by Lady Bast
Magnum Opus: a great work of literature, music, or art, especially the greatest work of a particular artist or writer.
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this..."
The brown-haired boy stood shivering in the air-conditioned hallway, the light robe he wore meagre protection against the chill of the climate control. Quatre looked at his lover and grinned. "That will teach you to make promises you think you'll never have to keep."
Trowa Barton grimaced and rubbed his arms vigorously to restore circulation. "What the hell does your sister think she is? A penguin? And you expect me to sit around naked in this?"
"I have heaters set up for you...stop complaining," Quatre rebuked him. "And you won't be 'sitting around naked'...you'll be posing nude."
"There's a difference?"
"Nude is more...artistic," smiled the blond, smoothing out his smock. He pushed open the door to his sister's studio and gestured for Trowa to step inside. Feeling the wave of heat which emanated from the room, the brunet did not hesitate for a moment. "I'm glad Amyra let us use her apartment. This is a lot easier than trucking everything around, plus she already has a nice set-up for models."
"Uh...are you sure she won't be coming home?" said Trowa nervously, stepping into the drop cloths to put himself in the middle of the circle of heaters. "You know...maybe stopping by...bringing some friends..."
Quatre laughed. "I told you! She knows we're going to be here and that we don't know when we'll be done. She's spending the night with a friend. The door is locked and requires a password for entry. We are completely alone!"
"You know, I don't think I can hold a pose as long as you need me to."
"I'll make sure you get to rest."
"I'm not going to have to hold any weird positions, am I? I might be an acrobat, but..."
"Whatever's comfortable, Trowa."
"And this is just between you and me, right? You're not going to show this around?"
Quatre sighed. "I've only just learned how to do this, okay? I'm nowhere near as good as Amyra. Nothing I produce is going to be brag-worthy so no, I won't show it around. In fact, it probably won't be good for anything except kindling for the fireplace. This will be practise at best."
"Then why can't you hire a real model?" sulked Trowa, wondering at the paint-splattered sheets that seemed to cover almost everything in the room.
"Well, it was because I love you and making watercolour sketches of you would have meant something special to me, but if it's going to make you that uncomfortable, we don't have to do it at all." Quatre lay down the brush and palette tray he had been preparing and began to gather up the tubes of paint. He did so casually with nothing in his manner that could be considered accusatory, but the disappointment seemed to flow from him in waves and he bit his lip gently to keep it from trembling.
Smooth move, asshole, Trowa admonished himself, lunging forward to grab Quatre's wrist before he could put too many of the small tubes back into their box. "I'm sorry." The apology sounded feeble even to his own ears. "Really...I'm sorry. Don't put everything away...I'll sit for you."
"It's okay, Trowa," insisted the Arabic boy. Wide blue eyes caught Trowa's green ones proving that the statement was only half a lie. "I...I'm disappointed, but I wouldn't be able to concentrate if I thought you were uncomfortable or nervous or..." He sighed and ran a hand through his white-gold hair. "This was just supposed to be for fun. I thought, since it was just the two of us, that you'd be okay with it...but I won't force you to do it."
"Quatre, I'm sorry," repeated the brunet emphatically. "I was just being a selfish bastard. I didn't even stop to think that you might have real reasons for wanting me here. I'm not all that nervous about modeling..." Trowa paused to consider this. "No, I am that nervous, but that's not the problem. I guess I just sorta fell into a routine and felt a little resentful about having to change it even though I don't have anything special going on today. I wasn't thinking that, you know, you made plans for this...plans I agreed to...and...shit. I sound like an idiot, don't I?"
"Yep," replied Quatre, his eyes warming. A slight smile was beginning to tug at the corner of his lips as he turned to slip his arms around his lover and draw him into a kiss.
"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" prompted Trowa as their lips parted. He nuzzled the soft gold of his partner's hair.
"For now," sighed Quatre. "I'll decide what to do with you once you've actually done some modeling. Now get over there and strip."
"Because you'll get the whip out if I don't?" said Trowa with faint smile, but he obeyed, stepping back into the circle of heaters.
"Don't be ridiculous...that's for later. Drop the robe."
Bowing his head to hide the faint blush creeping into his face, Trowa fiddled with the belt of the robe. He could not for the life of him imagine why he felt so jumpy...Quatre had seen him naked plenty of times. More or less. Admittedly, the lights hadn't been so bright on those occasions. The brightest had been in the shower and even then the warm bathroom lamps had been forced to filter through the heavy shower doors. The overhead lighting of the studio was different and the thought of standing naked beneath their unforgivingly cold glare gave Trowa a feeling of total exposure that not even a spotlight could equal. It was with great relief that he saw Quatre dial down the lighting to a bearable dimness and set up some studio lamps of a faintly orange hue.
