Our story begins in a café. An ordinary café.
In a corner of the small brick establishment sat a tall, blond man named Ludwig. His table was littered with crumpled balls of paper, stray sugar granules and a lonely cup of lukewarm coffee. A large sketch pad was perched atop his crossed legs, and critical blue eyes scanned the interior for subjects of interest, having long since given up attempting to tap into the imaginative recesses of his mind.
Ludwig pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and ripped off another page, frustration written across a furrowed brow that added severity to an already stern visage. He stared at a fresh blank sheet, took an absent sip of coffee, and brought his pencil to the paper again, only to change his mind at the last minute, carelessly setting both sketch pad and pencil aside.
He had always been an outstanding student; a diligent and disciplined sort of character capable of excelling at anything he put his mind to, with the exception of this. It wasn't for the lack of skill - his grasp of lighting, colour and composition, not to mention anatomy, was the envy of his peers, but Ludwig felt nothing for his works. If he lost his entire portfolio in a fire today, he'd simply start over without batting an eyelid.
They were mere pictures. Well-drawn, but ultimately lifeless pieces. Ludwig rather thought they were more akin to conveyers of information - what the sunset looked like last Tuesday, a typical scene one would expect to see at a farmer's market, a study of architectural elements, the scrutiny of facial features, nothing the most basic camera these days couldn't capture.
Artistic creation had to be birthed from inspiration. It should be something the artist poured his heart into, the expression of something that captured his imagination, something that moved him. It should reflect a piece of himself, his emotions, his wishes, his desires. Only then would it carry any meaning at all, precious to its creator, if no-one else.
Ludwig hated to admit it, but where technical application could be mastered through sheer persistence, inspiration was not something he could learn. For an elective he picked as a change of pace; a breather from the endless hours of law, economics and business, this class was proving to be the most dissatisfying of all. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.
A cheerful jingling of bells from the café's entrance roused him from his musings. Ludwig flicked a casual, disinterested gaze towards the door for the lack of anything better to do, and very quickly found himself snapping to attention as he beheld a most stunning sight. There, pale as moonlight against the black canvas of his down jacket, was the most captivating man he'd ever laid eyes on. He never thought he would one day wax cringeworthy poetic about anything or anyone, but this creature was ... he was almost otherworldly. His appearance, at least.
The man loudly announced his arrival, a gust of winter, a flurry of snow, and marched straight for the counter.
"Liz! My usual. Make it snappy, I'm in a hurry! Yeesh it's cold."
Bold as a blizzard.
Liz, a spirited brunette with a warm smile, rolled her eyes but got to work, and Ludwig was spellbound as he studied the man's graces; watched as he leaned against the counter and smoothly pulled out his mobile phone from a jean pocket, uncaring of all the looks he was receiving, evidently used to being stared at on a daily basis.
Might he be a model? He was handsome, yes, extremely so, but more than that, there was a magnetism to this person. Perhaps it was his confidence, perhaps it was his albinism, more likely it was a combination of both, and Ludwig was caught in the pull. He wanted to explore the depths of those blood red eyes; see if he was mortal like the rest of them or a fallen angel in disguise. After all, wasn't the Devil himself supposed to have been beautiful, the most beautiful of them all? His fingers itched to run themselves through that head of snow white hair, play with its texture, see if it was as soft as it looked. Ah, and the tip of his nose - which he was absently rubbing - was adorably pink against marble pale skin from the cold.
For the first time in his life, Ludwig finally knew what inspiration was as he devoured the scene before him like a blind man who had just received the gift of sight. This was a creature he wanted to capture on endless sheets of paper - all of his mannerisms, all of his expressions, in all poses, from all angles, and then selfishly keep private.
Ludwig's pencil took on a life of its own, and he plunged into a secret place where nothing but artist and muse existed. So absorbed was he, that Ludwig forgot this was an impromptu session, and a stolen one at that. His muse was not going to stay frozen in time. When next he looked up for a reference, the man had paid for his drink, and just as briskly as he'd arrived, he was about to leave. But, before he stepped back outside, with his hand on the handle, Ludwig swore the man glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes, a flash of red, and his heart skipped a beat.
