Paris in the Early Days 5/6

[tsuki_no_bara]

J2 RPS AU
NC-17
Part 5 of 6
Master post
Art


The Four Seasons

He got his first letter a little over a week later. It had been written on the ship and posted after Jensen disembarked in New Orleans.

"I notice he didn't write me," Christian commented drily when he handed it over the bar of the Cherokee. "Didn't even send a postcard."

"He must love me more," Jared said, too distracted to really pay attention to what he was saying. Christian didn't answer. Jared took a seat at a corner table to read his mail.

Jared,

I have a tiny berth with barely any room for the bed and my bag, so I'm sitting on deck to write this. I apologize for the shaky handwriting; it's not very smooth sailing.

This will be a short note because I've already met someone and been challenged to a game of chess (I think Aldis would approve), but I want to remember to tell you that I miss you already but I'm excited to see my folks and to meet Mac's fiancé. I think the change of scene will help me write.

Tell everyone I said hello. I'd say kiss yourself from me, but you know I'd be imagining you doing more than kissing.

I love you,

J

"Well?" Steve called from across the bar. "Did he sink?"

"Shut up," Jared called back.

"So he made it home in one piece," Christian said. "Good to know."

That night Anton appeared at the studio, explaining that he'd gone to the Cherokee and Christian had sent him over and was Jared going to the Green Door and could he tag along, and where was Jensen?

"His sister's getting married," Jared told him. "He went home."

"Oh." Anton peered around the studio. Jared realized he'd never been inside, but of course he'd want to see it. In his mind this was probably where half the bohemian magic happened. "Where's home?"

"Dallas."

"Where's that?"

"Texas. Don't they teach you geography at your fancy private school?"

Anton shrugged. "Not American geography. It's a French school. They only care about France. I can name all the départements, their capitals and major industries, and explain how the government works and why Napoleon and Charlemagne were the greatest rulers ever." He gestured to the half-finished painting of Spring that was sitting on the easel. "Is that Sandy?"

"Yeah. I'm doing a series of the four seasons." He'd started the day after Jensen left, figuring that Sandy was in the studio already, so he might as well get her to model for him. "She's Spring. Genevieve said she'd pose for Autumn and I still need to convince Danneel to be Winter."

"Do you have a Summer?" He looked eager.

"An aspiring opera singer. It'll be the first time I've deliberately used a model I don't know for a major piece."

"Would you paint me?"

"Sure. I'll do one of the Green Door and put you in it." Jared grinned. Anton grinned back. "Your parents will know you've been sneaking out to be with crazy impoverished artists and dancing girls, though."

"They know already." He grabbed Jared's hand. "Come on. Maybe the girls will let me watch them get dressed."

Later, Anton's desire to be in one of Jared's paintings gave Jared an idea - what if he did another series of seasons, but this time using male models? He'd ask Aldis or Edwin to model for Winter. Christian could be Autumn, Anton would sit for Spring, and he'd get Jensen to pose for Summer. Somehow.

It was a good thought. He had to make more progress on the current seasons, but once he'd finished them he could start preparing for the next set. He could even start asking his potential models now.

Jared had thought Jensen's absence would be a much bigger deal than it turned out to be. He still missed his boyfriend every night - and he'd asked Sandy a few more times to stay over, which she was glad to do partly because his bed was bigger than hers - but he had work to keep him busy. Misha asked for more paintings and wanted to know if Jared had thought about designing posters (he hadn't), and Jared worked on his four seasons. He worked on Spring, started Autumn, and tried to figure out how to convince Danneel to model for Winter.

When Genevieve came over one Saturday for her second modeling session - they'd spent half the first session looking at sketches and talking and sharing a bottle of wine - he realized he could use her. And she even brought it up herself, by asking if Danneel was coming by.

"She might. I asked her to." He'd hoped that he could finally persuade her to pose for Winter if he had Genevieve to help him. She was so close to agreeing and he just had a few details to fix on Spring and he was making good progress on Autumn.

"You know what some of the girls at the Green Door call me now?" Genevieve went on. "Le poisson d'avril."

"'Poisson' is 'fish', right? What's 'davril'?"