"These are supposed to bring out the warm tones of your skin," he explained, flicking them on.
Trowa winced slightly as the lights dazzled his eyes, but they were not as bright as expected and he grew accustomed to them quite easily. Coupled with the heaters, they brought his temperature to a pleasing warmth and he found that his hands weren't trembling quite as much as he finally unfastened the robe and slid it off his shoulders, letting it slide almost reluctantly to the ground. "Uh...where should I put this," he asked, nudging it with his toe.
"Oh...anywhere. You can even leave it there, if you want. It doesn't really matter...I don't plan on doing many backgrounds. I have a hard enough time with the figure!"
"Is that why you have the sheets draped everywhere?" Trowa felt vaguely concerned that his lover had not made some comment - even teasingly - about his nakedness. But then why should he? Aside from the fabled artist's mentality, there was nothing about the lank brown body that he hadn't seen before.
"Yeah...kinda. I mean, I could just ignore the background, I suppose, but I find it...distracting." The blond offered him a sheepish smiled and opened a tin of waxed coloured pencils. "I don't have any particular poses in mind...you can choose whatever's comfortable to start although I want to do some standing, sitting, and laying down. You can stay where you are to stand or use the couch behind you for the other two...unless you prefer the floor.
Still able to feel the chill of the room seeping in through the sole of his feet, Trowa shook his head. "No thanks. I think I'll sit first...it might be easier. Could you...uh...could you explain to me what you're doing? I'd feel more comfortable if you did."
Quatre looked perplexed. "Okay, I'll try. Maybe sort of walk you along what I'm up to. Sound good?" Trowa nodded, sitting on the small sofa. Quatre grabbed a couple of pillows and joined him on the model stand. "First we need to get you set up comfortably, but not in a boring position. I'd ask if you wanted to read a book or something, but you might forget and move on me."
"That's okay. I prefer to talk...well, listen...to you anyway." Trowa leaned on one of the arms of the sofa, tucking his legs partly beneath him and propped his chin on his hand. "How about this?"
"That's perfect! Can you hold it for about twenty minutes? Maybe thirty? I'll let you shake yourself out and get repositioned after every ten."
"I think so."
"Good. Just maybe drape your hand over your knee instead of your waist...thanks," grinned Quatre, in high spirits now that everything was operating smoothly. He looked over his model with a critical eye. Trowa's body simply possessed the space around it. Not quite relaxed, his posture and cool stare put the Arabic boy in mind of a wary tomcat. "The lights are a little too orange, I think...hang on, I'll fix them." He dialed in a filter with more yellow and Trowa's skin shifted from a caramel hue to that of butter toffee.
"As for what I'm going to do..." Quatre exhaled gustily and ran a hand through his golden hair. "What I'm going to do is something called a 'resist' drawing. That's a very simple sketch with waxed pencils and shading done with watercolour. See, the watercolour is transparent and soft looking and doesn't stick to the pencil so the hard line shows through. I like the effect although the colours aren't very true to life. Usually Amyra makes me do them with just two or three different ones."
Trowa instantly became suspicious. "If you're not paying attention to colour, why did you spend all that time fiddling with the lights?"
Quatre blushed as he sorted through his pencils. "Well...the brightness was just for lighting and the rest was because I...uh...wanted something pretty to look at."
Trowa couldn't help laughing, burying his face in his one supporting hand. Quatre resisted as long as he could and finally joined in. He couldn't begin until his subject had composed himself anyway. By the time Trowa had resettled, he was more at ease and watched Quatre with an amused smile as the blond chattered on about contours and shading while scribbling away with a handful of pencils. After ten minutes he let Trowa shake himself out and stretch, a sappy smile on his face as he watched the lean brown body extend itself, bones creaking, and relax. Once his model had limbered up and repositioned himself, the watercolour shading began.
They went on this way for a few hours: ten minutes with a pencil and ten with paint, short breaks marking the change. When both had tired of the pattern, they stopped for a late lunch and Quatre permitted his partner to shrug back into his robe while they ate though he would not let his sketches be seen. "Not until I'm done," he said, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich. "Then you can see all of them together."