Then he was gone.
In his hands Ludwig held a rough, half-completed sketch, more valuable to him than all his other works combined.
It was not enough. Not nearly enough. He never wanted to stop. He needed more.
It was wonderful. It was addictive. It was terrifying.
The class was almost in full attendance by the time Ludwig arrived at the studio, a modest space visually enlarged by white washed floorboards and walls. A row of wide arched windows along the length of the room let in a generous amount of natural light even on overcast days such as these.
"You're late," Feliciano piped up from his usual place under a heating vent.
"Technically speaking, I'm on time."
"Late for Ludwig," said the one who'd convinced him to take up this course one hazy summer afternoon as they lounged under the shade of a lush green tree.
Ludwig would normally have put up a bigger show of resistance, but Feliciano's nattering was incessant and the heat, humidity and little flying insects had gotten under his skin, so he caved, if only to shut Feliciano up.
"You enjoyed our art lessons when we were kids, didn't you?"
"Mmm."
No, not really.
Art is fun and relaxing, Feliciano had said.
Art, apparently, meant different things to different people.
To Ludwig, it was beginning to feel like madness.
He took a seat beside his friend and retrieved his sketch pad, subconsciously flipping open to that page with the incomplete drawing. He gazed at it for a while, tracing it with a finger, wondering about the man, wondering if he'd ever be able to complete it, and as his mind replayed that fateful encounter, Ludwig failed to notice Feliciano's growing curiosity.
Silence was nothing out of the ordinary for Ludwig, but it was more often than not the result of him being overly focused on a task at hand, or simply his taciturn, no-nonsense nature in general, and never because he was well, daydreaming. Right now, the man was noticeably distracted. It was highly unusual to say the least, and Feliciano leaned over to see what had gotten Ludwig this out of sorts.
"Ooh, who's that?"
Ludwig snapped back to reality and quickly turned a new page, not quite ready to share. At least, not yet. He wasn't sure where this twinge of guilt came from either.
"Nobody. It's just a sketch."
Feliciano wasn't buying it. No ordinary person in an ordinary sketch would've elicited that sort of response from Ludwig. It must mean something.
"You like him!" he proclaimed. At higher than acceptable decibels.
Brilliant deductive skills and tact evidently did not go hand in hand.
"No! He's just a stranger! And keep it down!" Ludwig hissed.
Feliciano looked like he was about to say something else, but Ludwig thanked his lucky stars and their life model, who had gotten into his first pose for the day, and that was the end of it.
On the grilling front.
Meanwhile, Ludwig couldn't help but fall back into reverie. Would he be able to see that man again if he went back to the café? He was obviously a regular there. Perhaps he could even learn his name from that barista. Or what if ... he was their model instead. What would that man would look like ... like this?
As Ludwig set about sketching the model before him, an Adonis in his own right, he could not help but imagine him instead. His mind began superimposing pale skin on top of light honey. Snowy white took the place of shoulder-length blond, and violet eyes turned a seductive, blood red.
When they stopped for a break, Ludwig looked down at his work and cursed inwardly, casting a furtive look around the studio. There was no way he could show this to anyone, and whether in the name of art or not, fantasising about the naked body of another man in public, during class, was highly inappropriate. His cheeks felt hot.
It was a good thing the little café was located not far from campus grounds. It made it easy for Ludwig to pop by whenever he had extended breaks in his schedule, and over the course of the next week, that was exactly what he did. He told himself he liked the quiet, cosy atmosphere there, and was not hoping, not at all, to be able to catch another glimpse of that man. He would occupy that same table in the corner and set up camp: textbooks, notes, phone, laptop, and a cup of cappuccino, ears pricked for the sound of that loud, slightly cocky voice.
