Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, in no way affiliated with the source material; no copyright infringement is intended
A/N: Another entry for Computerfreak101's fanfiction contest, and I actually had fun writing this. I've been meaning to do something for this couple for a long time, actually, and it felt good to finally sit down to it. Thanks again to by wonderful beta reader Jensti for putting up with me. There were some very stupid mistakes sprinkled throughout this before she went through it for me. Do enjoy
Some people complain because the roses have thorns. Others give thanks because the thorns have roses.
-Unknown
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"Pegasus."
Soft though it was, the voice caused him to start; he hadn't realized that Cyndia was awake. Barely keeping himself from toppling out of his chair, the novel he'd been reading already having fallen to the floor in an indignant flutter of worn pages, his gaze was roaming over her in an instant, lips parted to ask if she needed anything--
"You're clean."
His mouth snapped shut, brow creased at the matter-of-fact proclamation.
"Yes," he agreed as cautiously as if he were disarming a bomb. "Um... thank you?"
"No paint..."
An uncertain blink was overridden by concern as her eyelashes fluttered like tall grass in a breeze; she should be resting, sleeping, not worrying over... whatever it was she was worrying over. Still one hand, looking not unlike porcelain and feeling not unlike ice, cupped his cheek; the fingers twitched and brushed over the skin as though looking for something. Not understanding, knowing only nigh-panicked concern, Pegasus grasped the hand in his as he cuddled into it.
"You should be sleeping, Cyndia. You heard the doctors..."
And he had to swallow thickly at that, for he too had heard the doctors' opinions, the one thing aside from a steep price for care that all of the professionals he'd contacted had agreed on.
"Pegasus," Cyndia said again, firm but tired, so obviously tired, "when I go to sleep, you're beside me. When I wake up you're beside me. I hate to think that this illness is taking away your life as well as mine."
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that the disease was stealing his life away before his very eyes, but he swallowed the words. Cyndia was in no condition to keep up with him if he started into waxing poetry. A part of his mind that was still clinging to hope and light through the darkness quipped that it could only make her sicker. The very thought made his heart writhe in pain.
"I never see you paint anymore," Cyndia murmured. "Please... Stay by my side if that's what makes you happy, but do something more than sit there and force yourself to read books that we both know you have no interest in." Tears formed in the corners of her eyes as she choked out, "It hurts me to see you like this."
There were so many objections that Pegasus didn't know where to begin-- he had a room set aside for his painting, and thus had not bothered on investing in tarp; their carpet would be ruined. With Cyndia in this condition, how could he be expected to concentrate? What would he paint? Did she realize that the few minutes it would take him to gather his things and come back could be minutes that she needed him? The thought of leaving her side caused his stomach to turn in self-loathing at what he could not help but look at as traitorous...
There was no way of knowing where to begin to object, so he stood without a word to get what he needed.
Some might consider painting just another fine art, but to Pegasus it was a passion, and he had to turn his nose up at anyone who claimed to understand what it meant when he or she had never done it before. It was impossible to think that this could be universal-- it was personal, it came from inside. No one else could possibly know what he felt, feel what he felt. What would it be then?
Painting meant tracing the world as he saw it-- as he saw it-- onto canvas. It meant colors that he could feel as well as could see, textures that brushed his skin when he closed his eyes and wanted it. His painting was him, and no one else. Maybe that was why he wasn't very good at portraits. A portrait was too much about the subject, no matter how his view might affect the outcome. Whether it was that or something else, he made a point of focusing on landscapes, skyscapes, perhaps the occasional wildlife or crowd scene; never portraits.
"These are beautiful, Pegasus..."
And yet how could he say no when those eyes-- eyes he could see his future in-- were turned upon him shining in awe and those perfect rose petal lips parted to let escape the sweet siren call--
"Will you paint me?"
In simplest terms-- he couldn't.
Cyndia was so still when Pegasus reentered the room that he nearly dropped everything and ran to her side; he'd have done just that if she hadn't chosen the moment to sigh and shift in her sleep. A breath of relief escaped him like a gust of wind, and he had to take several bracing breaths before he was ready to regain his grip on his easel, canvas and bag of supplies and walk relatively steadily to the side of the bed and set up.
Again, he was struck with the question of what to paint. Cyndia had so passionately been his favorite subject for so long that he had to concentrate to recall what there could have been before her. But a portrait was meant to capture something, someone, as though on film; did he really want this image any more burned into his life, his beloved Cyndia weakening further every day as he sat by helpless? Granted he could paint her by memory, but to set such a memory beside what had aged of it... It made his mouth dry up.
