Author's note: Though I will mostly likely put this in my "Gammy's collection of short stories" I've also decided to publish it as a single story because I'm so pleased with how it turned out! Please REVIEW!
-Gams
Disclaimer: Don't own X-Men, property of Marvel.
Plot Summary: Remy LeBeau is a famous artist living in the midst of Paris. As of late, his talents and skills as an artist have proven useless in his attempts to produce work for an upcoming gallery show. However, when his manager/publisher sends over a young aspiring model for him to draw, he finds more than just his artistic senses tingling. He has to find a way to draw the line between business and pleasure so that he can get the job done and not end up making a fool of himself in his attempts to not fall for his new muse. ROMY
Rated: M
His Muse
-xXx-
Chapter One – A Typical Artist's Woes
-xXx-
The pencil scratched the page at a brisk pace. Each line grew darker, thicker with each stroke as his unusual gaze fixed itself between the page and the picture before him. His red-on-black eyes darted between the two rectangular forms like clock hands, one a means to the other. Like a typical artist, his brow furrowed in concentration as he took in the female form before him and attempted to transcend it to the page. Every curve, dip and line that the body described, he acknowledged with the stroke of the pencil. However the frown that marred his handsome face grew contorted by frustration as his pencil strokes became shapeless in his mind and thus shapeless across the page. He drew his hand away like a blacksmith drew away from an uneven piece of iron; both too hot to touch and too ruined to continue. The pencil hit the desk with an irritable clank as he slumped back into his chair. The half finished sketch of a woman lay discarded across the desk beside its photograph-sister while the young man glared his aggravation. It wasn't too long before Remy let out a deep held sigh and ran a hand over his tired face. His head dipped backwards over the edge of the chair head. He stretched his arms back as his aggravation bottled once more.
This block in artistic creativity was becoming more of a nuisance than usual these days. Every time his left hand touched the paper with a pen, a pencil or a brush, his talents and skills would crumble to dust on the page. It had been just over three weeks since his luck turned. After nearly a decade of rising to the top of 'the best' list, his efforts and accomplishments had been reduced to a full bin of paper and broken graphite pencils. It wasn't unlike him to have a block in his creativity tank now and again but it never took him this long to find his footing again. It never vexed him like this. Of course, no artist could keep pumping the same quality results with every turn of page. No more than a printing machine could continue to process products without re-stocking its ink jets. But how he was supposed to re-stock his artistic tank, he hadn't the slightest clue. Drawing on the graphics tablet on his computer had been useless. His painting skills were, as of late, a laughing mockery. Drawing with ink pens had left him better off scrunching fresh sheets of paper rather than trying at all. Now even pencil sketching was an unproductive feat. A deep sigh blew through his mouth as he pushed himself to his feet. He turned a cold shoulder to his untidy work desk as he retreated from the room.
His apartment- or loft-turned-make-shift-apartment, was spacious enough to hold the mass of art supplies and finished (and un-finished) works he had accumulated over the years. Grand-sized canvases stood piled against the cream walls while miss-matched tables cluttered the floor space, each holding jars of paint brushes, art books, old sketches and various other knick-knacks that fell under the Artistic belt. Everything was either mismatched or easily replaced and in a way, he liked it that way. The only permanent feature of the apartment, except for the Bathroom, was the massive kitchen installed to feed his creative culinary needs. Across the loft room, the summer skies and classical buildings of Paris stared from behind the glass doors as he made his way towards the kitchen. Like routine, he fixed himself a cup of steaming hot coffee and fished out a fresh pack of cigarettes before heading towards the French windows overlooking the city. A small balcony overlooked the Parisian streets, allowing him the perfect place to think (and smoke). As always, he found a pair of dark shades lying on the small sofa and slipped them on before sitting down. The small Victorian-style sofa was only just large enough to fit comfortably on the balcony. Given Remy's tall frame, he was always forced to put his feet up on the balcony railing. Not that he minded. A content sigh escaped him as he nestled into his favourite spot. His arms cross across his lean, muscular chest while he swept his gaze over the afternoon view.
It was this point in the day, between dusk and mid-day, that he realised how long he had been locked away in his drawing room.
Time seemed limitless whenever he stepped into that little section of his world, but today his limitless time had proven to be unproductively spent. With that thought, he brought a fresh cancer stick to his lips and lit it with a match. Call him old fashioned, but he preferred matches over lighters. The little scrape-and-hiss of the match head was oddly gratifying. He took a deep drag and released. The smoke wisped through the warm air before disappearing to nothing as he let another sigh free. The tranquillity was short lived however as a distinctive beeping erupted from his jeans pocket. A disgruntled groan escaped him as he fished out the offending cell phone from his pocket. It was followed by an inward grimace when he read the name across the tiny screen.
JP Beaubier
Remy heaved a last, deep breath before answering the call. He was a living, smoking dead man.
"JP, quel plaisir est de vous entendre. What does Remy owe de pleasure for?" (What a pleasure it is to hear from you)
" Oh don't feed me dat merde y' call pleasantries Remy LeBeau! I know y' not happy t' hear from moi!"
Remy grunted painfully at Jean-Paul's loud response. He was still recovering from only having less than three hours sleep and was already O.D. (over dosed) on coffee. To say the least, the mixture was lethal for his head. He gave a sarcastic chuckle as he shifted in his seat, rubbing his temples with a free hand.