The next set of poses was quite playful and Quatre shortened his sketching time. Within two hours he'd finished for the day and joined Trowa on the couch, laying his drawings across the floor at their feet. "Be honest," winced Quatre. "I can take it."
The lank brunet sat bent over his knees, his head propped on one fist as he silently appraised the work. He hadn't bothered to cover himself and Quatre gloried in the warmth of his skin as he leaned against his lover's shoulder. "Actually," said Trowa with some surprise, "they aren't that bad..."
"No, really..."
"No. Really. I mean...well...they aren't as good as Amyra's," admitted Trowa, "but you wouldn't have believed me if I'd said they were. Still, they're pretty good considering you just started, don't you think?"
Quatre shrugged helplessly.
"Well here...if you want me to be picky about them, I will. My body's too long in these ones." He pointed out three or four of the drawings. "And my legs are too short in most of the early ones. And that pose looks really awkward, but I did that one right near the beginning so you can consider it practise. I really like this one though." He picked up one of the later poses...a reclining shot sketched in blue and golden yellow with a wash of magenta marking the threshold between light and shadow. "The proportions are really good and the whole thing looks relaxed."
"You're too skinny," moped the blond.
Trowa considered this. "Yeah...maybe a little. But I still like it. I like how bright and happy it looks. I noticed you don't put much detail on the faces, hands, and feet though."
"I'm not all that good at them. Amyra said to just concentrate on getting the shape right and I can start putting detail in later. I'm glad you like it though. You're not sorry you sat for me?"
"Glad you talked me into it," grinned Trowa, kissing the top of his lover's head.
"Then can I paint you one more time? This one might take a little longer, but I promise that you won't have to stay still all that time."
The brown-haired boy chuckled. "Sure...what's one more?"
"Great!" said Quatre, flashing a brilliant smile. "You get into a comfortable pose and I'll get the stuff ready. I need special materials for this one."
Curious, Trowa grabbed a cushion and stretched out on the couch, watching the frenzied activity of the budding artist. He was puzzled by the paints Quatre selected. They came in jars instead of tubes, their labels blackened. He grabbed one from the floor near the couch, wondering why Quatre hadn't left them on the table near his easel, and unscrewed the lid. They were surprisingly viscous...more like heavy ink than paint...and smelled faintly sweet. Quatre returned with a freshly washed blending tray and gave him a playfully condescending look. "Now, now," he said, "you shouldn't play with things you don't understand. Just relax...I promise you'll like this."
With a shrug, Trowa nestled in comfortably against his pillow and tracked his lover through half-lidded eyes. The young Arabian had poured a quantity of dark blue into one of the cups in his tray and, after diluting it to a much lighter shade, had begun to mix in some green. "Are you going to sketch from the floor?" asked the brunet, lazily plucking at strands of blond hair.
"You'll see. Hn. You trying to get me to paint you sexy?" teased the artist, analyzing his subject's pose. Trowa just offered a Cheshire smile. "Maybe you should close your eyes for this one. At least until I do your face."
Feeling amiable, Trowa complied and settled back to let Quatre get to work. The cold tip of that soft brush as it touched his chest was so unexpected that he emitted an undescribable sound and leapt nearly three feet straight up in the air. "THE HELL?" he shrieked, scrambling back against the arm of the sofa.
"If you don't sit still, it's going to smudge," said Quatre, pouting.
Trowa looked down to see a fine turquoise line running down the middle of his chest. "What are you doing?" he exclaimed, eyes wide with alarm.
"Oh, calm down...it's body paint. It'll wash off. I'll help," grinned the other.
"No...and I mean no."
"But, Trowa..."
"No!"
"But...but it feels good. It really does."
Quatre was looking disappointed again. It was times like this that Trowa wished he could just kill his conscience. He hadn't even done anything wrong! He was about to point out that being smeared with dye was not what he'd had in mind when he'd agreed to be painted when something occurred to him. "How would you know what it feels like?" he said instead.
"Well, Amyra had to show me how to use them..."
"YOU LET YOUR SISTER PAINT YOU NAKED?"
"Just my chest and back," said Quatre mournfully. "She let me practise on her back, arms, and face. Pleeease, Trowa?"
The brunet sighed. "I'm going to regret this..."
"You won't! I promise! Just lie down and close your eyes..."
Grudgingly, Trowa complied.
He had to admit that after the initial shock, the feeling was not unpleasant. If anything, it was almost erotic. The cold, damp brush ran along the contours of his body, tracing his every line, teasing at the swells of wiry muscle, tracing the curve of his throat and the caressing the plane of his jaw. A smaller, more delicate, brush painted his lips and his eyelids, his nose and his ears, the paint gliding over every inch of his body from head to groin, hairline to hairline. The hot breath from Quatre's mouth caused him to shiver. "Wh-what are you d-doing?"
