Colors
Arthur lived to paint. It was a necessity like breathing or eating. When his work took over his days and nights, sometimes he forgot to do the latter. It was as if his brain's obsession would override sleeping and eating and it wasn't until two days later, complaining that he had a headache, would his friends laugh and ask when was the last time he ate or slept.
Arthur often didn't remember.
This show though was even more important. It drove him mercilessly. His grades standing was no issue there, unless one counted ceramics where his lack of interest showed and a B- stood.
That wretched grade given to talented students the teacher didn't want to crush too harshly. It was a disapointment, an I know you can do better grade.
Arthur didn't give a shit.
Painting was life.
Life was made of colors.
For example, Alfred was yellow.
Yellow was Alfred's smile, his perpetually cheery attitude, and the way he said Arthur's name. Yellow was cheerful, or annoying, or as blinding as the sun.
Grigoire approved and said it was considered a good luck color by the Romani.
Francis disagreed, he though Alfred was like blue.
To Arthur though--blue was the color of Alfred's eyes. They were like the sky, like the freedom felt on those late summer and early autumn days where the sky was so open it made one feel like he or she could do anything.
Arthur painted and forgot to sleep. Francis arrived at his apartment in the morning with baguettes and coffee and groaned when he saw the circles under arthur's eyes and the large canvas dominating the room. "Mon ami, mon rosbif, now what?"
Arthur's temper would flare. Did no one understand it had to be just right?
After skillfully dodging Arthur's well aimed punches, Francis conceded. "Je sais; je comprend." And left it at that.
Red. Red was the color of Arthur's dreams. Dreams filled with lust, skin, lips, and sweat. Dreams of Alfred's face, of his words, of his touch, of his moans. It was only dreams thought, nevertheless, Arthur tried to capture it on canvas.
Francis just stared at the work. He was proud to be the only friend allowed to see Arthur's work firsthand. Despairingly he pleaded, "Why don't you do something beyond just talking to the boy? Maybe a date? Mon dieu, je ne sais quoi..."and then Arthur would start thowing paint tubes at him.
"Hermes! You little brat! Hermes!" Francis would cry in horror over his paint splattered clothes.
"It was your own fault, frog." Was Arthur's reply.
Sometimes Arthur wondered what colors the world seemed like to Alfred. He imagined it would be a world filled with neons, sparkles, and bold splashy colors like fanfare.
Everytime he walked into the art store and saw that bright smile and those beautiful eyes lit from within he heard that fanfare.
While he pretended to listen to Alfred's chatter he would think what paint he would mix to create such perfect, lightly tanned, glowing skin Alfred always had. Burnt Sienna, Titanium White, a touch of Vermillion, on and on, until Arthur got frustrated on not being able to touch.
Some colors just made one want to lick them.
Green. Green was the color of life, and the giver of shade. It was also a color of camouflage. Arthur swore Alfred wore camouflage hiding something behind that eternal happiness. Arthur wanted to crush that cover, rip off that mask, and tear down those leaves on the tree.
Grey. Grey was the lining that hid in Alfred F. Jones. Something grim and sad must lurk behind that facade. Arhur was certain it existed. It might be more of a Payne's grey--blue in tint, lovely shade of bleak Spring, but it hid there for sure.
"Not everyone is you." Antonio said sadly. "Have you ever considered that you two are complements?"
Arthur was not a color. To be Alfred's complement he would have to be purple. Purple was the color of magic, of the deep night. That was not Arthur. Arthur was the color black. Void. The colors he mixed, created, gave life to, and came forth from Arthur, were a lie.
Francis told his that he was his deepest critic and that his inner voice was the one lying. Arthur wasn't sure.
Although Alfred had complained and insisted black technically wasn't a color. It was the antithesis of color. How could Alfred know though? He was a rainbow of colors, like the prisms he went on about, shooting out light and wonder everywhere.
The talk, that came out during social sessions, of questioning Alfred's sexual preference when he wasn't around was dirty. It was all brown. That ugly brown when one muddied their oils.
Arthur was always burned by the brilliance of Alfred's smile. When Alfred came back with food for his undeserving, gossiping, friends he had tried to convince Arthur to take some home so he 'had something edible to eat.'
Arthur hated the git.
(He loved him, he loved him, he loved him.)
(Love was a the softest pink imaginable that glowed like the oils of the Renaissance. It was tinted, layers upon layers, the white joy shining out through those soft pink coverings, so beautiful it made him weep, once Arthur realized what it was.)
He didn't deserve him, all mutated black inside. Ugly inside, ugly outside. Beauty was to be observed, not corrupted.
No. Love was not for him.
Arthur painted. To him painting was life. Life was color. Down the street, in the little art store on the corner, Alfred existed, lending the world his brilliance.
Arthur set down his paint brush and leaned against the wall. The last painting was complete and the show was tomorrow. Staggering to the small couch, he closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
A/N: Ironically, this written in purely American spelling and word usage. I could have spelled color as colour since this is in Arthur's pov but I'm exhausted and typing on my iPhone keypad. Also Francis says, my friend, my roastbeef; I know, I understand; my god I don't know why...To translate the French. I might rewrite this one later, but it is so sad (to me at least) I couldn't finish my first draft. This is a second rewrite completely. We'll see.
