Erato.
I
The first thought that drifted through the painter’s mind as his eyes wandered over the features of his new sitter was that the creature standing before him resembled a life-sized doll.
The boy’s skin was milky white, his paleness rivalling the artist’s own creamy complexion and the older man couldn’t help but mentally compare it to porcelain. Such a cliché, but it was the only way he could think to describe the pure, untouched and untainted skin of the young man that had just walked in to his study.
His hair was the most unusual shade of brown the older male had ever seen, more orange than anything else and it was vibrant against the milk white skin of his charming face.
The boy’s eyes were large and fairly round, the irises an enchanting shade of light brown, sparkling with the curiosity of youth. But they narrowed at the sight of the painter, the young boy’s full lips hardening into a thin line of what the artist could only describe as disapproval.
“Forgive me for my lateness,” said the boy with the tiniest of bows. He’d always been taught to respect his elders, though the look on his face showed very clearly that he did not enjoy the thought of having to bow to this common looking man with his unruly red hair and scruffy shirt and trousers. He smiled a small smile that didn’t lighten his irises and pushed a few strands of thick orange hair from his wide, childlike eyes. “I have had to deal with some troublesome news this morning.”
“That’s quite alright,” the redhead’s voice was smooth and deep and he smiled gently at the young man who still lingered nervously and uncomfortably in the doorway, as if he felt the painter would attack him at any moment.
The crimson haired man had expected something like that. Not only was he of a lower social class, he was a foreigner too. The boy was raised to be uncomfortable around people like him. His whole life had been spent avoiding the common people, learning that the nobility was the only class that were really truly human and everyone else was dirty and unworthy of compassion.
“You may sit if you like,” the older man waved a large, elegant hand at the chair opposite his, his expression warm and genuinely friendly, hoping that he could make the young aristocrat feel at ease in his presence. “The chair is quite comfortable.”
A look of horror passed over the beautiful features of the noble boy, before an expression of light nausea settled on that fine mouth of his and he shook his head, “I shall stand, thank you.”
This man was a work of the devil, he was sure of it. From his strange fiery hair to his deep brown, almost black, eyes that seemed full of amusement and happiness, he gave the young man the overwhelming impression of dangerousness, that something sinister was lurking beneath that kind looking face with its pleasantly shaped features and beautiful smile.
The smile on the artist’s lips faltered for a second but it recovered quickly, even widened further. “Do as you wish… it makes no odds to me,” he chuckled, making the younger male frown moodily, his beautiful eyes narrowed into slits, “but you’ll need to sit when I begin to paint. Otherwise your legs will begin to suffer.”
The redhead got to his feet suddenly and the young boy realised, to his horror, that while the artist was roughly the same height as him, he was much broader, his frame appearing much more powerful than his own. He’d be easily dominated should this man choose to harm him. “My name is Andou Daisuke,” smiled the older man, bowing respectfully at the aristocrat before holding his hand out for the young boy to shake. “It is an honour to meet you at last, Master Heechul.”
Heechul shrank away from the artist’s outstretched hand, looking at it as if it were a poisonous snake before returning his sulky gaze to Daisuke’s warm, youthful face, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised in a questioning manner. “That is not a Korean name.”
“It isn’t,” Daisuke was still smiling and the young aristocrat wondered if that was the only expression the man knew how to conjure up on his gentle looking face… and also what secrets that eternal grin might be hiding from the world. It bothered him to see the man constantly smiling so foolishly, but he said nothing.
“But I am not a Korean man, Master Heechul. Though I’ve been living here in Seoul for so long, I might as well be classed as one,” the red-haired man chuckled again, the sound light and musical and Heechul could feel a soft fluttering in his stomach at the cadence of his laughter. “I am not sure if I can still speak in my native tongue… even when I’m alone, I choose to practice my Hangeul. I do believe I have almost perfected it. Would you agree?”
“Almost,” and the tiniest smile appeared briefly on the noble boy’s smooth, full lips before his expression fell back into his mask of dismissal, his eyes hardening a little more, “but your intonation still has a foreign slur that I find to be rather distracting.”
“My apologies,” Daisuke sighed, sitting back down in his chair, the smile slowly disappearing from his large lips and being replaced by a look of respectful politeness that was designed to hide his disappointment and slight annoyance at this young man’s inability to, at least, attempt to be friendly. “We Japanese have a strong identity that is difficult to leave behind, even after twelve years. I hope it will not be too much of an issue, my dear master. If you prefer, I can paint in silence. I just find it less tedious when my sitter is someone interested in conversation.”
