Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me.
All characters belong to Himaruya Hidekaz
It is an illusion created on pale, living canvas. The purple compliments the ugly, yet mesmerizing green. When the expanse is freshly marked, a wonderful shade of blue joins the work of art.
The blonde artists regards his canvas as it sleeps beside him. The fresh, blue marks decorating the back were slowly turning his favourite shade of violet. "Beautiful." The Frenchman murmurs before leaning down to kiss a certain old bruise scattered over the shoulder blade of the sleeping man. The hurt skin wasn't as sensitive as days before when it was created. Created because the Parisian's lover, a Brit, had dared to burn their breakfast after begging to cook for them.
Really, who burnt eggs anyway?
His little Englishman did and so, to learn, he would need to be punished.
The art creator remembered the first time he had made this type of artistic creation upon the skin of his beloved. The Brit had insulted him, and had continued to insult him and throw things until he managed to destroy the Frenchman's best painting.
The artist's hand had curled into a fist that connected itself to the destroyer of art's jaw. The punches did not stop as quick as they should have. The blonde only saw red- a wonderful shade of that like the red that's related with love- and the Englishman's screams barely pierced past the demented thoughts of his abuser. He had tried to fight back, he had, but the strength of the other was new, odd, too much.
What seemed like hours but were merely seconds passed before the artist dropped to his knees, away from his lover, and stared. Once he came back to his senses, he quickly apologised and shed tears. Tears that he had meant; tears of regret and of self-loathing.
I didn't mean to!
I didn't mean to!
The words still ring in both their minds to this day, but only the bruised man finds it comforting to remember them. Because his lover, the artist, would never intentionally hurt him. Never without a reason.
The abuser, though, finds the words to be funny. A lie! A lie because he no longer feels remorse over what happened that day; he no longer regrets the first punch that started it all.
For that night when he undressed the other in order to help him relieve his pain, the artist fell in love with the colors that contrasted the pallid expanse of skin.
From then on, any excuse was used to punish the Brit.
"Art." Francis smiles as he notices Arthur opening his eyes and turning his head to face him.
"My name is Arthur." The Englishman smiles at the nickname that his boyfriend had given him recently.
"Yes," Francis smiles back, "but you're my favourite work of art."
A chuckle leaves the marked man's lips as he slowly, painfully turns on his side to fully face his lover. He watches as Francis looks over his body before meeting his eyes and mumbles a quiet apology.
Arthur knows the other is apologising over having the need to punish him; he knows he deserves the punishments so he forgives and kisses Francis' lips to let him know the past is forgotten.
Francis knows the apology is a lie; regardless, it is necessary.
Because the colors never stayed, always fading, and so the artist would forever continue to paint his canvas.
Thank you for reading!