FIC: Hyakinthos
I'm not sure if this fic is complete or not, but since I haven't finished or posted anything in forever, I decided to bite the bullet and post it as is. It's just a little slice of (post-513) life for our favorite QaF couple.
Title: Hyakinthos
Author: mysid
Pairings: Brian/Justin, Michael/Ben
Rating: PG-13 for language
Timeline: Post-513
Disclaimer: All characters from Queer as Folk belong to Cowlip Productions.
Author’s Note: In The Last of the Wine by Mary Renault, the main character, Alexias, reluctantly poses for a statue of Hyakinthos. (The sculptor will only hire models who are willing to work “long and hard into the night”--to borrow an appropriate phrase from QaF. Alexias only agrees because he needs the money to save the life of his lover.) The same statue makes a cameo appearance in Renault’s Fire from Heaven. Curious, I read more about the myth of Hyakinthos, and that led to this:
Hyakinthos
Nine months in New York, four of them with an agent, had given Justin ample practice in charming potential buyers. He hated doing it; either they liked his art or they didn’t, but he knew that it was part of the game. And when he got to hate it too much, he had Brian to remind him that it was a necessary part of the game.
“Do you think I win clients solely on the basis of the ad campaigns we dream up? I’m selling Kinnetik-me-as much as I am the latest ad idea. If they believe I’m the best and that I’ll always keep them one step ahead of their competitors, they’ll sign with me,” Brian had explained many months ago during the cab ride from Justin’s apartment to a gallery displaying just one of his paintings as part of an “Emerging New Artists” show. Justin had made the mistake of saying it wasn’t worth going just to schmooze; he’d rather stay home and fuck.
“You need to do the same, Sunshine; sell yourself. If you want them to shell out ‘famous artiste’ prices on your paintings, you have to convince them that you’re well on your way to becoming a famous artiste. Yes, they’ll only buy a painting if they like it, but they’ll only pay the big bucks it they think it’s an investment.”
And so Justin dutifully went to the gallery openings-both his own and the ones his agent insisted upon, shook potential buyers’ hands, smiled his most charming smile, and tried not to look bored when the third-or fifth-or seventh-person of the evening wanted to discuss “the homoerotic imagery” or “the use of color” in his work. He’d do what it took-whatever it took-to become a big enough success that he could go home to Brian without Brian being afraid that Justin had sacrificed too much.
But no matter his goal, there was one phrase guaranteed to make him want to run screaming from a potential buyer, “commission,” as in, “I’d like to hire you to do a piece on commission.” He’d believed at first that commissioned pieces were easy money, guaranteed sales, but he’d quickly learned that they were a soul-sucking trap. He didn’t know which he loathed more, the wanna-be society doyennes who wanted abstracts with “colors that will harmonize with my décor” or the middle-aged queens who wanted nude portraits and would be terribly displeased if they weren’t flattering-ten years younger and many more hours at the gym flattering.
So Justin thought he should be forgiven when, during the opening night of a multi-artist show that he was participating in, his agent, Virginia, introduced him to Charlotte Finch, a forty-something year old woman with Debbie’s build but-thankfully-his mother’s taste in clothing, and heard her say the taboo words, that his first thought was, “Can I turn her down and still afford the rent this month?” He was so busy doing a quick mental calculation of his finances-while keeping a fixed smile on his face-that he only gave half an ear to her explanation of the project.
What he did hear, “-bronze statue, Athenian, from the fourth century B.C.-” was enough to command his full attention.
“I thought the contrast between sculpture and painting, between ancient and modern, but the two united by the painting being inspired by the statue would make an interesting pairing. After I saw this piece,” she gestured to a large-scale nude of Brian on the wall beside them, “I thought you might be just the painter I was searching for.”
Justin took a quick but appraising glance at the painting, trying to see it as a stranger might. A beautiful man asleep on a rumpled bed. Brian lay on his stomach, so the view was of his back and side, as if the viewer stood near the bed. What did Charlotte Finch see when she looked at the painting? Sexuality, yes. Every inch of Brian’s body screamed, “Sex.” The rumpled sheets, hinting at more vigorous activities than mere sleep, simply reinforced the message.
But what else did she see? Did she imagine the man content? At peace? Could she ever imagine that the painting was of heartbreak? Self-sacrifice? That it was of Brian feigning sleep so he wouldn’t have to say, “Good-bye,” when Justin left for New York. Justin had sketched the image-his last glimpse of Brian before walking away-while he waited for his flight to be called, but he hadn’t been able to revisit it to paint it until after Brian had visited him in the city, and they’d both begun to believe they would survive the separation.
As his gaze slid back to Mrs. Finch, he noticed the tell-tale red sticker which indicated that the painting had been sold. “Did you buy it?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she said with a soft laugh. “I would have been tempted, but someone else beat me to it.”
“Petrosian said that it sold in the first half hour,” Virginia explained. Justin interpreted her semi-concealed smirk as triumph at being proven right. The gallery manager, Mr. Petrosian, had hesitated to include so large-scale a painting from an unknown, and another gallery owner had refused it just weeks earlier. “I’ll introduce you to the buyer before we leave.”
Introducing Justin to this potential buyer had gotten priority over introducing him to the buyer of the largest, most expensive painting he’d sold to date-that was interesting. Virginia must consider Mrs. Finch to be very important. He’d have to think twice before turning her down, and if he did ultimately turn her down, he’d need to do so very carefully.
“Do you know who your statue represents?” Justin asked, fishing for more information before he decided. He’d be willing to bet his eye teeth-and he was rather fond of his teeth-that the statue was a male nude.
