Daedalus

galaxy aesthetic

I'm not that confident in saying that my opinions are stable, seeing as I debate each side of the account heavily, sometimes ending up where I last left off, so really I should just waltz right into the nude situation, and fucking win it. Impulsivity has never been my forte nor my desire (and it is often my repellent), but that's the only tactic I can think of to combat my unrelenting disease.

While Lent is off collecting his painting supplies, which I can see is a conglomerate of blues and purples and pinks and blacks, I carefully slice the clothing off of my body with fingers as cold and bony as a hammer. Impulsivity isn't something that manifests upon will, rather something that is conditioned into the beholder, and I am on my way, so for now I can procrastinate a bit less than I usually would. At last the final rags have dropped off the ledge of my figure, and I stand awkwardly in a space Lent will spy once he swivels around.

And swivel around he does, rapidly snatching a sharp breath and a faint yelp of astonishment, and leaving me to wonder if I have offended him in some shape or form, and to the best of my analytical knowledge, I have not, or I at least hope that I have not.

My brows swim towards each other, tilting my head in Lent's direction. "Is everything okay?"

I had suspected that it would be Lent asking me this question, but oh how confusing this life in Paris is. He's seen me naked before, and I have witnessed the same texture draped over his body, so why is this any different? Perhaps I should be telling myself that, but I'm not the one who can usually handle shit like this. On the outside, my demeanor is that of someone whose largest step out of the shadows is being named the calmest person in the school yearbook, but the inside is a different story, whereas Lent is generally a down to earth kind of person, the kind of person who shouldn't be gaping at me like both of us have done something wrong.

"Yeah, absolutely superb. It's just..." Lent hooks his teeth to his bottom lip, rectangles of ivory colliding with plump cherry blossom petals, and unlatches it just as quickly. "I've never painted someone so beautiful before."

Does this angel ever cease to disconcert me in the most pleasant manner possible? Does this angel truly mean what he utters? Does this angel care for me in the same fashion that I care for him? Admittedly I am head over heels in love with him, but love is perfectly content with observing, because love in its purest sense is not inherently greedy, rather blissful by appreciating the wonderful people in life, so there is no need to inform Lent of this, and there is no need to pick apart everything he says and does.

I could just be reading into this too much, and as a fervid reader I wouldn't be inordinately shocked, so I play it off. "Would Loire be too happy to hear that?" I jest in an attempt to make light of the tense circumstances, but I eventually skip straight to the point by clearing my throat. "So where should I pose?"

Lent asks of himself a few more seconds to recover, and genuine surprise coats his face once he's snapped back to reality, but he composes himself quicker than I ever could. "Oh, um, just the couch...over there. Yeah, that would be fine."

Lingering on my friend for a second, I shuffle over towards the sofa with an obvious stiffness plaguing my bones and joints, and I swear I can detect the sound of my body caving under the pressure of what my mind has brewed up. Although it is ineluctable, I pretend as though I can ignore it.

Lent is back with his paints (whose box I now see reclining against the wall behind him, labeling that the substance is non-toxic and presumably safe on the skin, but I had no prior qualms about what Lent has spent years practicing; I know he would never subject me to poison) when I finally select a position on the couch, and he treks over towards me to begin his work. Gracefully accepting the pillow I toss to him to mitigate the blow on his knees, he clutches his brush determinedly within his slender fingers as he surveys his human canvas, but somehow his gaze isn't as demeaning as I would've expected it to be, rather a gentle sweep of water over my build, and it soothes me.

Lent finds everything to be suitable, and plunges his brush into a puddle of violet as an appetizer to the final product. I am not prepared for when he actually presses the hue to the shallow dip of my side, for when a whole civilization of goosebumps migrates to my skin, for when hedonism consummates an abrupt marriage with art.

"Lent," I gasp, and upon instinct I shoot out my arm to grasp that of the artist's, as if I need steadying on a structure that can support me just fine.

"It's cold, yeah?" Lent remarks with nothing but cheer in his throat, but a mix of indescribable emotions furnishes his eyes. Even his paintbrush slows down, now slowly dragging across my flesh to cross the finish line, which only disquiets me more.

Before another one of Lent's brushes (this time it's clean, until he saturates it with a different hue than the last) contacts me with a splotch of the same cobalt that resides in his irises, I swipe my finger over the plush bristles, and dot the bulb of my artist's nose with it, a silly smile quirking the features of my currently unscathed visage. In retaliation, Lent redirects his brush to behind my ear to utilize a strategy instead of a mirror, and it sure as hell draws a yowl out of me, at which Lent giggles devilishly.

"I think the dot on my nose really suits me, Basil." These words he expels are swathed in the remnants of his laughter, which includes my name, and every syllable he puffs out is a symphony to my paint-stained ears.

My head cranks towards my friend, adding a charismatic smile to its front wall, a wink to a couple inches above. "Well, the god of beauty can sport anything."

Lent dips his head to the floor in order to conceal the crimson dyeing his cheeks, and pretends as though he's reclaiming some more paint. He's obviously pleased with my words, but that is a notion he intends to hide, and he even goes so far as to change the subject (though it's not like compliments have a back to jump off of, besides reciprocating them). "I went down to the marketplace with Loire today." Lent dabs in a lake of fuchsia, then applying it to my skin while he speaks idly.

My brow shrugs. "Oh? How did that go?"

"We ran into some schoolchildren with whom Loire is acquainted, and she introduced me to them. They were very enthusiastic about the fact that I'm friends with her, and frankly so am I."

The first level of a smile tweaks the left corner of my lips, and as I stare up at the ceiling as if it's the night sky speckled with white fire, I whimsically sigh, "I admire the youth."

"Then why do you seem to despise yourself?"

Lent catches onto a lot, and I suppose I should've registered this more adeptly, should've placed it in the first row of my mind for easy accessibility. He's an artist, for god's sake! Observation is a prerequisite to skillful painting, and oftentimes that observation is an analysis of the human mind instead of corporeal phenomena. Even if he weren't an artist, he could decrypt that maybe my actions aren't so optimistic on most occasions. I run through many boxes of coffee cups, cultivate prominent shadows under my skin, weary myself by doing ostensibly nothing physical, weary myself by stressing. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that if I cared more about myself I would probably fix these things, but I don't so I haven't, and Lent has made that clear.

But I'd rather not delve into the possibilities of my pessimistic character, and he also hijacked my point, so I weave my way back into discussing why I admire the varying shades of green in a world that prefers grey over anything else.

"Because I am not a member of the youth. Mental age is the truly radiant factor. A spirited laugh can be heard regardless of whether or not you can see its origin, whether or not you can see its age from the vessel. The mind is better preserved than the body. As many television programs will teach you, it's what's on the inside that counts, so on that scale I am not young. I am a crotchety old man."

Lent digs a color into the hollows of my neck. "And what would I be?"

My vision departs from the ceiling, then gliding over to meet Lent's own vision. A hand extends to clutch his chin between my thumb and index finger to better steady our connection. "You, my beautiful Icarus, would be immortal."

~~~~~

A/N: wow what a cute and awkward chapter

also why is it that I update this like only once every week omg I used to write around 3 chapters per day

~Dakudos