The artist turned away to collect his satchel from the floor beside his chair and Heechul bit down on his bottom lip, his small, perfect teeth grinding against the flesh in a brief moment of hesitation before he spoke, his voice small and uncertain. “I apologise, Mr Andou. I have offended you and… that was not my intention. There is simply too much of my mother’s influence in my blood for me to be a kind-hearted person.”
“Ah, but you apologising proves otherwise,” Daisuke smiled his warm grin again and Heechul found himself smiling in return, a tiny smile but the crimson haired man found it to be quite exquisite nevertheless. Then, the older man turned serious, a frown forming on his charming face. “You shouldn’t talk about your mother like that, my dear boy. She’s a marvellous woman.”
Heechul snorted loudly, the sound not fitting his delicate, well-groomed appearance in the slightest and Daisuke couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. The boy blushed a little in embarrassment for his action but explained himself regardless. “We both know that is not true, Mr Andou. You do not have to flatter her for my benefit. The only link between us is that of blood and beautiful looks. And vanity,” he added, a little chuckle escaping from him before he could help himself.
Daisuke laughed his gloriously musical laugh and nodded in agreement, “Yes, yes, but I shouldn’t be rude about the woman who will be paying me at the end of these next few weeks. It goes against my morals.” His expression relaxed and he rose to his feet again, his dark eyes glinting in the bright light pouring through his open window as he walked fluidly over to his easel.
He stood by the empty canvas for a few moments, staring as if transfixed at the pure white texture of the untainted fabric, his mind far away for a few moments, a hint of regret in his stomach at the thought of spoiling this clean, beautiful surface. But then he thought of would become of it, what beauty it would hold at the end of it and he felt a familiar pang of excitement deep within him.
Heechul watched him silently, his expression a little brighter but still sceptical. He did not trust this man in the slightest. There was something strange about him and his seemingly endless amusement and happiness. He had never met someone so radiant. It frightened him. There had to be a darker side and, though Heechul was content with never discovering that side to this crimson haired man, part of him was filled with a kind of fearful curiosity that demanded to know where it lurked.
“Will I be sitting soon, Mr Andou?” the light haired boy asked his older companion, breaking the slightly repressive silence that had fallen over them. “I’ll be dining at my aunt’s house this afternoon. There will be a family gathering and I really cannot afford to miss it.”
“Oh, of course,” Daisuke said, his thoughts back to the present, rather than focusing on the future. “That shall be your pedestal for the next month or so,” he pointed to the chaise longue that sat in a pool of light from the largest window in the room, mahogany covered in dark red velvet – an expensive looking piece of furniture.
His eyes followed Heechul as he walked steadily over to the seat and perched lightly on the edge of the cushion, his muscles tense.
“Is it a special occasion?” Daisuke watched the boy adjusting his clothes, catching a glimpse of the pale, unspoilt skin where he undid the first two buttons of his shirt. He turned his attention to his satchel, looking up only when the boy was lying in his chosen pose, his shirt hanging loosely off one shoulder, one elegant hand behind his head, the other playing with the fabric of his collar. The redhead bit his lip and tried to focus on something far less dangerous. “A wedding? Or a birthday?”
“A death,” and the boy spoke so normally that the painter wasn’t sure if he had heard him correctly, but then he continued and Daisuke couldn’t deny that he’d heard him perfectly clearly. “My aunt died last night. That is why I was late this morning.”
“Oh! I am so sorry! Do you want to talk about it?” Daisuke’s irises were glistening with sympathy but he frowned when Heechul sighed, rolling his eyes as if bored.
“If you were not the cause of her death, you have no reason to be sorry,” his tone was harsher than really necessary, but he was growing tired of this man’s endless babbling, feeling as if he were trying to pry into the personal aspects of his life that no one should be able to access. It made him feel uncomfortable. “And there is nothing to discuss on the matter. Death is death.”
He shrugged indifferently, paused in thought for a short moment and then smiled a very sweet, exquisite little smile at the painter who was still frowning at him.
“Do begin painting, Mr Andou. My family will most likely expect me to talk at length about the matter this afternoon. It has been a while since they were all together and the light debate tends to get rather… heated very quickly. I shall need time to prepare myself for the stress of sitting in between my uncle and my mother and it is growing later by the minute.”
Daisuke glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, nodded once and prepared his paints in silence, stunned by the boy’s callousness. Perhaps it was a form of grief? That could be understood, perhaps not accepted, but understood. Heechul watched him, the smile still playing on his lips as he relaxed into position. His mother had told him to smile and so he would, the expression making him look divine, like an angel and Daisuke couldn’t help but think it a shame the boy’s personality did not match his features.
Still, the mask of politeness was fixed once again on his young face and he made himself comfortable on his small stool, glancing once again at the beautiful body across the room, before dipping the bristles of his brush into the creamy white paint smeared on his palette and turning his attention to the task ahead, reality blurring out of focus and his passion taking over, the excitement flaring up once more within him.