“Mm-hm.” Mrs. Finch nodded, but she smiled rather than sharing the name with him. “Here’s what I propose: one afternoon this week, you come to my home to see the statue, and I’ll tell you the myth behind it. Then, you can decide if you’re interested. If you are, wonderful! And if you aren’t-well, you’ll still get a free lunch out of it. What do you say?”
A free lunch and a chance to see an Athenian bronze in a private collection-Justin didn’t hesitate.
“Name the day,” he said with a bright smile. He could always find a polite way to say, “No,” after he saw the statue and learned what the ‘catch’ was.
* * * * *
Mrs. Finch's apartment was located on Central Park West--just the sort of tony address Justin had expected of her. As Justin waited for the door to be answered, he mentally thanked Brian for making sure that his wardrobe included fashionably expensive clothing for making the rounds of galleries. He couldn't do anything to make his messenger bag look "older," but he'd decided to bring it anyway; he might need the sketchbooks and other supplies in it. The woman who answered, younger than Mrs. Finch and with her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, asked Justin to wait just inside the foyer.
Justin only had to wait a few moments before the tapping of Mrs. Finch's high heels on the marble floor announced her arrival.
After greeting him, and asking him to call her by her first name, she said, "My apologies for making you wait in the foyer. Maria usually has guests wait in here,” she gestured toward the wide doorway on the right and led him toward it, “but I asked her not to with you. I wanted to be present when you first saw my Hyakinthos.”
The nearly life-size statue merited a place of honor along a wall first seen as guests entered the room and was thus virtually the first thing Justin saw upon reaching the doorway. He was surprised that the figure was not standing, but was instead lying prone-very rare for ancient Greek statuary. He knew instantly why his painting of Brian had gotten Charlotte Finch’s attention. The figure, a male nude as he’d rightly guessed, lay in same position as Brian did in the painting, one arm hiding his face, one knee drawn up, the other leg stretched out.
He drew close to it and then walked its length slowly, examining the well defined musculature, peering at what little of the face he could see behind the privacy of the arm, wondering at hidden features. The resemblance to his painting was uncanny; other than the fact that this figure lay upon matted grass rather than rumpled sheets, it could easily have been his painting reinterpreted in bronze. Now he understood perfectly why his nude had convinced her that he was the artist who could carry out this little “a painting inspired by this statue” plan of hers. He just hoped she didn’t expect him to paint a near-exact copy of his previous painting.
Finally, realizing that he was probably trying the patience of his hostess, he looked up and smiled. “It’s wonderful,” he said.
“Are you familiar with the myth of Hyakinthos?” she asked. At Justin’s shake of the head, she laughed slightly. “I’m not surprised. Our schools willingly teach about the Greek gods falling in love with beautiful maidens, but the stories about them with beautiful youths tend to be omitted. Zeus and Leda, but not Zeus and Ganymede. Apollo and Daphne, but not Apollo and Hyakinthos.”
Now Justin had to hear the story, if for no other reason than to tell Daphne the next time they spoke on the phone; they both knew the Apollo and Daphne story.
Mrs. Finch settled herself on one of the room’s dove gray sofas as she began the story with the familiar phrase, “Once upon a time…”
Justin hesitated for just a moment-considering whether or not it would be rude to get out his sketchbook and begin sketching the figure while she spoke-before he took a seat in the sofa opposite her.
“…Apollo saw a beautiful youth, Hyakinthos, the son of the king of Sparta. It was lust at first sight,” she added while leaning forward conspiratorially. Justin grinned back. “And for Hyakinthos as well; Apollo was a god, after all.”
Justin was starting like Charlotte Finch. He was also starting to feel a familiar kinship with young Hyakinthos.
“Soon the two were inseparable, spending every day-and every night-together.”
“I guess Hyakinthos didn’t play hard-to-get like Daphne did.”
“Be fair to poor Daphne,” Charlotte said. “After all, the Greeks valued chastity in women, but found it irrelevant for men.”
Justin conceded the point.
“One day, the two were practicing the discus together.” Justin considered that a bizarre use of their time together but refrained from commenting. “Hyakinthos was eager to please Apollo, and wanted to prove himself worthy of his divine lover, so whenever Apollo threw the discus, Hyakinthos fetched it back as swiftly as he could. He was so eager, that one throw, he didn’t wait for the discus to return to earth before chasing it down. An errant gust of wind changed the course of the disc.
“Apollo realized the danger and called out a warning, but too late.” Justin’s breath caught when Charlotte continued, “The discus fell from the sky, striking Hyakinthos here, in the temple, a mortal blow.”
As Charlotte’s hand had touched just above her temple, Justin had almost done the same. He knew if he did, he’d feel the scar that his hair concealed. Charlotte continued the story, but Justin no longer pictured two men in a sunny field in Greece, but two men in a dark parking garage.
“Apollo ran to Hyakinthos and gathered him in his arms. But even he, the god of healing, couldn’t save his beloved; it was too late. Apollo cried out in anguish and despair.
“And where Hyakinthos’s blood spilled, Apollo brought forth the flower that bears his name. Some say that if you look closely at the petals, you can see the letters which represent his anguished cry. In English, we call the flower hyacinth.”
Great, Justin thought wryly, Daphne’s a tree, and I’m a flower, before he remembered that the story wasn’t about him at all.
“Some story,” Justin said as he offered a fleeting smile. He rose to go look at the statue again, hoping to hide any hint that the story had shaken him.