"De Avril. April. April fool." Oh. He knew that. Her expression and tone of voice indicated that she knew he knew it too. "Like Danneel's a joke the universe is playing on me." She sounded annoyed. "They call her 'le poisson d'or', the goldfish."

"Why?"

"Because she works for a wealthy family, I don't know. Because they think she has the attention span of a goldfish and she'll get tired of me." She managed to shrug without disrupting her pose. "It's been over a month. Just because we can't see each other all the time.... I wish we could, though."

"I think she does too."

"Emmanuelle had an admirer bring her flowers every day for almost three weeks, and then he just stopped coming. She hasn't seen him since. We told her not to sleep with him." Now Genevieve sounded almost smug.

"But you and Danneel - "

"Sort of. Mostly. She won't leave me, though." A pause, and she turned to look at him, breaking the pose, and now sounding a little worried. "She won't, will she?"

"Not because you slept together. But she doesn't want to lose her job. That's why she keeps refusing to model for me. She doesn't want Mr and Mrs B and their friends to see her hanging half-naked in Misha's gallery."

Genevieve laughed. "Good thing they don't know how she spends her days off, then."

Jared had a feeling that Mrs B might know, but he elected not to say anything. It was between her and Danneel, anyway.

"I told her to ask them first," he told Genevieve. He squinted at her, at the painting on his canvas, and at her again. He dropped his brush in the jar of water and picked up a different one. He'd found a sheaf of wheat for her to hold, and he needed to finish putting it on the canvas before it fell apart. "I said I'd paint her fully clothed."

"You can probably paint her from memory."

Which was exactly what Jensen had always said when Jared asked him to model for a painting. Jared was surprised he hadn't thought of it in relation to Danneel.

But she'd hate that he hadn't listened to her, that he hadn't respected her desire for privacy. And he didn't want to discover that she'd been right about losing her job if a painting of her turned up in public, hanging in Misha's gallery for anyone to own.

"I can't do that to her," he said. "She'd hate me."

Genevieve lapsed into silence and Jared concentrated on the sheaf of wheat and the light and shadows on her arms and in her hair. She told him when she'd had enough of standing and he put his brushes in water and they both sat on the sofa to take a breather.

"How much longer do I have to pose?" she asked.

"Another hour, maybe. Do you want to see?"

"Not until it's done. Sandy said you were finished with her."

"I'm done painting her, but I'm still not satisfied with the background." He gestured to the nearly-finished painting, which was propped against the wall under the window. He wanted to fix some of the colors of the trees in the background - he wasn't sure the trunks were the right brown or that the leaves were the right pale green, or that the light was right - but the figure of Spring herself was as perfect as he could make her. He could see all the flaws now that he was finished with her, but he knew there was only so much he could tinker with the painting before he ruined it. And the last thing he wanted to do was ruin it. He'd finish it, finish Autumn, and then have Misha come by to look at them.

And in the meantime, he'd sent Alona the opera trainee a message asking when she could come model for him, as well as a couple of pages of sketchy ideas, and he still had to convince Danneel she wanted to be Winter.

Genevieve would help him, as would the paintings he'd already been working on. He needed her to say yes. There were no other girls he wanted to paint as badly as he wanted to paint her. There had to be a way to do it that wouldn't lead to a scandal.

"Paint her body and her hair, but give her someone else's face," Genevieve suggested, as if she could read Jared's mind.

"What?"

"If Danneel still won't model for you. Tell her you won't paint her real face. Then no one will recognize her." She grinned, clearly pleased with herself.

"But that defeats the purpose. Autumn looks like you. Spring looks like Sandy. I got a model for Summer, an opera singer, and she doesn't mind that I'll be using her face. You'll help me convince her, won't you?"

"Of course I will." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "You introduced us."

"Okay, break over. Back to work." He stood up and held out his hand to assist Genevieve. She laughed at his manners but accepted his hand. Once he'd adjusted her position so she and the wheat were in the exact same pose as before, he stood behind his easel again, selected a brush, dabbed it in some mustard yellow paint, and got on with his work.

He was nearly done when Danneel showed up. Genevieve didn't move a muscle but Jared could see her face brighten, and Danneel couldn't help but smile too. Jared allowed himself a mental pat on the back for his small part in facilitating their relationship. He had no idea how long it would last, but right now he didn't think that mattered.