In fact, he'd become such a common sight that Liz now knew him by name, and had taken to giving him an extra mini cookie with his coffee, for "being such a pleasant customer to have around".
"Do you run into unpleasant ones often?" he asked.
"Hmm, people are okay for the most part. They come and go, and it's usually the quiet, studious types that linger, but there's my one other regular in particular, and the two of you are like night and day," Liz laughed.
Other regular? Ludwig's mind leapt immediately to that man.
"How so?" He tried not to appear too eager.
"Well, you're so ... cultured and proper," Liz paused for a while, gesticulating in circular motions with her hands as though the action would prompt her words, "like a polished diamond. He, on the other hand, is of the uncut variety. Unrefined, bit grating, rough around the edges."
"Ah, I see," was Ludwig's only response, unsure if "thank you" was an appropriate reply to a statement that complimented him at the expense of the other man, even if he wasn't present to hear it.
"I don't know if you've seen him around. He's hard to miss – loud albino guy. He stomps in every time and bellows 'Liz! My usual!' like it's something ultra exclusive."
Ludwig's lips twitched at the exaggerated impression. Yes, he remembered that all too well. "I hope it isn't anything too complicated to make."
"It's just mocha with extra chocolate. Always the same thing. Well, he switches to Apfelschorle during summer, and he has this ridiculous obsession with cute, fat birds."
Liz laughed again, and Ludwig got the feeling she nursed a soft spot for him despite the grousing. He smiled along with her, imagining how adorable that man would look enthusing over little chirping balls of fluff.
"He sounds like an interesting person." Tell me everything you know.
"I guess so. He does get on your nerves sometimes, but he has his endearing side."
What is his name? Ludwig dared not ask.
It was another Friday, and as was his newly established routine, Ludwig arrived at the café, one foot through the door, and very nearly turned around and left.
He was not prepared for this.
At the counter stood the unmistakable back view of man who had occupied his thoughts for the past week, and now that he was faced with an opportunity to actually … maybe … interact with him, Ludwig was ashamed to discover he had cold feet, and that his first instinct was to run. Damn it, when had he turned into a coward, and what on earth was his pulse speeding up for?!
To make matters worse, the man had turned around and was headed in his direction. Leaving now would be too suspect, so Ludwig rallied himself. Men were measured not by their involuntary thoughts, by word and deed. As such, he forced himself to stay put, staring dumbly, and if he were to be perfectly honest, appreciatively too.
The man stopped in front of him and oh goodness gracious he was even more beautiful up close. What do I do now? What does he want with me? Is he upset about last week? I should say something …
"You're blocking the way."
Oh. Yes, that's right.
"I-I'm sorry," Ludwig all but stammered and quickly stepped aside, wishing a rip in the fabric of space-time continuum would materialise and swallow him whole, or better yet, teleport him a few weeks back so he could start over.
It wasn't supposed to turn out like this.
"Thanks," was all the man said, tone bland and face unreadable. Without another word, he brushed past Ludwig, who could do nothing but watch helplessly as his muse slipped away from him yet again.
Torture of a different kind awaited him at the counter.
"Has something happened between the two of you?" Liz asked with a raised eyebrow and a spark of annoyance flared within him. Why couldn't people mind their own business? First Feliciano, now her.
"What makes you think that?" Ludwig returned coolly.
Liz folded her arms, undaunted by Ludwig's distant demeanour, looking a little too smug for his liking. "You completely froze at the door and just stared at him - I mean, sure people stare at him all the time, he's eye candy after all and the bastard knows it, but not usually in that stricken baby deer caught in the headlights way, and ... let's just say Gilbert's normally a more expressive person."
That means ... one, he remembers me. Two, it's most definitely a bad impression. Three, his name is Gilbert. Four, Gilbert hates me and probably thinks I'm a creep. Five, he will want nothing to do with me.
It really wasn't supposed to turn out like this.
"A cappuccino to go, please," Ludwig said instead, clipped and curt, no longer bearing patience for small talk, not even in the mood for coffee anymore. Liz, smart as she was, took the hint and dropped the matter despite her burning curiosity, leaving Ludwig to wallow in his own misery.