“You can see the discus lying in the grass near Hyakinthos’s foot,” she said. Justin shifted his gaze to the object, surprised by the reminder that this figure was Hyakinthos, and not the mourning Apollo as he’d begun to think of it.
“You might find this interesting,” Charlotte said. “In some versions of the story, Zephyr, the west wind, is jealous of Apollo and Hyakinthos, and it is Zephyr who deliberately blows the discus off-course, murdering Hyakinthos.”
Justin huffed a laugh at that. Michael had been jealous, yes, but it hadn’t been Michael who had tried to kill him. Michael would probably get a kick out of the story though-as long as Justin told it when Brian wasn’t around to hear it. Justin had no doubt that Brian’s mind would go to the same dark place that Justin’s had, but for Brian it would be worse. For Brian, it would be a memory rather than the workings of a too vivid imagination.
Then Justin realized the significance of Charlotte saying that he’d find that aspect of the story interesting. “You’re familiar with Rage?”
She smiled and rose from the sofa. “I Googled you when I got home from the gallery on Friday night. I even ordered the latest issue of Rage online, but it hasn’t arrived yet.
“Why don’t we talk more over lunch. You can make sketches or take any photos you wish after we eat.”
* * * * *
Justin didn’t see any familiar faces in the diner; not even Debbie or Kiki seemed to be working today. Carl must be succeeding in getting Debbie to cut back her hours, Justin thought approvingly. So, after stepping into the kitchen to say hello to Manny, the cook, Justin slipped into a booth and pulled out a sketchpad to fill his time while he waited for Brian.
He began flipping through the pages he’d filled with sketches of the Hyakinthos statue last week. He had both full-length images from various angles and multiple detail sketches: the position of his knee, the curve of his wrist, the way the curls of matted grass echoed the waves in his hair. All the sketches were pencil or charcoal, and Justin wished once again that he’d thought to bring pastels to capture the unique hues of the patina. I wonder what it looked like when the bronze was new.
A knee bumping against his own alerted him to the fact that someone had slid into the seat opposite him while he was lost in his own thoughts. He looked up, smiling, expecting to see Brian.
“Ben,” he said in surprise. “Hi.”
“Hi, Justin,” Ben said, smiling back warmly. “I heard rumors you were back in town for a few days. Glad to see you were willing to grace us little people with your presence rather than stay locked away with Brian.”
“He had to go into Kinnetik; he can’t play hooky every time I come home.”
“Sketches of Brian?” Ben asked as he tilted his head to see the upside down drawings.
“No, a Greek statue I saw the other day,” Justin replied as he turned the sketchbook so Ben could get a better view. “A fourth century B.C. Athenian bronze.”
“I just assumed, nude, Brian,” Ben said as a suppressed smile quirked up the corners of his lips, but his brow furrowed as he looked at the sketches. “That’s a very unusual pose for a Greek statue, isn’t it?”
“That’s the first thing I thought too,” Justin admitted.
“It reminds me of the statue of Alexias.”
“Who’s Alexias?”
But Michael’s and Brian’s arrivals at that moment prevented Ben from answering, and the next few minutes were spent exchanging greetings and, when the waiter came over, ordering lunch, but at the first opportunity, Justin asked his question again. Ben looked puzzled until Justin tapped on the sketchbook page.
“You drew him nude, and you don’t know who he is?” Michael asked.
“No,” Ben said with a laugh. “I was telling Justin that his sketches reminded me of a scene in The Last of the Wine, a novel set in ancient Athens. The narrator, Alexias, poses for a statue of-someone-and that’s the pose the sculptor chooses. Hyakinthos, I think.”
“That’s too weird,” Justin said. “This is a statue of Hyakinthos, and I don’t know of any other ancient Greek statues with a pose like this.”
“Awfully familiar pose, Sunshine,” Brian commented. Brian had, of course, seen the painting Justin had done of him in that pose.
Justin gave Brian a nudge in the ribs. “That painting is what got me this job.” Then he explained to his friends about his latest commission piece, concluding, “And she said that she doesn’t care whether or not anyone can see a connection between the statue and my painting. As long as there’s a connection in my mind, that’s enough.”
“Complete creative control,” Brian noted proudly.
“Except for a size limit, but that’s no big deal.”
“Maybe you could paint Hyakinthos’s murderer,” Ben said as he resumed looking at the sketches. “I’m sure Michael would pose for you.” Ben couldn’t quite suppress his smile.
“Excuse me?” Michael turned to glare at his partner. “A murderer? Me?”
“According to the myth, Hyakinthos was murdered by Zephyr,” Ben explained. “Both Zephyr and Apollo fell in love with Hyakinthos, but Hyakinthos chose Apollo. Zephyr killed Hyankinthos in a jealous rage.”
The arrival of their lunches with its attendant distribution of napkins, ketchup, etc. gave Justin a chance to quietly absorb this surprising new twist in the tale. Charlotte had said that Zephyr was jealous of the couple, and Justin had simply assumed it was Apollo that Zephyr loved. He realized that he might need to brush up on his Greek mythology.
Michael seemed put out to discover that his comic book alter ego was named after a murderer, but Ben assured him that the myth wasn’t well known. Most people would only associate the name with its newer definition, a gentle wind-a perfect name for a superhero capable of flight.
Brian’s arm had settled around Justin’s shoulders during the arrival of lunch, and he occasionally curled his fingers up to touch Justin’s hair. Justin hoped it was just ordinary Brian-ness and not Brian reacting to the story of Hyakinthos’s murder. He glanced over at his partner and was somewhat reassured that he appeared at ease. Fortunately, Ben hadn’t told any of the details of the story that had so bothered Justin on the first telling; with any luck, they’d keep it that way.
