Original: Palimpsest (slash)
Summary: Hugh is a painter who doesn't know how to make mistakes. He just needs to learn that every great artist has a demon or two.
Warning: Some swearing.
Although the museum’s lights were dim, they were still brighter than Hugh would have liked. Art never looked good in bright rooms, Hugh decided; it was too easy to see all the mistakes.
“Hugh!”
The too-loud word echoed across the exhibition hall. It was Hector, of course, and he was headed straight this way. Hugh sighed, although he wasn’t wholly displeased to see his friend. He turned from the carved wooden Virgin he had been sketching and answered with a pointed quietness. “Hector.”
Hector, for his part, at least had the decency to look sheepish as he breached the rest of the space between them. “Found any inspiration?” he asked, his voice now an appropriate volume.
Hugh shrugged. “Not really. All this Medieval stuff is so -“ he took a moment, searching for the right word. “It looks kind of sloppy, you know?”
“That’s because it’s hand-made, dumbass. That’s what makes it good.”
Hector was a sculptor; his works always had a bit of a vulnerable, human quality to them. Hugh at once hated and admired that - the way they seemed to embrace their imperfections, and the way Hector could seem so proud of them despite their defects.
Hugh himself was studying oil paints, and the slow, deliberate drying of the paints made it seem impossible to capture that kind of caprice. So he aimed for - and tried to value as much as he could - the opposite, seeking to capture some notion of perfection in his work.
It was not going well.
Hector had this idea in his head that if he could just get Hugh to start seeing the beauty in imperfect objects, his work would improve. He had dragged Hugh off to the museum in service of this mission.
“Come over here. I found something cool.”
Hector grabbed Hugh’s arm and guided the two of them across the floor, over to a case housing some flat pages with writing on them. Hector motioned to what appeared to be a piece of paper that some kids had scribbled on. Hugh leaned forward, letting out a mean little laugh. “I though this was a Medieval exhibit.”
“Very funny,” Hector said back. “It’s Merovingian script. Fuckin’ badass. Looks like it’s about to bleed right off the page.”
Hugh looked closer; to be honest, he couldn’t even see that there were supposed to be words on some of these pages. As his eyes moved down the case, though, they did catch on one small slip of parchment. He stepped toward it and bent down for a closer look. “This one’s kind of neat.”
“What, that one?” Hector pointed to the correct leaf, and Hugh nodded. “God, what is your deal? That’s the most boring one!”
It was certainly not, Hugh thought, but he only frowned. It had two sets of words creeping across the page, one brown, the other a brilliant red. The brown one was careful and measured and perfectly justified, each letter exactly the right height, every line straight and true; the red one spiraled across the page, reckless, a single line of script that bent up and across and back in on itself and yet remained somehow perfectly legible.
It was as though as soon as Hugh focused on a single word, that word came to the forefront, shining perfect and clear against the angry romanesque of the rest of the line - but when his eyes shifted to another word, the first one would dissolve back in with the rest, and the new one burned clear and true in his vision.
He bent closer still, squinting.
“Hugh?”
Hugh shook his head.
“I - yeah?” He looked over at Hector.
“Nothing. You’re kind of weirding me out, is all. Come on, there’s a tapestry I want to show you.”
Hugh nodded. He straightened, and as Hector pulled the two of them to another section of the museum, he stole a backwards glance at the odd little manuscript - only to see that the red words were, somehow, gone.
---
“Hello, Hugh.”
Hugh wheeled around, startled; the only person at the museum who should reasonably know his name was Hector, and Hector was - somewhere. Being inspired by a pile of litter, probably. He wasn’t anywhere around here, anyway, and although Hugh didn’t see him or anyone else immediately upon turning around, he was certain that he hard heard a voice, and that it hadn’t been Hector’s.
He turned back to the diptych he had been inspecting, only to find himself face to face with - and far too close to - a tall, thin man, with pallid skin and black hair. Hugh jumped back suddenly, but too-warm fingers closed around his wrist and kept him from moving too far away.
The man’s eyes were bright red, clear and aggressive, and Hugh couldn’t look away.
“The manuscript.”
