It's been forever, I know. But I have a legit excuse...
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
The Artist's Model
AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.
--
Chapter 7: Saturdays
I let myself in, knowing that Bella always unlocked the door before I came. Whistling quietly, I walked through the dark halls, feeling uncharacteristically happy due to the mellow sun and blue sky. Admittedly, bad weather was more interesting to paint, but no one could resist a bout of sunshine.
"Hello," Bella said breathlessly to me as I walked in. I responded to her beaming face with a dazzling grin of my own.
"Hello." We stood stupidly in the hall for a few more moments, each savouring the sweetness that was meeting someone again. "How are you today?"
And she, typical Bella, bowed her head in response, her blush spreading to her scalp. "I'm better now." She smiled up at me and my heart filled with a sort of warmth even the sun could not rival.
"Good." What else more was there to say?
I set up quickly, my arms going through the familiar motions of putting up my easel. Bella waited patiently in her terrycloth robe, her lips curved upwards dreamily. I stared at her far more than her gaze wandered to me.
"It's such a beautiful day." I hated resorting to such mundane topics, but there was no other way to force Bella to look at me.
"It is." Her head didn't turn.
I exhaled, frustrated. "Do you have any plans for today?"
From what I could see of her face, she grimaced. Unexpectedly, she stood, maneuvering her way to find herself beside my easel. A single finger reached out to touch the wood panels of her closet, stopping an inch away from the wet paint.
"It looks so real." Her voice was in awe.
I couldn't stop the pride that shot through my veins, and neither did I want to. "Have you ever done any oil painting?"
Bella's head shook, her hair whipping me lightly in the face. I breathed in her strawberry scent. She moved to her position in front of the closet. I picked up my brush reluctantly.
"Not much. I did an oil miniature in high school, but it wasn't very successful. You're forgetting I lived in a small town—our school didn't have the proper ventilation to use vast amounts of turpentine. My teacher feared for her health as it was." She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Not all of us went to prestigious art schools in Chicago."
I smirked at the jab. "I guess not. But at least you must have done some more work with oils in university."
Her head was already shaking before I finished speaking. "You forget I'm majoring in Art History," she reminded me. "I didn't take many actual art courses because I discovered the hard way that I have no artistic skills myself, but I have a good eye."
"So what do you enjoy doing then? Sculpting? Animation?"
Bella snorted. I had to hide a grin. "God, no. If you've ever seen my computer, you know that the only thing I can actually work is a word processor, so anything involving computer programs are out."
I bristled with indignation. "Not all animation is done using computer programs and CGI."
She waved a hand dismissively. "Okay, okay. I fully appreciate stop motion animation, okay? I love Tim Burton, I've watched Nightmare Before Christmas more times than I have fingers, I can sing every song in Corpse Bride. The point is, I don't do animation. And I most definitely don't sculpt. I can almost make clay sculptures, but anything that involves reduction or relief carving, I'm hopeless."
I rolled my eyes. "Then what are you good at?"
Bella took a deep breath, drawing herself to her full height. "Pastels. What can I say? I enjoy blending and tones and using my fingers. And the smell of hairspray…"
I chuckled. "You're very good. You've almost completely distracted me. But you never did answer my question. Are you going out today?"
She smiled slyly at me. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think this was a prelude to another question that begins with 'Would you like to…'"
A chuckle escaped before I could harness it. "Honestly, I just feel bad that you have to spend all day cooped up with me."
"No, I'm not planning on going out today." She hesitated and I witnessed the return of Shy Bella. "But next week, can we switch from Saturday to Sunday? If it's alright with you, of course."
"Of course," I repeated. "Sometimes I forget you have a social life." I grinned apologetically at Bella, almost unaffected by her presence. Granted, my hand still wobbled a bit, but it was considerably better than an hour ago when I'd just arrived. I was desensitizing myself.
She returned my smile, but I could only see half of it from where I sat. "Is Alice dragging you out shopping again?"
"No, Alice went back to New York." Even I, social leper, could hear the sadness in her voice. "But she's thinking about moving here. We want to rent an apartment together. You should meet her—I think you two would get along well. She's the perfect remedy to your moodiness."