“I still think it’s rather intriguing that this statue of Hyakinthos has the same pose as the one in The Last of the Wine,” Ben mused aloud. “I can’t help but wonder if Mary Renault ever saw it. It may have inspired her.”
“Renault? Isn’t she the author of The Persian Boy?” Brian asked. At Ben’s affirmative nod, Brian added, “Good book. Haven’t read it in years though.”
“When I was an undergraduate, if a guy admitted to having read The Persian Boy, it was the same as saying, ‘Hi, I’m gay,’” Ben explained to Justin.
Brian snorted. “I had a more infallible way of deciding if a guy was queer. If he checked me out, he was queer; if he didn’t, he wasn’t.”
“Yes, well, not all of us were capable of turning heads when we were in college,” Ben stated dryly.
“You turn heads now,” Michael assured him with a smile and a kiss on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Michael.” Ben offered a small peck on the lips in return. “Anyway, The Persian Boy is on the recommended reading list for my gay studies students. The Last of the Wine is on the required list. It’s the perfect example of an erastes-eromenos relationship.”
“A what?” Justin asked.
“We tend to think of the ancient Greeks as being fully accepting of homosexuality, but the truth was, they had their hang-ups too. They had a double standard. They thought of the act of penetrating as masculine-no matter who the sexual partner-but being penetrated was thought of as feminine.”
“You can say fucking, Professor,” Brian said. “You’re in the Liberty Diner, not your classroom.”
“True,” Ben conceded with a smile. “Force of habit when I get into lecture mode.
“Anyway, in many parts of Greece they dealt with this taboo by having homosexual pairings be slightly cross-generational. At the start of the relationship, the erastes, the older of the two, would be in his mid to late twenties. The younger, the eromenos, would be in his mid to late teens.”
“Gee, now why does that sound familiar?” Michael asked with grin. Brian flicked a French fry-from Justin’s plate-at Michael in retaliation.
“Since the eromenos was only a youth, not yet a man in society’s eyes, that which was taboo for an adult man was permitted for him.”
“He could get fucked,” Brian said-directly into Justin’s ear. The feel of Brian’s warm breath on Justin’s ear sent a jolt directly down his spine. Justin knew he wouldn’t let Brian go back to the office without getting fucked by him first-or perhaps he’d be going back with him to the office to get fucked.
“Exactly. But the erastes-eromenos relationship was about far more than sex. The erastes was expected to be a mentor as well. It was his responsibility to teach his eromenos, his beloved, how to be an adult man in the Greek world. He had an obligation to assist with the eromenos’s education, to introduce him into society, and-during times of war-to fight beside him in battle.”
“This does sound very familiar,” Justin said as he smiled up at Brian. Brian merely bit his lips and looked away, pretending to need the waiter’s attention for more coffee.
“Maybe I should read that book,” Michael said.
“If you’d like,” Ben said, but even Justin could hear a ill-concealed note of reluctance in Ben’s voice. “You’d probably like The Persian Boy better.”
“No, Fire from Heaven, definitely,” Brian suggested with a smirk.
Ben laughed. “Oh god, you’re right. Justin can read The Persian Boy.”
Justin raised his eyebrows in a non-verbal question, but Brian merely grinned and shook his head. Justin then looked over at Michael, who shrugged.
“Laughing at us and not telling us why is a good way to get to sleep on the couch tonight,” Michael pointed out.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” Ben apologized, still grinning widely, “but we weren’t laughing at you. I was just laughing because Brian was absolutely right about which book you’d prefer.”
“Both books are about Alexander the Great,” Brian explained, “but Fire from Heaven is about his childhood and youth. It’s sort of a superhero origins story. You’d love it.”
* * * * *
“OK, fess up. What’s the real reason that you and Ben were laughing about Michael and me and those books?” Justin asked Brian as they walked toward Kinnetik. It seemed Brian was in the mood for a fuck on his office sofa rather than a fuck in the Liberty Diner bathroom.
“We weren’t laughing at you,” Brian assured him.
“At Michael?”
“Maybe.”
Now Justin really had to know. “C’mon, spill,” he urged as he pinched Brian’s side to make his point.
“Ow!” Brian squirmed away. “Vicious little fucker, aren’t you?”
“Tell me.”
“Fine.” Brian grabbed Justin’s nearest hand-perhaps to prevent more pinches-and held it tightly clasped in his own. “Like I said in the diner, both books are about Alexander the Great. Fire from Heaven is about his childhood, so the most important relationship in his life is with his best friend, Hephaistion. The Persian Boy is set a bit later when Alexander meets an annoying little twink named Bagoas.”
The suggestion that Michael would prefer the first book began to make sense. “And did Alexander fall head over heels in love with Bagoas?” Justin asked in a teasing tone.
“Well, let’s put it this way,” Brian said in low, quiet voice as he pushed Justin up against the exterior wall of Kinnetik, “Bagoas was a very beautiful dancing boy, and a sex slave who’d been well-trained in the art of pleasure.” Brian slowly trailed his fingers down Justin’s side, curving the path to end with one ass cheek cupped in his palm. “Do you think Alexander fell for him?”
“Perhaps we’ll need to do a bit of role-playing tonight to find out,” Justin offered. “I could be your Bagoas.”
“You are well trained in the art of pleasure.”
“Taught by the best.”