"Helping you dry. Hold your arm up...I'll work on that while we wait."
He did so. First one arm and then the other, brushes tracing spirals and detailing joints; every finger perfectly mapped...every fingernail painted separately. The gentle, delightful touch had begun to make him dizzy...giddy and light-headed...and he could feel his heart beat faster as brushes, smaller and smaller, scurried faster and faster with detail upon detail.
And, suddenly, it stopped.
"Stand up," said Quatre...and Trowa was only too happy to do so.
Like little mice the brushes scrambled over his back and shoulders, sliding all the way down to his buttocks where he could feel the smooth bristles sweep and spiral over swell and crevasse, gliding all the way down his legs. He gasped as the brushes slid up his inner thigh to touch his body's centre and run back down again to touch knees, feet, and toes, the detailing brushes not far behind them. Then, finally...
"This part I have to do by hand..."
And so he did...Quatre's gentle fingers, tipped with paint, traced and coloured oh so carefully that most private part of him. Scrotum first, and then penis, circling...circling...dabbling at the tip. He could feel the stirring at his groin, hear his breath in quick, harsh gasps, and he moaned in discontent when Quatre's fingers carefully wrapped around his member, following the pattern of his art, and gently squeezed to discourage blood flow.
"Not right now," he admonished, ignoring his partner's dissatisfied whine.
Eyes closed, Trowa heard his partner clamber up on the sofa and wondered what he could be doing. The answer came as skillful fingers tugged at strands of his hair which clung together damply, but not heavily. Still, despite Quatre's rebuke, he could not help the electric warmth which sizzled through his body and lit his nerves with liquid fire.
"Your face is dry...you can open your eyes now."
Startled from his reverie, Trowa's eyes snapped open and he hissed at the glare from the spotlight. Automatically he bent his head, but felt Quatre pulling on his hair. "No...no...no...don't look down. You have to see it all at once! Wait until I tell you to turn around."
Suddenly he was nervous again and trembled slightly despite the warmth of the heaters. Afraid of smudging his lover's work, he didn't even dare to hug himself for warmth. The paint felt dry, but one could never tell. He was surprised to find that it did not itch.
"Okay...turn around."
Taking a deep breath and hoping that he was not going to live to regret his artistic adventure, Trowa turned to face the full-length mirror...
And looked into the eyes of a living, breathing, work of art.
"So?" wheedled Quatre nervously. "What do you think?"
"I...It's..." stammered Trowa and in the mirror, the jeweled boy stammered back.
The designs were primitive...circles and spirals and sweeping lines that gave him a wild and feral look. But the quality of the paint...its clear and vivid hues...gave the colours a sheen and texture like semi-precious stones. Gold and onyx accents made his flesh a warm cloisonne. His hair was a sweep of filigree wire in gold, blue, green, and black. "Quatre, it's...unbelievable."
"Amyra said I was pretty good at it. Remember that jewel-mask she wore for a week? I did that."
"Quatre, it's amazing! It...A WEEK?" Trowa's eyes grew wide. "Quatre, I can't walk around like this for a week!"
"You don't have to," sighed Quatre. He'd pulled off his shirt and smock to avoid soiling them too badly and now, with the paint dry, he wrapped his arms around Trowa's chest. "It will resist water somewhat by itself, but you can wash it off with a special soap." He nuzzled his partner's neck. "You know, I've never made love to a work of art before..."
"You lured me up here, stripped me naked, and slapped paint all over me because you're horny?" said Trowa with some annoyance. "I...I...ahhh...."
"Of course not," the blond giggled into one painted shoulder, his hands traveling down to skim lightly over the jeweled flesh above his lover's groin. "I told you...I love you. You liked it, didn't you? You liked having me paint you?"
Trowa moaned and cupped his hands over Quatre's, trying to push them lower to where the hot stirring had begun to take hold once again. "Yes...oh, God...yes. Don't tease," he begged when Quatre resisted him. "Please...don't tease me."
He was rewarded with another muffled giggle and arms slipping lower around his waist, resting against the angled planes of his hips. Deft fingers...dry now, but still muddied with paint...stroked and circled in different patterns, coaxing now. Trowa shuddered at the hot breath on his back, gemstone arms wrapping around pale limbs. This time he was given presents of kisses instead of a punishing squeeze when he grew hard and rocked in time to his lover's rhythm, feeling another stiffening through the fine khaki fabric pressed against the curve of his buttocks. He heard Quatre moan behind him, felt the smaller boy dropping to the floor and followed suit.
