Some D-Day Matt; I headcanon him as a paratrooper with the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion. Content warnings: Injury, violence, death mention.
6th June, 1944
Through a thick bank of clouds—and then they’re out the other side—into hell.
The brilliant, glowing white streaks of German anti-aircraft fire light up the inky blackness. So much for hoping to sneak in, Matthew thinks. The dark silhouettes of the other C-47 Dakotas flying through this lethal gauntlet, crosses against the blinding, thunderous flashes of light.
Through the open door of the plane, a glimpse of sheer pandemonium and chaos above, behind and below. The fiery outline of a damaged plane in front spiralling down to the ground, its fuselage brilliantly wreathed in fire.
A series of violent lurches, like that of the worst out-of-control rollercoaster ride, a thousand times over. The C-47 is bucking hard, as the pilots took evasive measures, slamming several men to the side of the plane in a tangle of limbs. Loud cursing and groans of pain, as several who were sent careening into one another furiously fought to untangle their static lines, which were clipped to the main anchor line above.
Matthew grits his teeth, braces himself on the door handle as the plane banks violently again, to the right.
Animal Liberation March going on in Mumbai, India right now I wish I could be there. So so proud of all vegan/AR activists who have travelled from all over India to join this march and speak up for the animals! I’m sure many people will listen to the voices of the victim animals today!
this is my old renaissance au with artist!billy and model!steve so enjoy lol
The light spills out onto the floor before the window, making the worn wood of the floor look bright again, like new. The light doesn’t reach Steve though. Billy set up the scene like that on purpose, closer to the center of his studio. No direct light. He wants this to be lit like it’s the beginning of twilight. In his head, Hyacinth dies at sunset.
The room is silent, has been for a while, other than birds outside the window, a breeze that made the window tap against itself lightly, and fabric shifting if Steve stirs from where he is at all, draped across this haphazard construction of pillows, blankets, and a bench.
That’s the word Billy used; “drape”. When Steve got to the studio Billy was kicking pillows around on his little model platform, trying to get everything set up right, hardly even greeting Steve at all before launching into his explanation of how he wanted Steve to look.
“-and he’s dying, but he’s not dead yet,” Billy walked half a circle around the platform, hands out. “So Apollo would- damn-” A pillow fell over, he pushed it back up. “Would be here. So if you can just sort of drape yourself across right here-”
Steve was stripping off the last of his garments when Billy turned back around.
“Here?” Steve finished kicking his stockings off, crossed to step up onto the platform.
Billy swallowed, looking Steve in the eyes because at least it meant he wouldn’t look down, slack jawed. “Yeah, that’s- that’s perfect.” Steve was already settling in to sitting down, letting his head fall back against the seat of the bench, throat exposed.
The way he was sitting shifted his weight in his hips more; Billy tried to look critically. Not appreciatively. He shouldn’t be appreciating the son of the nobleman that had decided to be his patron. Not that Steve was even supposed to be modeling for him beyond the two portraits he’d already had done.
“Tip your knee down more,” Billy stepps back, takes in the composition.
Steve drops his knee.
“Turn your head towards me.”
Steve obliges. The line of his nose looks perfect at three quarters.
Billy stepps up to the platform again, pulls some of the fabric forward, lets it fall over Steve’s legs more, over his groin- good. Less distracting. More poetic or something- and the line of his thighs beneath the fabric has just the heaviness Billy is looking for. He steps back again.
“What’s the myth again?” Steve’s jaw gains definition when he speaks with his head at this angle.
“The Death of Hyacinthus.”
“I know that part.” Steve rolls his hand a little. “The part before that. How does he die?”
“He- hang on.” Billy steps close again to push things around, make the lines right. “The wind- Zephyr- gets jealous of his beauty. Apollo throws a discus, and Zephyr pushes it off course, so it knocks Hyacinth in the head. Apollo holds him while he dies.” Billy says it all matter-of-factly. He’s trying not to get distracted. He picks up Steve’s arm to tilt back towards him a little. His skin is warm like the sunlight staining the floor.
“That’s sad.” Steve says. His arm feels relaxed in Billy’s grip. “Weren’t they close? Apollo and Hyacinth.”
Billy feels a familiar warmth at his neck of this topic. This thing that always comes up when he and Steve are alone. “They were lovers.”
Steve doesn’t say anything back to that.
Billy gets the composition mostly how he wants it- and he’ll probably try Steve in a couple different poses, this is only for sketching. He takes ages deciding where to set up to actually draw it- Steve makes fun of him. Billy says he’s not the one naked on a pile of old curtains. That makes Steve laugh. His stomach flexes a little when he laughs.
Billy’s glad Steve can be part of his process now.
He gets some general gestures down on paper. He really nails the angle of Steve’s throat- which he’s proud of. He needs the arch of the thing to be perfect. And he gets the general idea of Steve’s features down quick- he’s drawn Steve’s face maybe a thousand times by now. The way his arm falls is tricky- he’ll come back to that in a bit.
“Billy.”
Billy looks up at Steve’s voice. He’s sat up a little, something short of coy in his eyes. “I’m cold.” “You’re cold.” Billy says back to him. Because he never does what Steve implies. Only what Steve says.
“Yeah, like you said- I’m bare ass naked on a pile of curtains.”
“Your calling.”
Steve laughs again. “Do you think we could close the door?”
“We?”