* * * * *
Chremon chose the slain Hyakinthos, in the end, to make his statue on. I was glad of this; Hyakinthos lay prone, with an arm before his face. At one time, Chremon had been very much taken with Dionysos, who was lying face up. ~from The Last of the Wine by Mary Renault
Title: Hyakinthos
Author: mysid
Pairings: Brian/Justin, Michael/Ben
Rating: PG-13 for language
Timeline: Post-513
Disclaimer: All characters from Queer as Folk belong to Cowlip Productions.
Author’s Note: In The Last of the Wine by Mary Renault, the main character, Alexias, reluctantly poses for a statue of Hyakinthos. (The sculptor will only hire models who are willing to work “long and hard into the night”--to borrow an appropriate phrase from QaF. Alexias only agrees because he needs the money to save the life of his lover.) The same statue makes a cameo appearance in Renault’s Fire from Heaven. Curious, I read more about the myth of Hyakinthos, and that led to this:
Hyakinthos
Nine months in New York, four of them with an agent, had given Justin ample practice in charming potential buyers. He hated doing it; either they liked his art or they didn’t, but he knew that it was part of the game. And when he got to hate it too much, he had Brian to remind him that it was a necessary part of the game.
“Do you think I win clients solely on the basis of the ad campaigns we dream up? I’m selling Kinnetik-me-as much as I am the latest ad idea. If they believe I’m the best and that I’ll always keep them one step ahead of their competitors, they’ll sign with me,” Brian had explained many months ago during the cab ride from Justin’s apartment to a gallery displaying just one of his paintings as part of an “Emerging New Artists” show. Justin had made the mistake of saying it wasn’t worth going just to schmooze; he’d rather stay home and fuck.
“You need to do the same, Sunshine; sell yourself. If you want them to shell out ‘famous artiste’ prices on your paintings, you have to convince them that you’re well on your way to becoming a famous artiste. Yes, they’ll only buy a painting if they like it, but they’ll only pay the big bucks it they think it’s an investment.”
And so Justin dutifully went to the gallery openings-both his own and the ones his agent insisted upon, shook potential buyers’ hands, smiled his most charming smile, and tried not to look bored when the third-or fifth-or seventh-person of the evening wanted to discuss “the homoerotic imagery” or “the use of color” in his work. He’d do what it took-whatever it took-to become a big enough success that he could go home to Brian without Brian being afraid that Justin had sacrificed too much.
But no matter his goal, there was one phrase guaranteed to make him want to run screaming from a potential buyer, “commission,” as in, “I’d like to hire you to do a piece on commission.” He’d believed at first that commissioned pieces were easy money, guaranteed sales, but he’d quickly learned that they were a soul-sucking trap. He didn’t know which he loathed more, the wanna-be society doyennes who wanted abstracts with “colors that will harmonize with my décor” or the middle-aged queens who wanted nude portraits and would be terribly displeased if they weren’t flattering-ten years younger and many more hours at the gym flattering.
So Justin thought he should be forgiven when, during the opening night of a multi-artist show that he was participating in, his agent, Virginia, introduced him to Charlotte Finch, a forty-something year old woman with Debbie’s build but-thankfully-his mother’s taste in clothing, and heard her say the taboo words, that his first thought was, “Can I turn her down and still afford the rent this month?” He was so busy doing a quick mental calculation of his finances-while keeping a fixed smile on his face-that he only gave half an ear to her explanation of the project.
What he did hear, “-bronze statue, Athenian, from the fourth century B.C.-” was enough to command his full attention.
“I thought the contrast between sculpture and painting, between ancient and modern, but the two united by the painting being inspired by the statue would make an interesting pairing. After I saw this piece,” she gestured to a large-scale nude of Brian on the wall beside them, “I thought you might be just the painter I was searching for.”
Justin took a quick but appraising glance at the painting, trying to see it as a stranger might. A beautiful man asleep on a rumpled bed. Brian lay on his stomach, so the view was of his back and side, as if the viewer stood near the bed. What did Charlotte Finch see when she looked at the painting? Sexuality, yes. Every inch of Brian’s body screamed, “Sex.” The rumpled sheets, hinting at more vigorous activities than mere sleep, simply reinforced the message.
But what else did she see? Did she imagine the man content? At peace? Could she ever imagine that the painting was of heartbreak? Self-sacrifice? That it was of Brian feigning sleep so he wouldn’t have to say, “Good-bye,” when Justin left for New York. Justin had sketched the image-his last glimpse of Brian before walking away-while he waited for his flight to be called, but he hadn’t been able to revisit it to paint it until after Brian had visited him in the city, and they’d both begun to believe they would survive the separation.
As his gaze slid back to Mrs. Finch, he noticed the tell-tale red sticker which indicated that the painting had been sold. “Did you buy it?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she said with a soft laugh. “I would have been tempted, but someone else beat me to it.”
“Petrosian said that it sold in the first half hour,” Virginia explained. Justin interpreted her semi-concealed smirk as triumph at being proven right. The gallery manager, Mr. Petrosian, had hesitated to include so large-scale a painting from an unknown, and another gallery owner had refused it just weeks earlier. “I’ll introduce you to the buyer before we leave.”
Introducing Justin to this potential buyer had gotten priority over introducing him to the buyer of the largest, most expensive painting he’d sold to date-that was interesting. Virginia must consider Mrs. Finch to be very important. He’d have to think twice before turning her down, and if he did ultimately turn her down, he’d need to do so very carefully.
“Do you know who your statue represents?” Justin asked, fishing for more information before he decided. He’d be willing to bet his eye teeth-and he was rather fond of his teeth-that the statue was a male nude.