Arthur often didn't remember.
This show though was even more important. It drove him mercilessly. His grades standing was no issue there, unless one counted ceramics where his lack of interest showed and a B- stood.
That wretched grade given to talented students the teacher didn't want to crush too harshly. It was a disapointment, an I know you can do better grade.
Arthur didn't give a shit.
Painting was life.
Life was made of colors.
For example, Alfred was yellow.
Yellow was Alfred's smile, his perpetually cheery attitude, and the way he said Arthur's name. Yellow was cheerful, or annoying, or as blinding as the sun.
Grigoire approved and said it was considered a good luck color by the Romani.
Francis disagreed, he though Alfred was like blue.
To Arthur though--blue was the color of Alfred's eyes. They were like the sky, like the freedom felt on those late summer and early autumn days where the sky was so open it made one feel like he or she could do anything.
Arthur painted and forgot to sleep. Francis arrived at his apartment in the morning with baguettes and coffee and groaned when he saw the circles under arthur's eyes and the large canvas dominating the room. "Mon ami, mon rosbif, now what?"
Arthur's temper would flare. Did no one understand it had to be just right?
After skillfully dodging Arthur's well aimed punches, Francis conceded. "Je sais; je comprend." And left it at that.
Red. Red was the color of Arthur's dreams. Dreams filled with lust, skin, lips, and sweat. Dreams of Alfred's face, of his words, of his touch, of his moans. It was only dreams thought, nevertheless, Arthur tried to capture it on canvas.
Francis just stared at the work. He was proud to be the only friend allowed to see Arthur's work firsthand. Despairingly he pleaded, "Why don't you do something beyond just talking to the boy? Maybe a date? Mon dieu, je ne sais quoi..."and then Arthur would start thowing paint tubes at him.
"Hermes! You little brat! Hermes!" Francis would cry in horror over his paint splattered clothes.
"It was your own fault, frog." Was Arthur's reply.
Sometimes Arthur wondered what colors the world seemed like to Alfred. He imagined it would be a world filled with neons, sparkles, and bold splashy colors like fanfare.
Everytime he walked into the art store and saw that bright smile and those beautiful eyes lit from within he heard that fanfare.
While he pretended to listen to Alfred's chatter he would think what paint he would mix to create such perfect, lightly tanned, glowing skin Alfred always had. Burnt Sienna, Titanium White, a touch of Vermillion, on and on, until Arthur got frustrated on not being able to touch.
Some colors just made one want to lick them.
Green. Green was the color of life, and the giver of shade. It was also a color of camouflage. Arthur swore Alfred wore camouflage hiding something behind that eternal happiness. Arthur wanted to crush that cover, rip off that mask, and tear down those leaves on the tree.
Grey. Grey was the lining that hid in Alfred F. Jones. Something grim and sad must lurk behind that facade. Arhur was certain it existed. It might be more of a Payne's grey--blue in tint, lovely shade of bleak Spring, but it hid there for sure.
"Not everyone is you." Antonio said sadly. "Have you ever considered that you two are complements?"
Arthur was not a color. To be Alfred's complement he would have to be purple. Purple was the color of magic, of the deep night. That was not Arthur. Arthur was the color black. Void. The colors he mixed, created, gave life to, and came forth from Arthur, were a lie.
Francis told his that he was his deepest critic and that his inner voice was the one lying. Arthur wasn't sure.
Although Alfred had complained and insisted black technically wasn't a color. It was the antithesis of color. How could Alfred know though? He was a rainbow of colors, like the prisms he went on about, shooting out light and wonder everywhere.
The talk, that came out during social sessions, of questioning Alfred's sexual preference when he wasn't around was dirty. It was all brown. That ugly brown when one muddied their oils.
Arthur was always burned by the brilliance of Alfred's smile. When Alfred came back with food for his undeserving, gossiping, friends he had tried to convince Arthur to take some home so he 'had something edible to eat.'
Arthur hated the git.
(He loved him, he loved him, he loved him.)
(Love was a the softest pink imaginable that glowed like the oils of the Renaissance. It was tinted, layers upon layers, the white joy shining out through those soft pink coverings, so beautiful it made him weep, once Arthur realized what it was.)
He didn't deserve him, all mutated black inside. Ugly inside, ugly outside. Beauty was to be observed, not corrupted.
No. Love was not for him.
Arthur painted. To him painting was life. Life was color. Down the street, in the little art store on the corner, Alfred existed, lending the world his brilliance.
Arthur set down his paint brush and leaned against the wall. The last painting was complete and the show was tomorrow. Staggering to the small couch, he closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
A/N: Ironically, this written in purely American spelling and word usage. I could have spelled color as colour since this is in Arthur's pov but I'm exhausted and typing on my iPhone keypad. Also Francis says, my friend, my roastbeef; I know, I understand; my god I don't know why...To translate the French. I might rewrite this one later, but it is so sad (to me at least) I couldn't finish my first draft. This is a second rewrite completely. We'll see.