"Will you allow me to paint you, Monsieur Kirkland?" The pretty Frenchman was collecting his things to leave, all in a small bag the man had seen numerous times before but never really noticed.
"Why would you want to do that?" The Englishman wore a mix of flattery and confusion about his face, as a colorful mask of some unnamable creature. "Wouldn't that just be a waste of paint?"
"Oh, Monsieur. Tu casses mon cœur. Don't you realize how lovely you are? Listen, I'll make sure you're well fed and while I paint you, we can have a lovely conversation about art and music and all sorts of things. I feel sad when I can't look at your face."
This was becoming a frequent occurrence. That Bonfeuille would say something so very sugared and rich, the bitter old man could not muster up anything rational as a response. He became all emotion, a bucket of pink sentiment that had no rhyme or reason.
Lewis Carroll might as well have written about him. That would have been more coherent.
"Stop…"
"It's true, mon petit auteur. What do you say? Won't you come over and pose for me? I'm not one of those strict painters that yell at you for moving. I find it far more interesting when you shift, actually."
"But why do you find me so lovely? I don't understand you."
"What is there to understand? It just is, you lunatic."
Brows crinkled. Like elderly paper.
Francis simply waited for a reply, a greasy smile written all about those handsome cheeks. He was the one who was lovely; not a man like Arthur Kirkland. A bit of his ruined blond hair was caught between the fingers that produced so much poetry.
He would be more attractive bald.
"Arthur! For God's sake, can't you just be happy? I love your hair. Say yes. I want you on canvas, so I can hang you up in my house and stare at your for hours."
"Then you should take a picture. It would be easier, wouldn't it?"
"It's not the same!" The Frenchman was becoming frustrated. "You're going to make me cry."
"Please, don't cry Monsieur Bonfeuille. Can I think about it?"
"But what is there to think about?"
"I don't know. I'm just unsure for some reason. I don't feel like I'm worthy of being painted. It's very difficult to explain. Don't waste your canvas on me, or your paints. I know it's an expensive hobby. "
The displeasure strewn upon Francis' face could not be described. He looked as though his heart had cracked in two between his ribs, shattered and unable to be mended. It was such a dejection that it spread straight to Arthur's crux as well, infecting him with a depression that could not be shaken. It was terrible; this welling. So terrible, it crippled his mouth and wound his tongue into a knot.
"I'm sorry. Please don't look so sad…Is there some way I can make it up to you?"
Nothing was spoken.
"Monsieur Bonfeuille?"
"Non. Call me Francis. I don't want to be a stranger to you."
They regarded the ground beneath them, the old floorboards set up in the actor's dressing room. It must have been odd to be standing outside at that moment; the deafening silence after such a bought of passion.
"Francis, why do you like me so well? I just-My writing isn't that great. A lot of people don't even like it, and for good reason. You're treating me like I would treat Shakespeare, but he actually was a genius…"
"Why are you such a fool, Arthur? Don't you understand how wonderful you are? You are a genius; just because some people don't have the good taste to enjoy your work doesn't mean a damn thing. Do you think everyone just adored Shakespeare? I'm sure he had even more critics than you do. But does that take away from the greatness of his poetry? Are his plays any less amazing just because some idiot can't appreciate it? No. Of course not. It's no wonder why you've been going through a writer's block. I couldn't act if I kept telling myself I was awful. But I'm not awful, and neither are you, you moron. You're one of the best writers of this century and if you can't see it, then you don't deserve to be what you are."
Arthur regarded Francis for a long moment. "I've actually gotten better. I've been writing poetry about you, but-"
The sentence could not be finished, for Francis was too possessed with a passion to listen. He fastened their lips together and tugged on Arthur's frayed blond locks, pulling his head back. Pulling his heart back together. Pulling his soul right from his chest.
Their lips worked together, tongues embracing and buds meeting. It was a dance neither had practiced together but knew all too well.
Saliva was exchanged.
Arthur was knocked backward onto the couch, with his hands holding onto either side of Francis' face. Thumbs touched to ears and their kiss grew even deeper in its inspiration, biting and scratching and tugging each other in closer.
Then, so suddenly, this bonding became soft, lips gentle and trying to bandage the blood that was drawn.
And soon after that, it stopped.
They were breathing hard. Out of breath. Cores screaming and blood on fire.
"Why are you so silly?" A fast peck. "I love you, Arthur."
"You can't love me…We've only just met."
"But I do. So I can." Another meeting of wetted orifices. "Will you let me read what you've written?"
"I don't know if it's good enough…I can't describe you. You're too beautiful. Not yet. Please, let me make it better, and then you can read it."
"You're too critical." A delicate touch traced the trapped one's frame, and their gazes melded. "I bet it's wonderful."
"It's not. I just can't write about you correctly. It's all wrong…"
It was at this moment that Arthur Kirkland began to weep, and Francis held him, kissing away that sadness, resting his face against the Englishman's and catching sorrow within finger prints. There was no explanation for those tears. Perhaps because no one had really admired the man this much. Perhaps because Arthur was given such kind words. Perhaps because he was taken with a passion that hit him as a ruthless train. As a bullet in the head. Perhaps because someone loved him for all he was and was not. It was not only one of these reasons, and it could have been none at all. The fact was that Arthur was crying and Francis was comforting him.
"Please don't cry, mon chère. I love you. Je t'aime." Those lips kept moving, even after the words. "Please. You break my heart. I'll cry with you if you don't stop, and where will that get us?"
But Arthur did not cease. He could not. There was too much of that feeling, mangled as a rose bush without the fortune of the roses. Only thorns and hateful cord.
"Oh, Arthur."
The poet, the play-write, the author, held his companion, pulling that weeping visage to his shoulder and expelling even more of those droplets. He tried to apologize, but it turned into French gibberish within his mouth, coming out like stupid mush. Like words from a child.
"I'm sorry, Francis."
"It's alright." A quick kiss to that ear, which was crimson and just as sorry as the rest of the man. "I love you."
"I love you too."
They remained for a long duration, and finally, Arthur went home, with dried misery and adoration and puzzle all over his cheeks, trying so hard not to begin again. He did not understand it. But that was alright. Sometimes, these matters were not worth understanding. They simply were.