“Mm-hm.” Mrs. Finch nodded, but she smiled rather than sharing the name with him. “Here’s what I propose: one afternoon this week, you come to my home to see the statue, and I’ll tell you the myth behind it. Then, you can decide if you’re interested. If you are, wonderful! And if you aren’t-well, you’ll still get a free lunch out of it. What do you say?”
A free lunch and a chance to see an Athenian bronze in a private collection-Justin didn’t hesitate.
“Name the day,” he said with a bright smile. He could always find a polite way to say, “No,” after he saw the statue and learned what the ‘catch’ was.
* * * * *
Mrs. Finch's apartment was located on Central Park West--just the sort of tony address Justin had expected of her. As Justin waited for the door to be answered, he mentally thanked Brian for making sure that his wardrobe included fashionably expensive clothing for making the rounds of galleries. He couldn't do anything to make his messenger bag look "older," but he'd decided to bring it anyway; he might need the sketchbooks and other supplies in it. The woman who answered, younger than Mrs. Finch and with her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, asked Justin to wait just inside the foyer.
Justin only had to wait a few moments before the tapping of Mrs. Finch's high heels on the marble floor announced her arrival.
After greeting him, and asking him to call her by her first name, she said, "My apologies for making you wait in the foyer. Maria usually has guests wait in here,” she gestured toward the wide doorway on the right and led him toward it, “but I asked her not to with you. I wanted to be present when you first saw my Hyakinthos.”
The nearly life-size statue merited a place of honor along a wall first seen as guests entered the room and was thus virtually the first thing Justin saw upon reaching the doorway. He was surprised that the figure was not standing, but was instead lying prone-very rare for ancient Greek statuary. He knew instantly why his painting of Brian had gotten Charlotte Finch’s attention. The figure, a male nude as he’d rightly guessed, lay in same position as Brian did in the painting, one arm hiding his face, one knee drawn up, the other leg stretched out.
He drew close to it and then walked its length slowly, examining the well defined musculature, peering at what little of the face he could see behind the privacy of the arm, wondering at hidden features. The resemblance to his painting was uncanny; other than the fact that this figure lay upon matted grass rather than rumpled sheets, it could easily have been his painting reinterpreted in bronze. Now he understood perfectly why his nude had convinced her that he was the artist who could carry out this little “a painting inspired by this statue” plan of hers. He just hoped she didn’t expect him to paint a near-exact copy of his previous painting.
Finally, realizing that he was probably trying the patience of his hostess, he looked up and smiled. “It’s wonderful,” he said.
“Are you familiar with the myth of Hyakinthos?” she asked. At Justin’s shake of the head, she laughed slightly. “I’m not surprised. Our schools willingly teach about the Greek gods falling in love with beautiful maidens, but the stories about them with beautiful youths tend to be omitted. Zeus and Leda, but not Zeus and Ganymede. Apollo and Daphne, but not Apollo and Hyakinthos.”
Now Justin had to hear the story, if for no other reason than to tell Daphne the next time they spoke on the phone; they both knew the Apollo and Daphne story.
Mrs. Finch settled herself on one of the room’s dove gray sofas as she began the story with the familiar phrase, “Once upon a time…”
Justin hesitated for just a moment-considering whether or not it would be rude to get out his sketchbook and begin sketching the figure while she spoke-before he took a seat in the sofa opposite her.
“…Apollo saw a beautiful youth, Hyakinthos, the son of the king of Sparta. It was lust at first sight,” she added while leaning forward conspiratorially. Justin grinned back. “And for Hyakinthos as well; Apollo was a god, after all.”
Justin was starting like Charlotte Finch. He was also starting to feel a familiar kinship with young Hyakinthos.
“Soon the two were inseparable, spending every day-and every night-together.”
“I guess Hyakinthos didn’t play hard-to-get like Daphne did.”
“Be fair to poor Daphne,” Charlotte said. “After all, the Greeks valued chastity in women, but found it irrelevant for men.”
Justin conceded the point.
“One day, the two were practicing the discus together.” Justin considered that a bizarre use of their time together but refrained from commenting. “Hyakinthos was eager to please Apollo, and wanted to prove himself worthy of his divine lover, so whenever Apollo threw the discus, Hyakinthos fetched it back as swiftly as he could. He was so eager, that one throw, he didn’t wait for the discus to return to earth before chasing it down. An errant gust of wind changed the course of the disc.
“Apollo realized the danger and called out a warning, but too late.” Justin’s breath caught when Charlotte continued, “The discus fell from the sky, striking Hyakinthos here, in the temple, a mortal blow.”
As Charlotte’s hand had touched just above her temple, Justin had almost done the same. He knew if he did, he’d feel the scar that his hair concealed. Charlotte continued the story, but Justin no longer pictured two men in a sunny field in Greece, but two men in a dark parking garage.
“Apollo ran to Hyakinthos and gathered him in his arms. But even he, the god of healing, couldn’t save his beloved; it was too late. Apollo cried out in anguish and despair.
“And where Hyakinthos’s blood spilled, Apollo brought forth the flower that bears his name. Some say that if you look closely at the petals, you can see the letters which represent his anguished cry. In English, we call the flower hyacinth.”
Great, Justin thought wryly, Daphne’s a tree, and I’m a flower, before he remembered that the story wasn’t about him at all.
“Some story,” Justin said as he offered a fleeting smile. He rose to go look at the statue again, hoping to hide any hint that the story had shaken him.
“You can see the discus lying in the grass near Hyakinthos’s foot,” she said. Justin shifted his gaze to the object, surprised by the reminder that this figure was Hyakinthos, and not the mourning Apollo as he’d begun to think of it.