Hugh swallowed. His eyes were so bright.
“You read it.”
The words ran through Hugh, a bizarre and vaguely comforting electrical current. Suddenly, he no longer felt anxious, not really - the memory of the manuscript, with its captivating balance of chaos and order, seemed reassuring, and somehow the words on the page had looked so like the red irises of this man's eyes. “Yeah. Yes, I did,” He said, and swallowed again. For the first time since he was a teenager, he felt his face flush.
The man nodded, his eyes narrowing into a shockingly friendly smile. Hugh looked down, thinking he ought to try to move away but not sure that he really wanted to; he raised his free hand, wondering if he might protest, but his palm only ended up flattened against the breast of the man’s perfectly-pressed black suit.
“Who are you?” he asked finally, somehow finding himself drawn closer to the other man.
“Titivillus,” he answered, still smiling. In one smooth movement, his grip was gone from Hugh’s wrist, and their hands were clasped in a handshake. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Hugh could only stare into his eyes, red and chaotic and staring right back at him. “That’s…” he managed, after a moment. “That’s a strange name.”
Titivillus laughed a little - a low rumble that seemed to reverberate between the two of them. “I’m the patron demon of scribes, darling. You read my invocation, and so I am come.” Finally, he released Hugh's hand, stepping back; his suit was perfect and sharp and somehow so stark even in the low museum lights. Hugh looked down at his own tee-shirt, curiously rumpled even though it had been clean this morning, and allowed himself a moment to breathe.
When he looked up again, he found himself caught in Titivillus’ eyes. This time, though, he fought back a little, tilting his chin up and refusing to get pulled into them a second time. Somehow, as with the manuscript, it didn’t matter that this seemed strange, nor did he care that Titivillus had just called himself a demon. No, he wasn't frightened, although he thought perhaps he should have been; this was too interesting, too amazing, too completely right to worry about that.
It was, in short, too inspiring.
“So, you’re like a muse?” He asked, recalling vaguely his classes on Enlightenment art.
“In a sense, yes - and yet, not at all,” Titivillus said. He stepped closer, the floor creaking a little with each fall of his polished wingtips. “I don’t inspire genius so much as…”
The words trailed off; he was clearly expecting Hugh to finish the thought, but of course Hugh had no idea what he was supposed to say. The space between them was closed, and Hugh felt himself tumbling once again into Titivillus’ eyes. He closed his own, but it made no difference; he could still see the red behind his eyelids, spiraling into the darkness like the words on the parchment. His hands, now both free, reached up and grasped tenderly at Titivillus’ lapels.
Titivillus leaned close, and Hugh’s eyes opened again - only to catch Titivillus’ own. It was Hugh’s turn to smile. “So much as what?”
Titivillus cocked his elegant eyebrow. “Mistakes.”
Hugh barked out an awkward laugh at that; suddenly he was the one being too loud, and somehow he didn’t care. A few minutes with the patron of mistakes and he could see, now, that it didn't matter, it really didn't matter if things weren't perfect. He didn’t care if every person in the museum came into this room and saw him leaning into this strange, unnervingly entrancing man. He didn’t care. He didn’t care.
He had never felt so free in his life.
He felt so suddenly open and unchained that without care or warning he fiercely tightened his grip on Titivillus’ jacket, yanking him down and almost violently pressing their lips together. His hands were now clutching, pulling, kneading the suit, and his mouth was working in turn; he could feel Titivillus’ hot breath against his cheek, the heavy press of his tongue as the kiss deepened, the pressure against his thighs when Titivillus pulled him closer.
After a moment, Titivillus’ hands crept up his back, and the kiss softened and then gently, sweetly broke.
“Are you ready to make some mistakes, Hugh?”
“I.” Hugh smiled, noting much to his satisfaction that Titivillus’ voice sounded quite breathy. He caught his own breath and felt his heart pounding in his chest with no small delight, as well. “I definitely am.” His fingers were tingling.
Titivillus leaned down so that the tips of their noses here nearly touching. One of his hands swept around and settled underneath Hugh’s chin, his thumb gently stroking the hollow where his jaw met his ear. “Excellent,” he said in a low, quiet voice, his eyes still smiling.
