Ensoleille
A/N: Two mildly slashy drabbles, inspired by a very odd dream. The characters are historical, so no, I don't own them, though I'd be glad if anyone wanted to give me a few of their works....anyone? Darn.
Vincent is impossible.
Not to say obstinate, no, nor strong willed. He simply cannot be, not as a mere man. Maybe a tiny god, or the effect of too much sun on the brow of a Creator, but certainly impossible.
You come in to a yellow room filled with thick-plastered, childish sunflowers; an absolute waste of paint to say the least. You want to be angry--want to be annoyed as he shuffles in carrying your easel and valise; as he looks around expansively, beams at you. "C'est pour toi, Paul, un peu de soleil."
And you fail utterly.
---
Impossible how his gentle accent calls up the very image of Apollo. A strange ginger-haired Dutch Apollo with brush rather than chariot, but no less mythical for it.
You find out (too late) that the paint on his hands is still wet. It only makes you laugh; and merci à Dieu, the bed is not yellow like the walls.
Later you'll regret, when the sharpness of his teeth becomes a blade in his hand. Later you'll flee, when the passion reverses like a star folding in on itself, sapping your sanity too.
But you will forever revere this moment.
C'est pour toi, Paul, un peu de soleil - It's for you, Paul, a little bit of sun.
Merci à Dieu - Thank God.
A/N: Two mildly slashy drabbles, inspired by a very odd dream. The characters are historical, so no, I don't own them, though I'd be glad if anyone wanted to give me a few of their works....anyone? Darn.
Vincent is impossible.
Not to say obstinate, no, nor strong willed. He simply cannot be, not as a mere man. Maybe a tiny god, or the effect of too much sun on the brow of a Creator, but certainly impossible.
You come in to a yellow room filled with thick-plastered, childish sunflowers; an absolute waste of paint to say the least. You want to be angry--want to be annoyed as he shuffles in carrying your easel and valise; as he looks around expansively, beams at you. "C'est pour toi, Paul, un peu de soleil."
And you fail utterly.
---
Impossible how his gentle accent calls up the very image of Apollo. A strange ginger-haired Dutch Apollo with brush rather than chariot, but no less mythical for it.
You find out (too late) that the paint on his hands is still wet. It only makes you laugh; and merci à Dieu, the bed is not yellow like the walls.
Later you'll regret, when the sharpness of his teeth becomes a blade in his hand. Later you'll flee, when the passion reverses like a star folding in on itself, sapping your sanity too.
But you will forever revere this moment.
C'est pour toi, Paul, un peu de soleil - It's for you, Paul, a little bit of sun.
Merci à Dieu - Thank God.