The boy’s skin was milky white, his paleness rivalling the artist’s own creamy complexion and the older man couldn’t help but mentally compare it to porcelain. Such a cliché, but it was the only way he could think to describe the pure, untouched and untainted skin of the young man that had just walked in to his study.
His hair was the most unusual shade of brown the older male had ever seen, more orange than anything else and it was vibrant against the milk white skin of his charming face.
The boy’s eyes were large and fairly round, the irises an enchanting shade of light brown, sparkling with the curiosity of youth. But they narrowed at the sight of the painter, the young boy’s full lips hardening into a thin line of what the artist could only describe as disapproval.
“Forgive me for my lateness,” said the boy with the tiniest of bows. He’d always been taught to respect his elders, though the look on his face showed very clearly that he did not enjoy the thought of having to bow to this common looking man with his unruly red hair and scruffy shirt and trousers. He smiled a small smile that didn’t lighten his irises and pushed a few strands of thick orange hair from his wide, childlike eyes. “I have had to deal with some troublesome news this morning.”
“That’s quite alright,” the redhead’s voice was smooth and deep and he smiled gently at the young man who still lingered nervously and uncomfortably in the doorway, as if he felt the painter would attack him at any moment.
The crimson haired man had expected something like that. Not only was he of a lower social class, he was a foreigner too. The boy was raised to be uncomfortable around people like him. His whole life had been spent avoiding the common people, learning that the nobility was the only class that were really truly human and everyone else was dirty and unworthy of compassion.
“You may sit if you like,” the older man waved a large, elegant hand at the chair opposite his, his expression warm and genuinely friendly, hoping that he could make the young aristocrat feel at ease in his presence. “The chair is quite comfortable.”
A look of horror passed over the beautiful features of the noble boy, before an expression of light nausea settled on that fine mouth of his and he shook his head, “I shall stand, thank you.”
This man was a work of the devil, he was sure of it. From his strange fiery hair to his deep brown, almost black, eyes that seemed full of amusement and happiness, he gave the young man the overwhelming impression of dangerousness, that something sinister was lurking beneath that kind looking face with its pleasantly shaped features and beautiful smile.
The smile on the artist’s lips faltered for a second but it recovered quickly, even widened further. “Do as you wish… it makes no odds to me,” he chuckled, making the younger male frown moodily, his beautiful eyes narrowed into slits, “but you’ll need to sit when I begin to paint. Otherwise your legs will begin to suffer.”
The redhead got to his feet suddenly and the young boy realised, to his horror, that while the artist was roughly the same height as him, he was much broader, his frame appearing much more powerful than his own. He’d be easily dominated should this man choose to harm him. “My name is Andou Daisuke,” smiled the older man, bowing respectfully at the aristocrat before holding his hand out for the young boy to shake. “It is an honour to meet you at last, Master Heechul.”
Heechul shrank away from the artist’s outstretched hand, looking at it as if it were a poisonous snake before returning his sulky gaze to Daisuke’s warm, youthful face, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised in a questioning manner. “That is not a Korean name.”
“It isn’t,” Daisuke was still smiling and the young aristocrat wondered if that was the only expression the man knew how to conjure up on his gentle looking face… and also what secrets that eternal grin might be hiding from the world. It bothered him to see the man constantly smiling so foolishly, but he said nothing.
“But I am not a Korean man, Master Heechul. Though I’ve been living here in Seoul for so long, I might as well be classed as one,” the red-haired man chuckled again, the sound light and musical and Heechul could feel a soft fluttering in his stomach at the cadence of his laughter. “I am not sure if I can still speak in my native tongue… even when I’m alone, I choose to practice my Hangeul. I do believe I have almost perfected it. Would you agree?”
“Almost,” and the tiniest smile appeared briefly on the noble boy’s smooth, full lips before his expression fell back into his mask of dismissal, his eyes hardening a little more, “but your intonation still has a foreign slur that I find to be rather distracting.”
“My apologies,” Daisuke sighed, sitting back down in his chair, the smile slowly disappearing from his large lips and being replaced by a look of respectful politeness that was designed to hide his disappointment and slight annoyance at this young man’s inability to, at least, attempt to be friendly. “We Japanese have a strong identity that is difficult to leave behind, even after twelve years. I hope it will not be too much of an issue, my dear master. If you prefer, I can paint in silence. I just find it less tedious when my sitter is someone interested in conversation.”
The artist turned away to collect his satchel from the floor beside his chair and Heechul bit down on his bottom lip, his small, perfect teeth grinding against the flesh in a brief moment of hesitation before he spoke, his voice small and uncertain. “I apologise, Mr Andou. I have offended you and… that was not my intention. There is simply too much of my mother’s influence in my blood for me to be a kind-hearted person.”