He wondered if he and Jensen looked at each other that way, if someone else watching them could see their love on their faces. He didn't know how it couldn't be obvious.

Danneel had a net bag over one arm and was carrying several wrapped packages which she set on the sofa.

"I brought you food," she said. "And soap."

"Soap?" Jared repeated.

"I thought I'd do some laundry. Everything you own is covered in paint and charcoal."

"But I'm a painter. You don't have to wash my clothes. You'll be hauling water up and down the hallway for hours."

"If I don't, who will? I also brought a pair of scissors because you could really use a haircut."

He protested that he was an adult and could take care of himself, never mind that he hadn't particularly cared about his clothes or the rest of his appearance since Jensen had gone back to Texas. Danneel ignored him.

"I brought you something too," she said to Genevieve, smiling a little shyly. She took a small package out of her skirt pocket and handed it over.

Genevieve pulled off the paper, revealing a small cloisonné box with a yellow-orange fish on the lid. She stared at it for a minute and then laughed.

"It's a goldfish," she managed to say. She held it out towards Jared. "Look. God's telling me something." Jared took the box and Genevieve threw her arms around Danneel's neck, telling her "You have no idea," and kissing her soundly on the cheek.

"Do you want some privacy?" Jared asked, teasing. Danneel's face over Genevieve's shoulder was a mix of baffled and pleased. Genevieve giggled into her neck. "What kind of food did you bring me?"

"Bread, cheese, jam, fruit, carrots, an aubergine, a courgette, day-old brioche, cream, some eggs - I learned how to make bread pudding so I thought I'd inflict it on you. How do you feel about raisins?" She pulled away from Genevieve, who was still giggling to herself, and cast an eye on Jared's stove. He should probably be embarrassed at how dirty it was. "You don't have a good pan, do you."

"Just a teakettle. We don't really cook. Christian keeps threatening to buy us a pot so we can feed ourselves and stop making him do it, but, well." He spread his hands helplessly. He'd always had better things to do than cook. Besides, for all his complaining about Jared and Jensen's begging, Christian always fed them, because he liked feeding people.

"You don't put eggplant in bread pudding," Genevieve said.

"That's for later. Mr B's mother is coming to visit on Monday and wants to spend time with her grandchildren, so I have half of Tuesday off. I'll come back and cook for you. You too," she said to Genevieve.

"Only if you model for me," Jared said.

"Say yes," Genevieve added. "Please say yes."

"I can't," Danneel told them. "I told you, I can't risk it. I can't - it's my job, Jared. I can't jeopardize it by modeling for - for - " She gestured around the studio, at the half-finished paintings and drawings and sketches of Montmartre working girls and dancing girls and butchers with bloody aprons and people drinking in bars and rent boys and plasterers and woodworkers taking a break from beautifying Sacré-Coeur. "I'm not an artist's model and I'm not a wealthy girl who can pretend to be an artist's model. I can't."

"I won't paint you naked," he said. "You'll be fully clothed. Nothing scandalous, I promise. I won't even paint your real face. I'll make you look like someone else. No one will recognize you. I did a painting of you months ago in the Bois, pushing the baby's pram. Misha's seen it."

"That's me doing my job. It's not the same."

"Ask Mrs B," Genevieve suggested. "What if she said it was okay?"

"She won't."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"Ask her anyway."

"Danneel," Jared said, "she knows you come see me on your days off. She knows we're friends. For all you know, she thinks you've modeled for me already." Danneel blanched and Jared cursed himself. That was the wrong thing to say. "Can you bring it up in casual conversation?"

"She's my employer. We don't have casual conversations."

"For me?" Genevieve asked. "Please? You're beautiful. Everyone should know that." Jared noticed that her drape was falling off her shoulder, but she made no move to adjust it. He should suggest she get dressed. He should make an excuse to leave so she could try to convince Danneel in private.

"If you really want to make bread pudding," he said to Danneel, hoping she didn't care that he was so obviously changing the subject, "you need a pan. I'll go ask the Hodges if they have one you can borrow."