“You might find this interesting,” Charlotte said. “In some versions of the story, Zephyr, the west wind, is jealous of Apollo and Hyakinthos, and it is Zephyr who deliberately blows the discus off-course, murdering Hyakinthos.”
Justin huffed a laugh at that. Michael had been jealous, yes, but it hadn’t been Michael who had tried to kill him. Michael would probably get a kick out of the story though-as long as Justin told it when Brian wasn’t around to hear it. Justin had no doubt that Brian’s mind would go to the same dark place that Justin’s had, but for Brian it would be worse. For Brian, it would be a memory rather than the workings of a too vivid imagination.
Then Justin realized the significance of Charlotte saying that he’d find that aspect of the story interesting. “You’re familiar with Rage?”
She smiled and rose from the sofa. “I Googled you when I got home from the gallery on Friday night. I even ordered the latest issue of Rage online, but it hasn’t arrived yet.
“Why don’t we talk more over lunch. You can make sketches or take any photos you wish after we eat.”
* * * * *
Justin didn’t see any familiar faces in the diner; not even Debbie or Kiki seemed to be working today. Carl must be succeeding in getting Debbie to cut back her hours, Justin thought approvingly. So, after stepping into the kitchen to say hello to Manny, the cook, Justin slipped into a booth and pulled out a sketchpad to fill his time while he waited for Brian.
He began flipping through the pages he’d filled with sketches of the Hyakinthos statue last week. He had both full-length images from various angles and multiple detail sketches: the position of his knee, the curve of his wrist, the way the curls of matted grass echoed the waves in his hair. All the sketches were pencil or charcoal, and Justin wished once again that he’d thought to bring pastels to capture the unique hues of the patina. I wonder what it looked like when the bronze was new.
A knee bumping against his own alerted him to the fact that someone had slid into the seat opposite him while he was lost in his own thoughts. He looked up, smiling, expecting to see Brian.
“Ben,” he said in surprise. “Hi.”
“Hi, Justin,” Ben said, smiling back warmly. “I heard rumors you were back in town for a few days. Glad to see you were willing to grace us little people with your presence rather than stay locked away with Brian.”
“He had to go into Kinnetik; he can’t play hooky every time I come home.”
“Sketches of Brian?” Ben asked as he tilted his head to see the upside down drawings.
“No, a Greek statue I saw the other day,” Justin replied as he turned the sketchbook so Ben could get a better view. “A fourth century B.C. Athenian bronze.”
“I just assumed, nude, Brian,” Ben said as a suppressed smile quirked up the corners of his lips, but his brow furrowed as he looked at the sketches. “That’s a very unusual pose for a Greek statue, isn’t it?”
“That’s the first thing I thought too,” Justin admitted.
“It reminds me of the statue of Alexias.”
“Who’s Alexias?”
But Michael’s and Brian’s arrivals at that moment prevented Ben from answering, and the next few minutes were spent exchanging greetings and, when the waiter came over, ordering lunch, but at the first opportunity, Justin asked his question again. Ben looked puzzled until Justin tapped on the sketchbook page.
“You drew him nude, and you don’t know who he is?” Michael asked.
“No,” Ben said with a laugh. “I was telling Justin that his sketches reminded me of a scene in The Last of the Wine, a novel set in ancient Athens. The narrator, Alexias, poses for a statue of-someone-and that’s the pose the sculptor chooses. Hyakinthos, I think.”
“That’s too weird,” Justin said. “This is a statue of Hyakinthos, and I don’t know of any other ancient Greek statues with a pose like this.”
“Awfully familiar pose, Sunshine,” Brian commented. Brian had, of course, seen the painting Justin had done of him in that pose.
Justin gave Brian a nudge in the ribs. “That painting is what got me this job.” Then he explained to his friends about his latest commission piece, concluding, “And she said that she doesn’t care whether or not anyone can see a connection between the statue and my painting. As long as there’s a connection in my mind, that’s enough.”
“Complete creative control,” Brian noted proudly.
“Except for a size limit, but that’s no big deal.”
“Maybe you could paint Hyakinthos’s murderer,” Ben said as he resumed looking at the sketches. “I’m sure Michael would pose for you.” Ben couldn’t quite suppress his smile.
“Excuse me?” Michael turned to glare at his partner. “A murderer? Me?”
“According to the myth, Hyakinthos was murdered by Zephyr,” Ben explained. “Both Zephyr and Apollo fell in love with Hyakinthos, but Hyakinthos chose Apollo. Zephyr killed Hyankinthos in a jealous rage.”
The arrival of their lunches with its attendant distribution of napkins, ketchup, etc. gave Justin a chance to quietly absorb this surprising new twist in the tale. Charlotte had said that Zephyr was jealous of the couple, and Justin had simply assumed it was Apollo that Zephyr loved. He realized that he might need to brush up on his Greek mythology.
Michael seemed put out to discover that his comic book alter ego was named after a murderer, but Ben assured him that the myth wasn’t well known. Most people would only associate the name with its newer definition, a gentle wind-a perfect name for a superhero capable of flight.
Brian’s arm had settled around Justin’s shoulders during the arrival of lunch, and he occasionally curled his fingers up to touch Justin’s hair. Justin hoped it was just ordinary Brian-ness and not Brian reacting to the story of Hyakinthos’s murder. He glanced over at his partner and was somewhat reassured that he appeared at ease. Fortunately, Ben hadn’t told any of the details of the story that had so bothered Justin on the first telling; with any luck, they’d keep it that way.