Warning: Some swearing.
Although the museum’s lights were dim, they were still brighter than Hugh would have liked. Art never looked good in bright rooms, Hugh decided; it was too easy to see all the mistakes.
“Hugh!”
The too-loud word echoed across the exhibition hall. It was Hector, of course, and he was headed straight this way. Hugh sighed, although he wasn’t wholly displeased to see his friend. He turned from the carved wooden Virgin he had been sketching and answered with a pointed quietness. “Hector.”
Hector, for his part, at least had the decency to look sheepish as he breached the rest of the space between them. “Found any inspiration?” he asked, his voice now an appropriate volume.
Hugh shrugged. “Not really. All this Medieval stuff is so -“ he took a moment, searching for the right word. “It looks kind of sloppy, you know?”
“That’s because it’s hand-made, dumbass. That’s what makes it good.”
Hector was a sculptor; his works always had a bit of a vulnerable, human quality to them. Hugh at once hated and admired that - the way they seemed to embrace their imperfections, and the way Hector could seem so proud of them despite their defects.
Hugh himself was studying oil paints, and the slow, deliberate drying of the paints made it seem impossible to capture that kind of caprice. So he aimed for - and tried to value as much as he could - the opposite, seeking to capture some notion of perfection in his work.
It was not going well.
Hector had this idea in his head that if he could just get Hugh to start seeing the beauty in imperfect objects, his work would improve. He had dragged Hugh off to the museum in service of this mission.
“Come over here. I found something cool.”
Hector grabbed Hugh’s arm and guided the two of them across the floor, over to a case housing some flat pages with writing on them. Hector motioned to what appeared to be a piece of paper that some kids had scribbled on. Hugh leaned forward, letting out a mean little laugh. “I though this was a Medieval exhibit.”
“Very funny,” Hector said back. “It’s Merovingian script. Fuckin’ badass. Looks like it’s about to bleed right off the page.”
Hugh looked closer; to be honest, he couldn’t even see that there were supposed to be words on some of these pages. As his eyes moved down the case, though, they did catch on one small slip of parchment. He stepped toward it and bent down for a closer look. “This one’s kind of neat.”
“What, that one?” Hector pointed to the correct leaf, and Hugh nodded. “God, what is your deal? That’s the most boring one!”
It was certainly not, Hugh thought, but he only frowned. It had two sets of words creeping across the page, one brown, the other a brilliant red. The brown one was careful and measured and perfectly justified, each letter exactly the right height, every line straight and true; the red one spiraled across the page, reckless, a single line of script that bent up and across and back in on itself and yet remained somehow perfectly legible.
It was as though as soon as Hugh focused on a single word, that word came to the forefront, shining perfect and clear against the angry romanesque of the rest of the line - but when his eyes shifted to another word, the first one would dissolve back in with the rest, and the new one burned clear and true in his vision.
He bent closer still, squinting.
“Hugh?”
Hugh shook his head.
“I - yeah?” He looked over at Hector.
“Nothing. You’re kind of weirding me out, is all. Come on, there’s a tapestry I want to show you.”
Hugh nodded. He straightened, and as Hector pulled the two of them to another section of the museum, he stole a backwards glance at the odd little manuscript - only to see that the red words were, somehow, gone.
---
“Hello, Hugh.”
Hugh wheeled around, startled; the only person at the museum who should reasonably know his name was Hector, and Hector was - somewhere. Being inspired by a pile of litter, probably. He wasn’t anywhere around here, anyway, and although Hugh didn’t see him or anyone else immediately upon turning around, he was certain that he hard heard a voice, and that it hadn’t been Hector’s.
He turned back to the diptych he had been inspecting, only to find himself face to face with - and far too close to - a tall, thin man, with pallid skin and black hair. Hugh jumped back suddenly, but too-warm fingers closed around his wrist and kept him from moving too far away.
The man’s eyes were bright red, clear and aggressive, and Hugh couldn’t look away.
“The manuscript.”
Hugh swallowed. His eyes were so bright.
“You read it.”
