I can paint you. You sit still -- or lie still, whatever -- and I paint you."
"Oh. Yeah, sure."
Bert takes off his sunglasses, and his eyes are blue.
***
Over dinner, and a rather delightful pinot noir, they swap life stories. Or at least, Bert does. He's travelled to Paris because he wants to see the world and "there's gotta be more to it than the fucking States, you know?" He talks music, movies, religion, while Gerard shovels food into his mouth like a death-row prisoner with his final meal; he hadn't realised how hungry he was until the food arrived. Bert just watches, amused, and orders another dessert for Monsieur l'Artiste.
"No-one's ever drawn my picture before," he says once the creme brulee dishes have been cleared away.
Gerard raises an eyebrow and presses a napkin to his lips. "Why not? You're be-- "
"I'm what?"
"Um ... you're fascinating."
"Fascinating doesn't start with a 'b'," Bert points out with a grin. "Now what were you gonna say?"
Gerard feels his face turning red. "I was going to say beautiful," he says quietly. Bert smiles again and runs his fingertip along the rim of his wine glass.
"You think?"
"Sure." Gerard drops his gaze to the tablecloth, thoroughly embarrassed, and decides to stop talking.
"You're not too bad yourself, you know," Bert says after a moment. "Fatten up a bit and you'd be gorgeous."
"I don't mean like that," Gerard says, looking up to see a mischievous, sparkling pair of blue eyes staring into his own. "You just -- you inspired me, and I haven't been inspired for a long time. So thank you."
Bert laughs softly and leans back in his chair. "Keep that shit up, I might have to jump your bones."
Chapter Two