“I still think it’s rather intriguing that this statue of Hyakinthos has the same pose as the one in The Last of the Wine,” Ben mused aloud. “I can’t help but wonder if Mary Renault ever saw it. It may have inspired her.”
“Renault? Isn’t she the author of The Persian Boy?” Brian asked. At Ben’s affirmative nod, Brian added, “Good book. Haven’t read it in years though.”
“When I was an undergraduate, if a guy admitted to having read The Persian Boy, it was the same as saying, ‘Hi, I’m gay,’” Ben explained to Justin.
Brian snorted. “I had a more infallible way of deciding if a guy was queer. If he checked me out, he was queer; if he didn’t, he wasn’t.”
“Yes, well, not all of us were capable of turning heads when we were in college,” Ben stated dryly.
“You turn heads now,” Michael assured him with a smile and a kiss on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Michael.” Ben offered a small peck on the lips in return. “Anyway, The Persian Boy is on the recommended reading list for my gay studies students. The Last of the Wine is on the required list. It’s the perfect example of an erastes-eromenos relationship.”
“A what?” Justin asked.
“We tend to think of the ancient Greeks as being fully accepting of homosexuality, but the truth was, they had their hang-ups too. They had a double standard. They thought of the act of penetrating as masculine-no matter who the sexual partner-but being penetrated was thought of as feminine.”
“You can say fucking, Professor,” Brian said. “You’re in the Liberty Diner, not your classroom.”
“True,” Ben conceded with a smile. “Force of habit when I get into lecture mode.
“Anyway, in many parts of Greece they dealt with this taboo by having homosexual pairings be slightly cross-generational. At the start of the relationship, the erastes, the older of the two, would be in his mid to late twenties. The younger, the eromenos, would be in his mid to late teens.”
“Gee, now why does that sound familiar?” Michael asked with grin. Brian flicked a French fry-from Justin’s plate-at Michael in retaliation.
“Since the eromenos was only a youth, not yet a man in society’s eyes, that which was taboo for an adult man was permitted for him.”
“He could get fucked,” Brian said-directly into Justin’s ear. The feel of Brian’s warm breath on Justin’s ear sent a jolt directly down his spine. Justin knew he wouldn’t let Brian go back to the office without getting fucked by him first-or perhaps he’d be going back with him to the office to get fucked.
“Exactly. But the erastes-eromenos relationship was about far more than sex. The erastes was expected to be a mentor as well. It was his responsibility to teach his eromenos, his beloved, how to be an adult man in the Greek world. He had an obligation to assist with the eromenos’s education, to introduce him into society, and-during times of war-to fight beside him in battle.”
“This does sound very familiar,” Justin said as he smiled up at Brian. Brian merely bit his lips and looked away, pretending to need the waiter’s attention for more coffee.
“Maybe I should read that book,” Michael said.
“If you’d like,” Ben said, but even Justin could hear a ill-concealed note of reluctance in Ben’s voice. “You’d probably like The Persian Boy better.”
“No, Fire from Heaven, definitely,” Brian suggested with a smirk.
Ben laughed. “Oh god, you’re right. Justin can read The Persian Boy.”
Justin raised his eyebrows in a non-verbal question, but Brian merely grinned and shook his head. Justin then looked over at Michael, who shrugged.
“Laughing at us and not telling us why is a good way to get to sleep on the couch tonight,” Michael pointed out.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” Ben apologized, still grinning widely, “but we weren’t laughing at you. I was just laughing because Brian was absolutely right about which book you’d prefer.”
“Both books are about Alexander the Great,” Brian explained, “but Fire from Heaven is about his childhood and youth. It’s sort of a superhero origins story. You’d love it.”
* * * * *
“OK, fess up. What’s the real reason that you and Ben were laughing about Michael and me and those books?” Justin asked Brian as they walked toward Kinnetik. It seemed Brian was in the mood for a fuck on his office sofa rather than a fuck in the Liberty Diner bathroom.
“We weren’t laughing at you,” Brian assured him.
“At Michael?”
“Maybe.”
Now Justin really had to know. “C’mon, spill,” he urged as he pinched Brian’s side to make his point.
“Ow!” Brian squirmed away. “Vicious little fucker, aren’t you?”
“Tell me.”
“Fine.” Brian grabbed Justin’s nearest hand-perhaps to prevent more pinches-and held it tightly clasped in his own. “Like I said in the diner, both books are about Alexander the Great. Fire from Heaven is about his childhood, so the most important relationship in his life is with his best friend, Hephaistion. The Persian Boy is set a bit later when Alexander meets an annoying little twink named Bagoas.”
The suggestion that Michael would prefer the first book began to make sense. “And did Alexander fall head over heels in love with Bagoas?” Justin asked in a teasing tone.
“Well, let’s put it this way,” Brian said in low, quiet voice as he pushed Justin up against the exterior wall of Kinnetik, “Bagoas was a very beautiful dancing boy, and a sex slave who’d been well-trained in the art of pleasure.” Brian slowly trailed his fingers down Justin’s side, curving the path to end with one ass cheek cupped in his palm. “Do you think Alexander fell for him?”
“Perhaps we’ll need to do a bit of role-playing tonight to find out,” Justin offered. “I could be your Bagoas.”
“You are well trained in the art of pleasure.”
“Taught by the best.”
* * * * *
Chremon chose the slain Hyakinthos, in the end, to make his statue on. I was glad of this; Hyakinthos lay prone, with an arm before his face. At one time, Chremon had been very much taken with Dionysos, who was lying face up. ~from The Last of the Wine by Mary Renault