Class that day passed by in a blur. Ludwig didn't know, and didn't care what he sketched, dwelling instead on missed chances and dreaming about what ifs, and as he dragged himself out of the studio, the last one to leave that day - Feliciano had run off to a late afternoon appointment with family, he caught sight of a familiar figure, one he never thought he'd see again, engaged in playful banter with their life model down the corridor.
Gilbert was all smiles and animation, so very different from the frosty person he'd encountered at the café, and all of a sudden, Ludwig felt even more dejected, if that were possible. Why, he wasn't sure. All he'd wanted to do was draw this person. Draw him as he'd never desired to draw anything before, and maybe strike up a friendship, right? Maybe it was the loss of his muse, maybe it was the sight of what might have been, had he not incurred the ire of the man.
The scenario Ludwig found himself in was not so different from that of an outcast looking longingly at the popular kids laughing and joking in their exclusive circle, losers not invited. How ridiculous he should be subjected to such a juvenile sentiment in his adulthood. Francis slung an arm around Gilbert's shoulders, and Ludwig could not help but wonder about the nature of their relationship, but then, what business was it of his? He looked away, a small self-depreciating smile stretching across his lips.
The dream was nice while it lasted, he supposed, but it was time to return to reality.
Ludwig avoided the café for the whole of the next week.
However, once a blind man has bathed in the sights of the world, drunk of its colours, how could his heart ever be content to return to that void of nothingness?
So when he tired of international monetary economics or copyright law, Ludwig would pull out his sketch pad in search of something else that might interest him, but he always found himself flipping back to stare that half-completed sketch. Gradually, the next few pages were filled with impressions of one man's face, reconstructed from Ludwig's memory, embellished by imagination.
It was a cold, wet and all-round miserable Friday. Ludwig shook off the excess water from his umbrella and trod the familiar path to the studio, grateful to be out of the elements. There was one other early bird already there, whom he duly greeted as he fished out his pencils and papers, wanting to get started on warming up his hands as soon as possible. After all, fingers that had turned stiff and lost dexterity from holding up an umbrella in the cold rain would scarcely produce anything decent. Fifteen minutes should provide him with ample time.
Flex and clench, clench and flex, circles upon circles, lines upon lines.
He tuned out the world, only looking up once to say hello to Feliciano when his sunny friend bounced over. As the room gradually filled up, background murmuring swelled in crescendo and from the corner of his peripheral vision, Ludwig vaguely caught sight of the movements of Anna, their instructor, as she emerged from the back of the studio with their life model. He paid them no mind, but the class seemed to be buzzing with some sort of excitement today. Ludwig couldn't fathom what, and frankly did not care, almost certain it was something trivial and not worthy of his attention.
How wrong he was.
Anna called for silence and that was when Ludwig looked up ... straight into a pair of piercing red eyes. He couldn't have been more glad he was seated at that very instant because he felt a little wobbly on his axis and oh god who knew what other manner of folly he would've committed as his insides disintegrated into a messy vortex of whirling nervous energy and anticipation that was rapidly eroding his composed exterior from within.
Gilbert stood there - living, breathing Gilbert was standing there, wearing nothing but a bathrobe, looking equally surprised to see him, and as they stared at each other, Ludwig unable to tear his gaze away and Gilbert refusing to back down, everything else dulled to a murmur. Ludwig registered only the odd word from Anna, but it was enough to piece the story together.
Francis. Away. Gilbert. Stand-in.
This was the stuff of clichéd movie plots, and it was happening to him. Would it therefore stand to reason, that it was now permissible for him to begin hoping for that equally clichéd happy ending? Happy ending to what, Ludwig wasn't sure, but happy endings were good, and that was all that mattered.
Anna said something, and that ended their stalemate as Gilbert broke eye contact to nod at whatever she was saying, and oh sweet heavens above help him, began to untie the belt of his bathrobe.