Work Text:
Rafayel thinks he may be going insane.
He smiles to his darling bodyguard as she leaves, the conch shell she'd gotten for him clenched tightly and firmly within his grasp. As she closes the door, he lifts the shell up to his eyes, turning and inspecting every nook and cranny on the glittering surface. Dust and particles of sand pool at the base, spilling onto the studio floor as he shakes it and, in the messy speckles of gold scattered on the floor, he sees it again.
He sees her again.
It's not uncommon for Rafayel, an artist like no other, to see beauty and potential in everything he comes across. In fact, to be an artist, some would say it is a requirement to be able to find 'something' in 'nothing'. What seems to be a leaf could be many things: the brush, the colour, the shape, or the subject. If creativity was reigned in by the extensive boundaries of nature and fate, Rafayel wouldn't find any hope in art; there'd be no point if there were rules to his craft.
Lately, he's been finding a lot in the mundane parts of his day. A whole lot of her.
It's intoxicating. The clouds, chatting mindlessly above the sky in cliques and clusters, make shape of her face. Their edges fall like her hair upon her shoulders, the gaps formed meticulously to fit the highlights on her face. Perhaps the clouds had realized that the sky was a canvas meant to portray a vision of a serene dream and reserved it just for her.
The roses, pungent and sweet, begin to take her scent day by day until the fumes crawl into Rafayel's brain and take hold of him, thorny stems wrapped around his senses. Nature has him in palm of the world, trapped with no evidence of a route to freedom.
Even now, with the spillage of normal beach sand onto a white floor, it begins to resemble her smile.
Rafayel groans, setting down the conch onto a table before launching himself onto a chair. His hand comes up to grab fistfuls of his hair, stress beginning to set in. It's no good; his visions are now soaked in her memory, a never-changing constant. Every painting, every sketch, every scene that he'd attempt to come up with something new— her, her traces, her energy; it's always lingering. It's like a plague.
Thomas comes through the door, and Rafayel can tell it's him by the urgent, pattering footsteps racing toward him. "Rafayel, how's this next painting coming along?"
"You can have a look at it yourself." Rafayel gestures toward his newest painting, which is still in progress as he tries to look for a natural texture to mimic sea foam that’s to his liking. He stands up with a sigh, taking the conch shell with him, and he lifts it up. “This should help finish it off.”
"This... is beautiful. As always, Rafayel." Thomas smiles, stepping back to admire it fully. "I love this shade of blue you've got here. You know what? Your style is slowly changing— no, evolving."
Rafayel feels his gut twist in the slightest. "...Would you like to elaborate?"
Thomas glances at the semblance of distraught above Rafayel's face, assuming that he didn't like the comment. "N–No, I didn't mean it like that. Your art is as splendid as ever. I just think that it feels a bit... more vibrant? Brighter? Romantic? I don't know how to describe it. The emotion is so strong, not to say that it wasn't before, but it really resounds through my soul."
Rafayel was distraught— not because he didn't agree with Thomas' comment, but because it confirmed his fears. An artist's biggest life changer: the step forward that can never be taken back, the leap across a valley, the bet on a gamble as the wheel spins endlessly...
He's fallen in love.
The disease of romance has found its way from his brain to his hands, its essence imbued into every stroke and colour. Even Thomas, a bachelor with no known experience of love, can feel that fresh and new hint of change. Rafayel can only fear for the moment his unaware muse sees this piece…
Rafayel breaks himself out of thought seeing Thomas’ fear for his words. He shakes his head, tutting. “Does it really?”
“Seem like it’s more romantic? I mean, yes.” Thomas puts his hand on his chin, staring analytically at the work. “More warm tones. Everywhere. Each colour is vibrant, strong, and intense. The passion I feel just looking at this is inexplicable. I feel warm, happy, and safe looking at this. I can’t seem to describe it.”
“I see.” Rafayel calmly walks back to his chair, taking a seat. “I appreciate your feedback.”
“It’s no problem. Our next exhibition is in a week, by the way, so if this is your final piece, I’ll need it done as soon as possible.” Thomas reminds him, which makes Rafayel a little bit irked by the time constraints placed upon him once again.
Choosing not to respond, Thomas quickly receives Rafayel’s hint and scurries out the door. Rafayel sits alone in his silence, a blizzard of thoughts circling around his head and wreaking chaos all over his mental state.
He stands up, eyebrows furrowed, and looks at the painting once more. Thomas was right. It’s so intense, bright, passionate — everything he said was true. And even more so, it’s not like his normal style. Though not intentionally, there tends to be a pattern within his works where he tries to balance the cooler and warm tones. This puts less emphasis on any certain piece of the work since the contrast is lower.
Yet, just with this painting, there are bright red tints chasing the purple tones into the horizon, dotted with yellows and blues that are almost neon in brilliance. Anyone who viewed this would immediately have their attention turned towards the sky, with clouds that resemble her hair and birds that took inspiration for their wingspan from the creases of her smile. The shoreline and waves look almost dull next to the shining focus. Very uncharacteristic of the painter Rafayel, who takes time and energy to make sure every part of his masterpieces have time to shine.
All of his recent works are her. He doesn’t do portraits but, with the amount of impact she’s making on his landscapes, he might as well be drawing full-on realism of her. Anyone can tell he’s going through something. Most can tell he’s fallen in love.
He stands up once more. The conch shell she picked up for him fits in his grip perfectly. He dips the ridges in light blue paint before gently pressing it against the canvas, an illusion of foam gathering at the shoreline beginning to form. He repeats this process – dip, dab, dip, dab – until the waves prosper with bubbles of air.
He takes a step back. In front of him is a painting of a sunset from the perspective of a beach.
He doesn’t see that. He sees her. He feels her.
It’s beautiful.
She’s beautiful.