He left the girls, hoping Genevieve could succeed where he couldn't, and went next door to ask the brothers if they had a pan they could spare. They did. Aldis also wanted to bend Jared's ear about photography and would Misha consider showing some photos, and if not, did Jared know of any dealers who would. He and Edwin had been to see the exhibition and were really interested in the sculptures and the Russian girl's paintings.

"How are your seasons progressing?" Aldis asked. "When are you going to paint me?"

"I can't start yours until the current series is complete. Spring's pretty much done except for a background thing, Autumn is getting there, I need to pin down a time for Summer to come model for me, and I'm still trying to convince Winter that she wants to do it." Jared jerked his thumb at the wall separating their studios. "Well, right now I think Winter's girlfriend is trying to convince her she wants to do it."

Edwin raised an eyebrow. Aldis chuckled. Jared realized what he'd said. He was pretty sure this was the first time he'd ever referred to Danneel and Genevieve as girlfriends, although he didn't think it was the first time he'd thought it. He hoped Danneel wouldn't mind. He knew Genevieve wouldn't.

All three of them were quiet, heads inclined towards Jared and Jensen's studio, listening for any signs of how convincing Genevieve might be or how stubborn Danneel might be. Jared couldn't really hear anything other than the noises the building always made - the sound of voices from the studio below them, the creak of wood floors, the squeak of a window or the slam of a door being opened or shut, the sound of carriages and carts and people out in the street below the building. He thought he could hear someone singing out in the hallway. But nothing next door.

"At least they're not fighting," Edwin finally said. "That's good, right?"

"They're not doing anything else, either," Aldis said, "unless they're really quiet." His eyebrows jumped up and down at Jared, and he went over to the wall to lift one of the blankets that Edwin had hung there. He pressed his ear to the wood, then shook his head. All quiet next door.

"I should go," Jared said. "Thanks for the pan. I'll bring you some bread pudding if it's any good." He went back to his own place, where Genevieve (now dressed in her own clothes) and Danneel were sitting at the table, holding hands. They were talking in low voices, presumably so Jared and the Hodges couldn't hear them.

"Okay," Danneel said, when she saw him. "I'll ask Mrs B what she thinks tomorrow, and if she's okay with it, I'll model for you. You can even use my face."

"Thank you," Jared breathed.

"Thank her." She tilted her head towards Genevieve, who smiled. "You were trying to listen to us next door, weren't you."

"I borrowed a pan." He held it out.

"We didn't do anything but talk."

"I know. Weren't you going to make me a bread pudding?"

The studio was already hot but it was stiflingly so by the time the bread pudding was cooked, so they took some spoons and the pan outside to the tiny plaza, and sat on the building's front steps to eat.

On Monday night when Jared swung by the Cherokee for dinner, Christian handed him another letter from Jensen, commenting "He finally sent me a postcard." Jared opened the envelope right there but only read half the letter before he realized he'd have to finish it at home, where he could have some privacy.

He sat cross-legged on the bed and skimmed the letter until he got to the place where he'd had to stop.

It's late here in Dallas, Jensen had written, and I'm lying in my bed, my old bed, thinking of you. I'm thinking of the way your mouth tastes, the way your hands feel on me, the weight of you leaning over me, the solidity of you inside me, the heat of you when I'm inside you. I'm thinking of your long legs and your strong thighs and your clever fingers, your tongue and your throat and your shoulders and your ass. I'm thinking of your hair damp on your forehead and the back of your neck, the softness of it between my fingers as you take me in your mouth. I'm thinking of your moans and your breath and your terrible French and the way your voice sounds when you tell me you love me. I'm thinking of the couch and the bed and the floor and the wardrobe and the storage room at the Cherokee. I'm thinking of the look on your face when you come, when you watch me come.

I'm lying in my old bed in my parents' house and I'm thinking of your body and how badly I wish it were here next to mine, so that we could touch and kiss and peel each other's clothes off, and I could drape your legs over my shoulders and drive myself deep into your ass.

Jared could feel himself growing hard. He wanted to keep reading but he wasn't sure he could. He squeezed his cock with one hand and let his head fall back against the headboard.

"Ahh... Jensen," he murmured, stretching out his legs and squeezing harder. He slid down until he was lying straight out, fumbling with his pants, trying to get them open. He closed his eyes so he could at least try to imagine it was Jensen's hand shoving his pants down, reaching into his undershorts, wrapping strong fingers around his stiffening cock.