"What are you going to paint?" Cyndia's words were murmured so quietly that he almost wasn't sure that she had spoken consciously. But then he glanced over at her and saw the blue gems of her irises showing shyly from below her once-lush lashes. Once upon a time, he thought to himself, those eyes had shone with hope and joy and what seemed to him to have been gratitude to whomever it applied that she'd been given such a gift as life. Once upon a time... No, that wasn't right. Even now, in the face of death, that fire burned from deep within; it was just that now those beautiful eyes were perpetually glazed with weariness-- never with fear or sorrow, he thought with a surge of pride-- a grate had been pulled across a deep fireplace, veiling the roaring flames and yet somehow never hiding away their warmth.
"What else can I paint?" Pegasus asked with a small smile in his voice as he sorted his paints and brushes into their proper places. "I'm going to paint you."
"Oh, no," she said, clearly distressed, alarming him when she appeared to be trying to sit upright. "You don't have to do that, I don't want... I want you paint something beautiful."
"And that's exactly what I plan to do."
"Can't we do the portrait outside?" Cyndia asked with an amiable pout as Pegasus indicated a chair for her. "It's so beautiful out. I was thinking of something out in the garden amongst the roses."
"Well, if you really want to," Pegasus said uncertainly. "It's just that I don't do portraits often" (at all, really) "and I had an idea-- it would be easier if we were inside, but if you want to go out--"
"Oh, no!" Cyndia sounded so abashed that he looked up at her immediately; her expression rather matched her tone and Pegasus worried until she spoke again. "I don't want you to do a painting that you can't feel is yours-- whatever you think is best is fine, I'm not the artist here and I'm not paying you."
"But if you really want to be outside--"
"Not at all," she said firmly, lips drawn. "I want to see me how you see me. It's like--well-- flower arranging isn't the same thing, really, but I wouldn't want to fix up an arrangement in a way that I couldn't personally be happy with. Just show me how you want me to sit."
"Just sit however you're comfortable," he said, face a little flush; she was usually so soft-spoken, this sort of passion from her... "Whenever you're ready."
"Do you really need another portrait of me?" Cyndia asked in fatigued tones.
"Probably not," Pegasus allowed after a moment of pursed lips and furrowed brow. "But I certainly can't have too many, can I?"
"You're sweet, but I was thinking of one of your beautiful nature scenes."
"I've already sketched you in," Pegasus answered, gesturing to what most would probably see as vague lines almost accidentally visible as he set down his bit of crayon. "I'll paint you a landscape afterwards. Just rest now."
Had Cyndia been stronger, she might have argued further-- no, Pegasus knew that fire in her eyes; she most certainly would have argued further. Though some part of him raved and cursed that he would take advantage of this weakness, there was no getting around it. Cyndia was too far forward in his mind; he couldn't possibly have put himself into painting anything else. Cyndia sighed beside him and he offered a reassuring smile: She might think that he was going out of his way for her, but that couldn't be further from the truth; whatever path he took, she would never be out of the way.
Trying to detach himself, to become more the observer and artist, less the worried and worn out lover, Pegasus considered the lighting and the way Cyndia lay-- and the way her hair clung to her face and neck, stuck by a thin film of sweat. No matter how he might lay himself at her feet when she was the impeccably groomed aristocrat that so many thought was her deepest existence, he knew that her truest beauty was what he saw now-- perhaps not the pasty skin that allowed veins to peek out at him or the limp locks of hair that held hopelessly to their once proud luster or the sickly circles hanging below her eyes, but the unmade and natural Cyndia. The real, bare Cyndia, sprit burning proud and strong through the weak vessel that the illness had made of her body. If she honestly thought that he could have chosen a more beautiful subject for a painting, he was shirking his duties.
With a blink, Pegasus snapped himself back to reality. So much for detachment. Shaking his head just a little, he decided to work with the lights as they were and went about mixing his paints where appropriate. Something deep inside reacted with a shiver as the brush threaded the white toward and into the black, creating a line of progressive shadow, but he shook the feeling off; that was quitters' thought. Resolve steeled, he took up a clean brush, considered subject (Cyndia) and then easel and meticulously began his work.
This wasn't going to work. Pegasus had done his best-- and certainly could have done worse-- and it hit him low in the gut to have come so close only to have to quit, but it simply wasn't going to work. Background had been a synch, and he'd gotten through filling in the dress without too much trouble-- he'd done more still-life than he could count; even the hands, once he'd taken a deep breath and done a bit of experimenting on his pallet, looked real enough to hold, his eye could follow every strand of hair and the face was such a stunning recreation that it might be a photograph (it's not ego, it's plain truth). But then there were the eyes-- or, rather, the lack of eyes. There was just something about them that mocked, "You can't paint us!"
It was quite irritating, to say nothing of disturbing, to be mocked by eyes.
Stifling a sigh, Pegasus deliberately put down his brush and raked one hand through his hair.