“You. Can youclose the door.”
“Who’s the revered artist here?”
“Who’s the patron?”
Billy rolls his eyes, but he drops his chalk into the lip of his easel anyway, walks to pull the door to his studio shut, separating them from the rest of the house. Steve left it open in the first place.
“You’renot my patron.” Billy says when he gets back, picks up to start drawing again.
“I’m close.” Steve only sounds a little superior.
He’s right. He is close to being Billy’s patron. He recommended Billy to his family, he talked up Billy’s version of the pieta, he introduced Billy to the Influentials of Florence, got him this nice new studio, set up in one of the family houses. He was only a little superior about it.
Mostly he was nice.
Nice to Billy. Excited about the things he drew, always asking him what he was working on.
Asked to sit for him once, twice, how many more times, he was part of the process now.
This might be what having a muse was, if Billy believed in things like having muses.
Steve scratches the back of his calf with a foot, then sets his legs back down.
“I’m surprised you don’t get bored doing this.” Billy cracks two of the knuckles on his drawing hand, shakes out his wrist. He’s only prying a little.
“I like watching you work,” comes Steve’s easy reply.
“Still.” Billy smudges at a stray line with his thumb. “You’re always fidgety at dinners and shit. Not here.”
“Dinnersareboring.” Steve sighs.
He had expressed that sentiment before. That he found Billy much more interesting than anything his family ever did. That he’d trade his infinite wealth for the virve Billy so possessed. Only he didn’t say it like that. He said “I’d trade all of this shit for whatever makes your art so beautiful.”
And Billy said “You wouldn’t want to. Trust me.”
Billy, having seared the image of Steve into his brain by now, was adding more definition in places, really letting his focus slide out of his head.
And it’s quiet for a bit. Billy doesn’t notice when the silence breaks- the sound of shifting fabric, bare feet on wood floor-
“Shit, that’s really good.” Steve’s voice startles Billy a little, but he doesn’t let it show. Just turns a little abruptly to find Steve leaning over his shoulder.
“Looks just like me.” Steve continued, hovering his fingertips over Billy’s rendition of his nose.
“You don’t have to sound so impressed every time.” Billy rolled his eyes, pushing Steve’s hand away.
“Oh, excuse me for showing some enthusiasm.” Steve hummed another laugh, still looking at the paper. He traced a finger absentmindedly down his own flesh-and-blood nose, marveling at the likeness.
Billy couldn’t focus enough to continue with Steve so close. Not like he’d never seen Steve in next to nothing before. But this was really and truly nothing. And even naked as the day he was born Steve exuded wealth in just the way he stood. Like clothes were nothing but decoration on something already… beautiful.
“Can you go back to your spot, please?” Billy got out, looking away like he was annoyed.
Steve just smiled at him before padding back to his platform, throwing the fabric back over his legs.
But now the composition was wrong-
“So,” Steve’s voice carried across the sun-soaked chambers. “Why Hyacinth?”
“What do you mean.” Billy was trying desperately to collect his thoughts.
“I mean, he’s dating a god, right? Why him? What’s so special about him.”
“He’s beautiful.”
“And?”
“Well, I mean, he’s a Spartan prince, he’s legendary. Apollo doesn’t even really pick him. Hyacinth has, like, a bunch of people to choose from. He picks Apollo.”
Billy can’t draw like this, especially since Steve fucked up the composition- probably on purpose.
Billy gets up with an unintentional little huff and gets close to Steve again, has to adjust his legs again, avoid staring at the pinks that dust Steve’s everywhere-
“You draw me a lot.” Steve interrupts Billy’s train of thought.
Billy looks up, holding Steve’s wrist like it was his own. “You sit for me a lot-”
“What’s your favorite part to draw?”
Billy’s breathing feels thicker, like his throat is coated in honey, sweet but hard to breathe. “Of you?” “Yeah.”
“Your nose.” Billy says easily, because it’s safe to say.
Steve smiles. “You’ve said that before.”
“It’s true.” Billy prepares to turn away again, to tell Steve they should get more done while there’s still daylight.
Steve’s fingers hook against the palm of Billy’s hand. This is playing with fire.
Steve lifts Billy’s hand up, touches it to the bridge of his nose.
He can feel the sharp bone under his forefinger.
“Where else?”
Billy inhales. It’s a feat. “Your jaw.”
Steve pulls Billy’s hand down his cheek to touch his jawline. They’ve been avoiding this forever,
“And?” Cliche game of cat and mouse. Right now, Billy’s the mouse.
“Your shoulders.” Billy watches Steve drag his hand down his perfect neck to the slope of his perfect shoulders. “Steve.”
“Billy.” Steve mocks Billy’s warning tone just a little. “Come on, what else?”
Billy swallows again. He doesn’t respond he just lets his hand wander lower, lower, down his chest, to his stomach-
Billy stops his hand, pushes back against Steve’s. “I’ve never drawn you nude, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Maybe you should.” Steve’s finger’s slide up Billy’s forearm to hook under the edge of his rolled up sleeve.
“I’d need a couple different references…” Billy trails off. He knows Steve is about to kiss him.
It’s still delicious when he does. No number of days, weeks, waiting for one of them to make a move, of thinking what that move would be, what it would feel like, would have prepared Billy for the spit-sweet taste of a first kiss in the late afternoon.
-
i might do a part ii or just leave it like this lol