He wriggled out of his shorts as he started to stroke, letting Jensen's words burn their way into his brain and give his hand the impetus it needed. His hips pushed up into his fist and he moaned and breathed Jensen's name and he missed him, he really missed him, and then he was gasping and coming over his fingers and a vision of Jensen's face hung over him but he was still alone.

He lay there for a few minutes, catching his breath, missing his boyfriend, and then he fixed himself and sat up to finish the letter.

And I'm thinking of how you concentrate when you're working, how you look at the world, how dedicated you are to your art, how proud I am of your accomplishments. And I miss you. I miss you beyond my capacity to explain.

I do not miss Paris. I realize that now. I don't love it like you do. But I love you and I miss you and as much as I love my family, I am miserable here without you, and so I will come back gladly so I can see you and touch you and so you can touch me, and we can be together once again.

Jensen had written in his last letter "I don't think I miss Paris. I know that sounds alarming, but don't be alarmed." But it had made Jared worry anyway, and this letter - "I do not miss Paris.... I don't love it like you do" - would have made him worry as well, if that had been the only thing Jensen had said. But Jensen was thinking about him and missing him and loved him so much that he'd come back willingly to a city he didn't like, a city that hadn't given him anything near what it had given Jared.

Touch yourself and think of me, the letter continued. Stroke your cock. Imagine my voice in your ear, telling you to come for me. Know that I'm stroking myself and hearing your voice and coming for you.

And Jared did. He slept well that night, and dreamed about Jensen and Texas and getting to paint Comanche warriors and whole fields of cactus.

The next day he went out into Montmartre to draw his neighborhood. He'd completely forgotten Danneel had told him she had half of Tuesday off, and was thus surprised and confused when he came home and found her in the studio, sitting at the rickety table peeling carrots and singing to herself. He wondered who'd let her in. The light streaming in from the open windows lit her hair like polished mahogany. She'd make a beautiful Winter. He was so grateful to Genevieve for convincing her to do it.

"Jared!" she cried, when she saw him. "Your door was unlocked! You should really lock it - you don't know who could just waltz in and make themselves at home." She grinned and gestured to Spring, which was leaning against the wall, and then Autumn, which was still on the easel because Jared had to finish the background. "They look good."

"Do you have time to model for me today?"

"Maybe." She smiled to herself and turned back to her carrots. "I said I'd cook for you, didn't I? I thought I'd make a kind of modified ratatouille. Are Genevieve and Sandy coming?"

"I thought Genevieve said she would."

"Good. She's - I like her."

"I know." Jared sat across the table from her, watching her peel carrots and cut them into orange coins, and then move on to the eggplant, slicing it into thin disks and arranging them on a plate. He watched her sprinkle salt on the eggplant slices and absently eat a couple of pieces of carrot before moving on to the zucchini she'd brought earlier.

"Do you want some help?" he asked. He itched to open his sketchbook and draw her at work. He wanted to capture her look of concentration, the sunlight on her hair, the way she licked salt off her fingertips.

"No, I'm good."

"Do you mind if I draw you?"

"No." She smiled at the zucchini, and he fetched his sketchbook and a pencil so he could at least try to capture her expression and her kindness and her fingers around the handle of the knife.

The ratatouille was nearly finished when Sandy and Genevieve showed up, the two of them considerately bringing a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. Jared didn't have enough chairs so he dragged the table over to the couch, and the four of them arranged themselves and dug in.

"You can come cook for us any time," Sandy said, her mouth full. She dabbed at her lips with the edge of her sleeve. "This is so good."

"Our landlady is a terrible cook," Genevieve explained. "We get a hot meal a day with our room, but it's not that great. There's usually enough of it, at least."

"Today is kind of a fluke," Danneel said. "I just happen to have the afternoon off."

"How much of the afternoon? Can you come to the Green Door tonight?"

"I don't think so. I'm expected back at least for coffee and dessert after dinner."

Genevieve's face fell. Jared surreptitiously nudged her foot under the table.

"I have Saturday night off, though," Danneel went on. "If I can get back to the house by midnight I can see you."

"We'll get you home," Sandy said. "Don't worry about it."