He could get no farther than his knees. His erection, a jeweled staff, would permit no more movement while Quatre's body was still locked around his own. He felt the heat of the blond boy clinging to his back, rocking gently against his body, tormenting himself even as he'd tormented his masterpiece until finally, with a whimpering cry, he fell away and tore through his art supplies with trembling hands until he pulled forth a plastic bottle, unmarked, but filled with a clear liquid. "Please...your back...please," he choked, fumbling with his belt buckle. "I want to see your eyes...oh please..."
Yes, thought Trowa vaguely. In me. Complete me. But Quatre was not fast enough for his pleasure or, rather, was too quick for his frustrated fingers and Trowa turned to help him. His hands, more steady, still trembling, worked loose the buckle as the blond, beautiful blond, kissed his mouth, his neck. Soon enough, or sooner than later, the belt was loose, the waistband undone, and Quatre was freeing himself from the confining clothing, soft cries of need escaping him as he alternated between kissing and pushing Trowa onto his back.
The bottle...the mysterious bottle...the moment it was opened, Trowa recognized the smell. Baby oil. But why baby oil in an art studio?
Because Amyra uses it to keep her brushes soft.
And yet it kept so many things stiff as well...
Not wanting to lose physical contact, Quatre alternated between the application of the oil and the reward of soft touches. He stroked his lover's penis gently, kissed his inner thigh, the beautiful jeweled flesh glowing warm beneath the lamps. And at last he was ready, slipping a cushion beneath his partner's hips, slick fingers tracing circles around his anus...first around and then inside, velvet oil spread gently, evenly...
Trowa saw nothing but soft blond hair as his lover bent to kiss his thighs, shrugging first one shoulder than the other under his legs. He resented too much assistance, did Quatre, and Trowa tried his best to hold his position without lifting his weight entirely from the Arabian's shoulders as his legs were pushed back and back toward his chest and finally...blue eyes! For just an instant blue met green, their crystal depths wet and shimmering.
He always cried during sex, did Quatre.
Trowa moaned softly as his lover entered him, slowly at first, as far as he could reach, a small sob escaping him as he strained against his own desire, rocking back and thrusting again, striving to match the beat of his pulse. The blond boy's abdomen slid enticingly over his partner's painted member and Trowa arched his back to meet him, body to body, skin to skin. The rhythmic dance grew faster, wilder, sweat mingling with tears which splashed against the jeweled surface of Trowa's chest, making rainbow rivulets over searing flesh. Panting, moaning, crying, begging...
God, oh God, oh God I love you...
"Love you," gasped Trowa, rising to meet pale lips. "Love you...ahhh..."
"Trowa...oh, Trowa..." sobbed Quatre, thrusting as fast and as fiercely as he dared. "Trowa...I...oh, Trowa..."
Quatre came first, a cry of mingled anguish and ecstasy matching the explosion Trowa felt within him before his own climax obliterated the world with blinding white. Warm semen mingled with the spiraling patterns of his abdomen as he cried out, arching his back to buck his hips against those of his partner. Before collapsing, spent, on the paint-spattered sheets of the studio. Quatre fell against him, his weight slight and welcome, burrowing his head against his lover's chest. They lay together beneath the lamps until their hearts had slowed, their sweat little more than a sticky sheen on their skin. In the warm light, Trowa shone like a jeweled statue of gold.
"You really are a work of art," sighed Quatre. "Thank you for letting me do this."
"Thank you for making me," replied Trowa, kissing his lover and stretching languidly.
Reluctantly, Quatre pulled away and sat up, yanking off his pants instead of pulling them up. "Now that we're both messy...we should probably get cleaned up. I suggest a shared shower. Did you want to wash all of that off before Amyra gets home? The hair paint will come out anyway."
Trowa looked at himself in the mirror once more. "You know...I think I might leave it in a little while. At least long enough to scare the servants."
"Good...because I don't think I could ever top this and I want to enjoy it as long as I can," grinned the blond.
Trowa slapped him on the rump. "You can start by seeing how well your claims of water resistance hold up. First us and then this room. You left paint everywhere!" His partner groaned. "And, Quatre?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget to wash the sheets..."
Laughing, Quatre chased his jeweled partner...his work of art...down the hall.