"Are you finished?" Cyndia's tones indicated relief.
"Hnm?" Pegasus gave himself a mental shake; Cyndia had been still and silent for so long that he'd almost forgotten that she should be any other way. "No, not yet. I was actually-- well, I was thinking of a break, we've been at it for--" A glance at the clock had his jaw in his lap and his eyes popping-- had he really made her sit there for him for that long? "Oh, my-- I'm so sorry, I had no idea-- yes, I think we should definitely have break-- I just didn't realize-- I'm usually alone, you know--"
His sputtered rant petered out into a sheepish clearing of his throat as Cyndia failed to hide a giggle behind her hand. Muttering another apology, Pegasus stood, fighting against sleeping muscles to do so, and stretched himself like a cat as he prowled the room for something to offer Cyndia to drink. She was always politely refusing wine, and it really wasn't good form to offer her anything alcoholic when they were alone in his rooms anyway; did he still have any of that fizzy fruit juice that his mother had replaced his "secret" store of wine with that one time? He was pretty sure he did...
"May I see it?"
"What-- oh, the portrait, of course. Well," he hesitated, unusually shy about his work, "if you want to, I suppose."
Flashing him a smile as if he'd just presented her with a fantastic treat, Cyndia walked quickly around the easel. Pegasus held his breath without realizing it, letting it out in a sigh of release when she gasped in delight, reaching one hand towards the piece. A warning peeked out from between his lips, but needn't have bothered; her hand hovered close to the painting, but she didn't touch it. Pegasus's breath caught again when she turned a more radiant smile than he'd ever seen upon him.
"This is exquisite," she breathed. Looking back at the painting she went on, "Everything is just so... it's like I should be able to run my fingers through the hair, or touch the dress and feel silk." She straightened up, cheeks dusted pink, and gave a quiet laugh. "But I'd just feel wet paint-- I'm sorry, I got away from myself."
"No, that's okay, I'm flattered," Pegasus assured. Having been unsuccessful in his search for refreshments, he was about to ask what he should ask for from the kitchens for her when he caught sight of her expression. The overjoyed wonder had slid away like melting snow, and she was biting her lower lip lightly, looking at the portrait as if asking it a question. As the portrait didn't deem to answer, she turned her curiosity upon him.
"You've painted around my eyes," she said, curios rather than accusatory. "Why is that?"
"Oh, well, it's just... I'm having a bit of trouble with them."
'Trouble like what?"
That question Pegasus couldn't answer so easily. Honestly he was beginning to think it was something trivial, like Cyndia being a woman. Just about all the women he'd ever met tended towards either looking like a mystery begging to be solved or like innocence not realizing what it was asking for in corruption, but there were so many complex in-betweens. Both his mother and father (and several of his father's associates, met at business parties, but he never really listened to them) had warned him of the wiles of women that came along with even the most complimentary package. Maybe that was why he couldn't quite find it in him portray the spark he saw in Cyndia's eyes, the unspoken joy to be alive.
"Are you alright?"
Pegasus jerked his attention back to Cyndia-- and couldn't help but notice that she was standing closer than she had been. Much closer, in fact, and drawing steadily closer still. He would dare to guess that she would soon be close enough to kiss.
"Wh-what was the question?"
"I believe we were talking about my eyes."
"Oh, yes, of course..."
A tiny voice in the back of his head that sounded incredibly like his mother screeched at the indecency of what he was about to do, and effectively stopped him from doing it. Luckily for all involved, Cyndia did it for him, and in the next instant his mind was blank but for the lips that brushed his in a petal-soft kiss and he shivered as if cold. Ever considerate, Cyndia stepped forward into his arms; cooperatively, he wrapped them around her, soaking up the heat she offered like a sponge. They parted slowly, deliberately, and looked into each other's eyes; he could see his reflected in hers, but was more focused upon the pretty flush that played over her face. Not a word was spoken-- nor needed, for that matter. Cyndia quietly retook her seat and Pegasus his, and he painted her eyes in such a way that a photographer couldn't capture what he did.
One last careful stroke of the brush and Pegasus was satisfied with the eyelashes. Sighing, he set his brush down to stretch himself out and to yawn, trying not to be too loud. Cyndia had finally fallen asleep, and--
"You've not painted the eyes."
Blinking groggily at her, Pegasus saw that Cyndia was watching him through barely open eyelids. He smiled at her and leaned in close, brushing her hair from her face as he did so.
"No, not yet," he murmured, and then he closed the torturous gap between them; dry, cracked lips not withstanding, Pegasus was still stuck with the never-wavering sensation that he was brushing his lips against the velvet petals of a rose.
Every rose has its thorns.
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Arg! My kingdom for a good closing line! Le sigh...
Praise appreciated, concrit treasure, flames raspberried