"Don't be like dat J.P. Y' know, dat I know dat whenever y' call moi on de cell phone dat y' have bad news. Now out wit' it. Quelle est la mauvaise nouvelle?" (What's the bad news?)
There was some grumbling from over the line.
"Y' know dat Cajun t'ing y' do, talking in both languages. It's really quite frustrating for moi! Either speak in Anglais or speak in Francais Remy-!"
Remy merely rolled his eyes at Jean-Paul's irritable ramblings.
"Merde JP, jus' get t' de point! Did y' boyfriend stand y' up or somet'ing? Y' sound like a PMSing femme."
Even as he growled it, Remy couldn't help but smile. He knew how JP would react to that kind of name-calling.
"Oh piss off Remy!"
Remy couldn't help but let out an entertained bark of laughter.
"Knew it mon ami!"
Jean-Paul began muttering angrily again on the other side. Once his anger waned (and Remy stopped chuckling) he replied.
"Just know that while you're off having your way with every skirt in Paris, I am in a steady, healthy relationship."
A husky chuckle rumbled through Remy's chest as he put out his cigarette and rolled his eyes.
"Oui, oui mon ami. So y' tell moi every day. Now what's dis all about hien?"
"Oh so you want to listen to what I have to say now? That's a first this year-"
"Beaubier…"
Jean-Paul took the note of warning in Remy's voice as a motive to move to the intented subject at hand.
"How's de latest Art Nouveau collection coming?"
Remy blew a sigh between his closed lips.
"No where as of yet mon ami."
It was like pulling the pin on a grenade.
"Y' have had over three months t' get dose started, finalized and finished LeBeau! Dat Alphonse Mucha impressionist show starts in less than two months! I can't open a gallery without the main artist's works in it!" (1)
Remy continued to massage his temple as he uttered a defeated sigh. He tried to ease his own frustrations as he picked up his untouched coffee and took a sip. He made a face as the bitter, cold liquid slid down his throat. He shivered in disgust as he replied.
"Remy knows dat. Et he has been tryin' t' get somet'ing done mais it be useless at de moment! He can't put merde on paper!"
"You're goin' t' have to if y' don't start coming up wit' somet'ing soon!"
Remy rolled his eyes.
"Dat's real helpful JP."
"No but this is. Since your artistic talents aren't working I've arranged for a model to come over next week. Hopefully your artistic block will ease with some encouragement."
Remy paused for a moment. A moment or two later, he pulled his feet off the railing and stood. He leant a hand against the doorframe as he replied.
"JP, dat's not going t' help moi. Jus' get Piotr t' do de Mucha show. He's going pretty well at de moment last Remy heard-"
"You need to check your emails more mon ami. Piotr is on his honeymoon wit' his new wife, Kitty. Besides, he's a landscape artist. You are de human-subject artist. You could make a man in drag et heels look like Princess Diana if you wanted to. So don't you try backing out o' dis."
Remy rolled his eyes with an irritable huff. He barely took notice of the slightly put-out note in JP's voice at the mentioning of Kitty and Piotr's marriage.
"No-onecould make a man in drag look like Princess Diana, JP. "
Jean-Paul gave a disbelieving snort.
"Not'ing is impossible mon ami. Now here are de ground rules about de femme-"
"Femme?"
"Oui. De femme you are goin' t' draw for de next three weeks. Now her name be Marie D'ancanto. She's de latest craze in de art and modelling business. Tres belle femme, even by my standards."
Remy gave a low chuckle before he teased.
"JP are y' admitting t' having a petite crush on a femme? Hmm…Remy wonders how Edward would take dat."
An irritable huff erupted from the phone.
"He happens t' love her too Remy. She be an old ami of his from America, which brings moi t' rule number one. No gettin' into her pants. Dis is strictly business. D'accord?" (Okay?)
Remy let out an overly dramatic sigh of disappointment. He even added a mock-pout across his face though JP obviously couldn't see it.
"Oh alright den mon ami. If y' insist. Mais while we're on de subject o' pants. What kind of model is she?"
"A nude model mostly, but she moonlights as a Vogue model now and again. Y' should pick up a dis month's copy. Dere be some tres belle photos of her in de Summer collection."
Remy cleared his throat dramatically.
"Je suis desole JP, mais Remy don't t'ink he has de time. What between facial appointments et buying Cosmo-" (I am sorry)
An angry growl erupted from the phone causing Remy to grin with new triumph. JP didn't linger on his irritating teasing habits as he replied curtly.
"Just keep your so-called-artistic hands on de paper while she's dere. She's coming all de way from New York t' do dis as a favour t' moi et Edward. So you better behave around her. Fix up dat dump y' call an apartment b'fore Monday too. She'll be at your door bright et early at nine a.m. D'accord?"
There wasn't a doubt in Remy's mind that JP took great satisfaction in knowing he'd have to wake before his usual waking hour. Thus was the personal gain of the publisher/manager. JP gave a small chuckle when Remy forlornly agreed and thanked him for the unwanted help.
"Jus' keep y' eyes on her et y' hands on de paper mon ami. Y'll do jus' fine."
Remy could only hope so.
Now how was that for a first chapter?
REVIEW!
-Gams
Alphonse Mucha – One of the many influential Art Nouveau artists of the movement during the mid 1890s. Check out his work, it's absolutely beautiful stuff. And just imagine Remy drawing them! –sigh- lol I'm so sad I know…