"I'm not too stereotypically 'tortured artist', am I?"
Bella laughed and I much appreciated the genuineness in the sound. She made me feel as if I were funny. "No, you're perfect."
Her last statement made me smile widely. "Then what are you doing on Saturday? Hot date?"
Bella's blush told me everything. It was a hot date. I suddenly felt a huge urge to throw up.
She seemed very uncomfortable and I knew she'd be toying with her clothing—innocently, of course—if she was wearing enough. "It's just a guy in my class. He's been really sweet about lending notes for the classes I miss and he really understands a lot of concepts. He can probably explain them better than my Profs can."
I tasted bitterness on the back of my tongue. I didn't want to hear her worship her hero boyfriend. I didn't want him to be able to make her laugh, to catch her when she fell. It was wrong of me to direct my anger towards Bella, but all my pent up frustration was let out. I didn't speak to Bella for the rest of the session unless it was to bark out a command to tell her to stop fidgeting. Each time she would obey obediently, but with a confused expression, and I hated her all the more for it.
--
Saturday—my favourite day of the week. Today, I'd get out of my studio, get away from my dreams and nightmares of Bella---Bella's legs, Bella's arms, Bella's glorious breasts—and see the real thing. I whistled happily to myself as I made coffee, my first caffeine fix of many to come.
As I was eyeing my painting, I remembered. Bella had cancelled on me for some college hotshot. At this moment, she could be with him at the Louvre, or maybe downtown, walking, talking, holding hands. I groaned to myself.
I sat with caffeine fix number seven of the day, my leg jittering on the floor from nerves or excess stimulant. I honestly didn't know. I wished that I'd asked Bella for her cell phone number, I wished she would call me, I wished I was there instead of him, I wished I wished I wished.
Slideshow after slideshow ran through my head, fueled by my overactive imagination. Bella laughing at something he said, Bella blushing shyly at me, her cheeks stained my favourite pink. Bella, her arms wound around him, her face blissfully happy. Bella kissing him passionately, her tongue slipping into his mouth, her legs wrapped securely around his waist in an attempt to bring him closer. Bella whispering to him what she would never be able to give me; her love, her life.
I paced around the room. I did sit-ups. I blasted my music at its loudest volume when my eardrums nearly bled, and still the babble inside my head wouldn't shut up.
I picked up my pen, doodled on a scrap piece of paper. When the lines and squiggles began shaping into Bella's lips, her expressive eyes, I balled the sheet, aimed it at the trashcan. I missed.
I chewed on the ends of my crappy paintbrushes, sucked through an entire pack of cigarettes. I talked to myself, I forced myself to laugh. Everything sounded too contrived.
I wanted to run, to fly, but where was there room for me to take off? Where was my destination? Nowhere; just Bella.
As I lay on the cold floor, I despised myself more and more. What kind of sick monster would want a beautiful angel all to himself if he had no capability to love her, treasure her, the way she deserved? What kind of monster would think again and again about Bella in her little scraps of fabric, Bella and her tongue, while Bella was pledged to another man?
I was piteous. Bella was humouring me by being my model. She was only doing it, a voice whispered, to get a good mark and graduate, not because she cared about me, and who could blame her? Every session, she learned more about me—my process, my concepts, my inspiration, my techniques. No verbal questioning was required. From Bella, I learned more than could be absorbed through actions than through words.
The cars trickled by my studio, many stories below. I lay awake, flicking the cigarette lighter, burning my retinas with its bright but brief flame. When my watch read three in the morning, I dragged myself to the attached bathroom, knocked a few sleeping pills into my cupped palm and chased them with a gulp of my favourite wine. Slowly, painstaking, sleep took me for its own.
--
I had this chapter typed up for Wednesday, but, of course, my Internet just shut down. I'm not even kidding. I always check my email first and I just made it in and the Internet stopped working. Thursday and Friday it worked sporadically and now (FINALLY) it seems to have stabilized...
Tomorrow, I'll (probably) update again. But I know that if you review, I'll update THAT much faster...
