Title: Linnet Bird
Summary: …and there he stood in his kimono, absently fiddling with the sleeve. AU, one-shot.
Disclaimer: I make no money from this and the characters are not mine; they are simply present.
Warnings: Short and sweet, AU—not over the top, though—and with hinting at slashyness.
Dedication: To Rose Midnight Moonlight Black, oh yes. Granted, perhaps it is not quite what was in mind and is rather and infinitely short in the most pathetic way, but, eh, it's something at least.
-:-
Art isn't art until someone says it is.
-Mona Lisa Smile.
It is rather difficult and vile trying to pick at the charcoal of black that used to make up the end of her fingernail, but it has to be done. Lian had ignored it for ten hours since the morning—stupid of her to put out a candle with her fingers rather than just blowing it out—and now it was driving her crazy as she was trying to work on her art and the black of her nail—falling off like black sand against white; volcano ash sweeping porcelain beaches—continued to leave lines upon lines against the sleek of the canvas she was trying to apply light blue to. Making terrifying, suspicious eyes that often scared the hell out of her during the sketching process did not go very well when her own eyes kept squinting at her pointer finger.
The nail was coming off no matter how bad it smelled when she brought it up to her face and started picking at it. Nothing was worse than the smell of burned human pieces.
Another light brushed the surface of the hardwood floor she was sitting on, working, and she looked over her shoulder at the door to yell at the intruder of her studio about light composition and to turn off the light lest they suffer her infinite wrath. This was cut down swiftly by a pair of lovely eyes looking at her with raised ginger brows, the figure attached to the eyes covered in nothing but a semi-transparent green and tan kimono robe, the skin she could see along her latest model's legs goosepimpled because of the low temperature she kept the place in during the evening to be sure her paints didn't get sticky and gross.
Colin Wilkes was quite possibly the mostbeautiful man Lian Harper—an almost very famous painter of Star City, currently working in Gotham despite her father ranting that she was only twenty-three and too young to go to Hell on Earth—had ever met in her life and it was a wonder why the hell her best friend (and the ginger's boyfriend, evil as that was for the universe to give a sweet, wonderful man to a misanthrope of a human being) didn't swoop in and offer Colin a place in his bed at all hours of the day, instead letting him be a mere waiter making the meager salary of minimum wage. He was polite and sweet, even when Lian made him take the most uncomfortable positions in the nude, he never complained and it made Lian question the existence of a benevolent God when he was the boyfriend of none other than Damian Wayne, the king of late night parties, day long relationships and limited social standing despite his father being the richest man on Earth (yes, it was a fact, published by none other than the Daily Planet).
Colin had posed for her the week before with Damian—both wearing nothing but their own skins and holding onto each other in the position of two hands pressed together, Damian's powerful and muscled arms wrapped under Colin's and Colin himself forced to have his head splayed backwards with three plastic lilies spilling out of his mouth—with Damian whining the entire time as Lian sketched furiously, only stopping occasionally to swallow whole mouthfuls of scorching coffee. Three sheets of sketches still had the imprints of tiny drops of coffee stuck forever at the edges of the paper. Lian had called Colin in that evening to start on the actual painting and there he stood, waiting for her instructions with his hands playing with one sleeve of his kimono.
The work of an artist and their model is never finished.