The words ran through Hugh, a bizarre and vaguely comforting electrical current. Suddenly, he no longer felt anxious, not really - the memory of the manuscript, with its captivating balance of chaos and order, seemed reassuring, and somehow the words on the page had looked so like the red irises of this man's eyes. “Yeah. Yes, I did,” He said, and swallowed again. For the first time since he was a teenager, he felt his face flush.
The man nodded, his eyes narrowing into a shockingly friendly smile. Hugh looked down, thinking he ought to try to move away but not sure that he really wanted to; he raised his free hand, wondering if he might protest, but his palm only ended up flattened against the breast of the man’s perfectly-pressed black suit.
“Who are you?” he asked finally, somehow finding himself drawn closer to the other man.
“Titivillus,” he answered, still smiling. In one smooth movement, his grip was gone from Hugh’s wrist, and their hands were clasped in a handshake. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Hugh could only stare into his eyes, red and chaotic and staring right back at him. “That’s…” he managed, after a moment. “That’s a strange name.”
Titivillus laughed a little - a low rumble that seemed to reverberate between the two of them. “I’m the patron demon of scribes, darling. You read my invocation, and so I am come.” Finally, he released Hugh's hand, stepping back; his suit was perfect and sharp and somehow so stark even in the low museum lights. Hugh looked down at his own tee-shirt, curiously rumpled even though it had been clean this morning, and allowed himself a moment to breathe.
When he looked up again, he found himself caught in Titivillus’ eyes. This time, though, he fought back a little, tilting his chin up and refusing to get pulled into them a second time. Somehow, as with the manuscript, it didn’t matter that this seemed strange, nor did he care that Titivillus had just called himself a demon. No, he wasn't frightened, although he thought perhaps he should have been; this was too interesting, too amazing, too completely right to worry about that.
It was, in short, too inspiring.
“So, you’re like a muse?” He asked, recalling vaguely his classes on Enlightenment art.
“In a sense, yes - and yet, not at all,” Titivillus said. He stepped closer, the floor creaking a little with each fall of his polished wingtips. “I don’t inspire genius so much as…”
The words trailed off; he was clearly expecting Hugh to finish the thought, but of course Hugh had no idea what he was supposed to say. The space between them was closed, and Hugh felt himself tumbling once again into Titivillus’ eyes. He closed his own, but it made no difference; he could still see the red behind his eyelids, spiraling into the darkness like the words on the parchment. His hands, now both free, reached up and grasped tenderly at Titivillus’ lapels.
Titivillus leaned close, and Hugh’s eyes opened again - only to catch Titivillus’ own. It was Hugh’s turn to smile. “So much as what?”
Titivillus cocked his elegant eyebrow. “Mistakes.”
Hugh barked out an awkward laugh at that; suddenly he was the one being too loud, and somehow he didn’t care. A few minutes with the patron of mistakes and he could see, now, that it didn't matter, it really didn't matter if things weren't perfect. He didn’t care if every person in the museum came into this room and saw him leaning into this strange, unnervingly entrancing man. He didn’t care. He didn’t care.
He had never felt so free in his life.
He felt so suddenly open and unchained that without care or warning he fiercely tightened his grip on Titivillus’ jacket, yanking him down and almost violently pressing their lips together. His hands were now clutching, pulling, kneading the suit, and his mouth was working in turn; he could feel Titivillus’ hot breath against his cheek, the heavy press of his tongue as the kiss deepened, the pressure against his thighs when Titivillus pulled him closer.
After a moment, Titivillus’ hands crept up his back, and the kiss softened and then gently, sweetly broke.
“Are you ready to make some mistakes, Hugh?”
“I.” Hugh smiled, noting much to his satisfaction that Titivillus’ voice sounded quite breathy. He caught his own breath and felt his heart pounding in his chest with no small delight, as well. “I definitely am.” His fingers were tingling.
Titivillus leaned down so that the tips of their noses here nearly touching. One of his hands swept around and settled underneath Hugh’s chin, his thumb gently stroking the hollow where his jaw met his ear. “Excellent,” he said in a low, quiet voice, his eyes still smiling.