The Virtues Of Literature

Part 13

Chapter 13

Arthur puts down his pen with an aching hand and waits for the papers to be collected in. He sighs with relief quietly and leans back in his seat, letting a small smile come to his face.

That's it. Exams over.

All of the students are given the heads up to leave, and he marches out of the exam hall in satisfaction. His tests went quite well, and he hopes his cramped hands and the dozens of pens he has been through are worth it. Arthur walks through town back home, and lets himself into the flat.

Francis is sitting behind his canvas by the window yet again, the late morning sunlight coating his almost angelic face, dazzling Arthur in more ways than one. The Frenchman turns to face Arthur and smiles a beautiful smile that takes his breath away. He blushes, and grumbles about nothing in particular as he puts down his bag.

"How did your last exam go Arthur?"

Arthur forgets about Francis' seemingly manipulative powers against him and grins at his question.

"Well enough, so I don't even want to have to worry about them any more. God, am I so relieved exams are over, why did I ever think that continuing my education into university was a good idea."

"Well I think it was un idée magnifique, because it meant that you met moi."

Damn cheesy French.

"Shut up with your frog language, frog."

Francis chuckles, "Says you who actually knows how to speak it."

Arthur frowns in confusion. "Wait what? How the hell do you know that, I've never told you."

"Ahah, well you obviously didn't remember one of the evenings down the pub a while ago when you were pissed drunk. I said something en français, and then you started babbling it back. I'm glad you don't remember how shocked I looked."

Arthur gapes, and reminds himself to re-evaluate his drinking habits as he sets about making a cup of tea.

Francis sighs and gives a tired smile after pointedly dropping a paintbrush onto his art table. "Finally finished! Ahh, I've been working on this canvas for so long and I can finally hand it in - it's my last piece of work for this year."

"Congratulations. And I don't have to be relaxing in my own now."

Francis sighs in happiness yet again, and potters over to the bathroom to wash some of his brushes and palettes before they dry.

Arthur heads to the sofa with his mug of tea but just as he is about to set himself down, curiously gets the better of him. For some reason he had never actually got around to having a proper look at Francis' main painting, and he wanders over to the bay window. He peeks around the easel harbouring the huge canvas, and then brings himself to stand in front of it. His eyes widen.

Illustrated there on the canvas, in delicate acrylics, is a still life of a library. Every book on every shelf has its own unique cover, some modern, some aged, some bland, some intricate. Dark hardwood furniture sits on faded but characteristic Persian rugs, suiting the room's musky but cosy atmosphere. And there, sitting neatly on one of the old warped chairs, is him.

He frowns and looks closer, the figure neither particularly large or detailed and the head looking down at a book on the table. But he can clearly see his distinctive mop of blonde hair, a jumper resembling one of his own, and one little spot of paint that really convinces him.

His dangling fringe obscures a majority of his face, and through a small gap he sees a single speck of emerald green for one his barely visible eyes.