“Ah, but you apologising proves otherwise,” Daisuke smiled his warm grin again and Heechul found himself smiling in return, a tiny smile but the crimson haired man found it to be quite exquisite nevertheless. Then, the older man turned serious, a frown forming on his charming face. “You shouldn’t talk about your mother like that, my dear boy. She’s a marvellous woman.”
Heechul snorted loudly, the sound not fitting his delicate, well-groomed appearance in the slightest and Daisuke couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. The boy blushed a little in embarrassment for his action but explained himself regardless. “We both know that is not true, Mr Andou. You do not have to flatter her for my benefit. The only link between us is that of blood and beautiful looks. And vanity,” he added, a little chuckle escaping from him before he could help himself.
Daisuke laughed his gloriously musical laugh and nodded in agreement, “Yes, yes, but I shouldn’t be rude about the woman who will be paying me at the end of these next few weeks. It goes against my morals.” His expression relaxed and he rose to his feet again, his dark eyes glinting in the bright light pouring through his open window as he walked fluidly over to his easel.
He stood by the empty canvas for a few moments, staring as if transfixed at the pure white texture of the untainted fabric, his mind far away for a few moments, a hint of regret in his stomach at the thought of spoiling this clean, beautiful surface. But then he thought of would become of it, what beauty it would hold at the end of it and he felt a familiar pang of excitement deep within him.
Heechul watched him silently, his expression a little brighter but still sceptical. He did not trust this man in the slightest. There was something strange about him and his seemingly endless amusement and happiness. He had never met someone so radiant. It frightened him. There had to be a darker side and, though Heechul was content with never discovering that side to this crimson haired man, part of him was filled with a kind of fearful curiosity that demanded to know where it lurked.
“Will I be sitting soon, Mr Andou?” the light haired boy asked his older companion, breaking the slightly repressive silence that had fallen over them. “I’ll be dining at my aunt’s house this afternoon. There will be a family gathering and I really cannot afford to miss it.”
“Oh, of course,” Daisuke said, his thoughts back to the present, rather than focusing on the future. “That shall be your pedestal for the next month or so,” he pointed to the chaise longue that sat in a pool of light from the largest window in the room, mahogany covered in dark red velvet – an expensive looking piece of furniture.
His eyes followed Heechul as he walked steadily over to the seat and perched lightly on the edge of the cushion, his muscles tense.
“Is it a special occasion?” Daisuke watched the boy adjusting his clothes, catching a glimpse of the pale, unspoilt skin where he undid the first two buttons of his shirt. He turned his attention to his satchel, looking up only when the boy was lying in his chosen pose, his shirt hanging loosely off one shoulder, one elegant hand behind his head, the other playing with the fabric of his collar. The redhead bit his lip and tried to focus on something far less dangerous. “A wedding? Or a birthday?”
“A death,” and the boy spoke so normally that the painter wasn’t sure if he had heard him correctly, but then he continued and Daisuke couldn’t deny that he’d heard him perfectly clearly. “My aunt died last night. That is why I was late this morning.”
“Oh! I am so sorry! Do you want to talk about it?” Daisuke’s irises were glistening with sympathy but he frowned when Heechul sighed, rolling his eyes as if bored.
“If you were not the cause of her death, you have no reason to be sorry,” his tone was harsher than really necessary, but he was growing tired of this man’s endless babbling, feeling as if he were trying to pry into the personal aspects of his life that no one should be able to access. It made him feel uncomfortable. “And there is nothing to discuss on the matter. Death is death.”
He shrugged indifferently, paused in thought for a short moment and then smiled a very sweet, exquisite little smile at the painter who was still frowning at him.
“Do begin painting, Mr Andou. My family will most likely expect me to talk at length about the matter this afternoon. It has been a while since they were all together and the light debate tends to get rather… heated very quickly. I shall need time to prepare myself for the stress of sitting in between my uncle and my mother and it is growing later by the minute.”
Daisuke glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, nodded once and prepared his paints in silence, stunned by the boy’s callousness. Perhaps it was a form of grief? That could be understood, perhaps not accepted, but understood. Heechul watched him, the smile still playing on his lips as he relaxed into position. His mother had told him to smile and so he would, the expression making him look divine, like an angel and Daisuke couldn’t help but think it a shame the boy’s personality did not match his features.
Still, the mask of politeness was fixed once again on his young face and he made himself comfortable on his small stool, glancing once again at the beautiful body across the room, before dipping the bristles of his brush into the creamy white paint smeared on his palette and turning his attention to the task ahead, reality blurring out of focus and his passion taking over, the excitement flaring up once more within him.