She turned out to have Saturday afternoon as well, which meant Jared could get a head start on painting her. She was a good model, especially once she realized she was not only going to be fully dressed but wearing a cloak with a hood, and she stood where Jared put her while he made a sketch on his canvas and then started to paint.

He danced with her at the Green Door that night, and she told him he was a good friend and a genius painter, and for some reason her words made him think of Jensen and he was surprised to discover that it made him smile, rather than making him ache.

But later, lying in bed drunk and alone, he stroked himself and murmured Jensen's name and hated that they were apart, that there was an ocean between them, that he had weeks yet until Jensen came back. But what could he do but suffer the days until Jensen returned? At least he had his work to keep him busy, and his friends to keep him company, and he was selling paintings and making money. He just wished Jensen was around to enjoy it too.

He'd finally set a time for Alona, the aspiring opera singer, to come model for Summer, and the day of her first session she showed up on time and with a friend, a boy only a little taller than she was and with a profusion of dark curly hair. He had an easy smile and introduced himself as Darren, future opera star, musician, actor, all-around artistic genius. But he grinned as he said it, and he didn't strike Jared as particularly arrogant about his talents.

"He wanted to see Montmartre," Alona explained, "and I think he was worried for my safety." She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she did so. Darren looked unrepentant.

"Do you need a male model?" he asked Jared, but before Jared could answer, Darren was off to look at the paintings around the studio.

"He can't sit still," Alona said. She shrugged off her shawl. "Where do you want me? How do you want me? I liked your suggestions, but I don't have a preference."

"How much time do you have?" Jared asked.

"A few hours. I have to be somewhere at eight, so I should be home by seven so I have time to change."

"I hear music," Darren said suddenly from across the studio. He cocked his head at the wall. "Are your neighbors musicians?"

"Edwin's a composer," Jared told him.

"What has he written? Would I know his work? Would he mind if I introduced myself?"

"He might be busy."

Darren knocked on the wall and called "Hello? Mr Composer? Are you busy?" through it. Alona laughed. "Can you hear me? Would you mind if I came over?"

"Go say hi," Alona said, and Darren bounded out of the studio. Alona and Jared were quiet, listening for him to introduce himself to Edwin and for Edwin to either let him stay or tell him to go. After a few minutes they could hear the piano and a voice singing.

"I guess he's not busy," Jared said. He gestured to Alona to come closer. "Can you pull your sleeves off your shoulders? And take your hair down." She fiddled with the pins until her blonde hair fell long and wavy down her shoulders. She fluffed it out, then stood still while Jared tried to arrange it around her face. "Good, good. I was thinking maybe having you with your feet in a river, so if you could sit...." He looked around the studio, trying to find something high enough to simulate the bank of a river. He shoved everything off the table. "Here. Sit on the table and pretend you're dipping your feet in the water."

Half an hour later he hated the idea - all his other seasons would be standing - and made her get off the table and take off her dress so he could drape her in a sheet to approximate the half-dressed summer maiden he'd started to envision. She giggled as he arranged the sheet in a modified toga.

"Is this a problem?" he asked, suddenly worried about her future opera modesty. "Painting you half-naked?"

"Not at all." She pulled the sheet out of his hands and tied it more securely over her shoulder. She climbed on the table again. "Your first idea was a good one." She flipped the sheet around to expose her legs, pointed her toes, and leaned back in a pose that made Jared think of girls out on a picnic, stripping down to their chemises and pulling up their skirts to feel the sun on their shoulders and dangle their legs in a summer pond.

He glanced at Spring, at Sandy in pale green holding a fluffed-up robin in both hands, Texas bluebonnets around her feet, and at Autumn, at Genevieve in russet holding a sheaf of wheat with grapes in her hair. The half-finished Winter depicted Danneel in a dark blue cape with a hood, and he'd thought to paint Alona in golden yellow. Of all of them, she looked the most like she was about to step out of her clothes and stand naked in front of the viewer.

By six, Jared had a good sketch of her sitting on the edge of the table, bare legs kicking at the imaginary water, face turned up to the imaginary summer sun, hair blowing around her face. She looked young and carefree. Her painting would be beautiful. He was so pleased she'd agreed to model for him, that night he met her at the exhibition.

Onward!