Chapter 17
Victor
I now regret wanting to move on from sketching to oils.
My underpainting sucks. It’s a muddy mess with not enough contrast, and I feel like just wiping it away at this point.
It doesn’t help my frustration that my subject appears perfectly serene as he’s working on his newest self-portrait.
I’m allowed to paint Sevastyan in his studio, brush in hand, and I’m wasting this opportunity on my pathetic efforts.
He’s beautiful in ways I can’t translate to canvas at all.
Seva has a skin care routine that leaves his face glowing .
He trains every day for two to three hours, claiming it’s to stay fit for any future attacks, but I’m sure there’s a big component of vanity there.
I don’t blame him, because who wouldn’t want to look like that ?
He’s tall, muscular, well groomed, and smells so good I suggested he should infuse his self-portraits with his cologne.
I, on the other hand, am not good at lifting, I’m not bendy enough for yoga, nor do I have the stamina for an hour on the stationary bike.
Though to give myself credit where it’s due, I have joined Seva in some of his routines.
I’m confined to the house, so I wouldn’t be moving much otherwise.
And maybe, just maybe , I’ve gained the tiniest bit of muscle?
I can’t be sure, but Seva’s commented on it, and he has a keen eye for detail, so I’ll trust his judgment.
I’m not trying to become a body builder, so I don’t care about it that much, but now that I have a boyfriend, and one so amazing at that, I’ve started to take care of myself.
Without access to the internet, I have all the time in the world to apply moisturizer, or pamper my wavy hair with a seven-step hydration routine.
Seva’s taught me how to cook several things, even though he’s the one in charge of preparing our meals.
I’m still my lanky self with a lazy eyelid, a shit-ton of freckles, and a crooked nose, but if someone as gorgeous as Seva tells me I’m beautiful, ‘intriguing’ and ‘unique’, it only makes sense to embrace it.
When he paints me, I see myself through his eyes, so yes, maybe I’m even ‘hot’.
Maybe my small hands are ‘cute’, and even my below-average dick is ‘delicious’.
I put down my brush, frustrated with the lack of progress. Pencils, charcoal, even crayons make me feel at home. While they have their limitations, I have years of experience with them. Unfortunately, the initial drive to try oil paint is all but extinguished. Maybe it’s just not for me?
My gaze drifts to familiar features emerging on Seva’s canvas, and regret twists in my gut.
Why would I even try this new medium when I could never reach the heights of Sevastyan’s mastery?
He might be telling me I’m going in the right direction, but deep down we both know I’m not even half the artist he is.
My attempts are pathetic, and I should have stayed in my own lane.
Not that he isn’t excellent at drawing too.
There’s this little A4 picture of us in the panic room.
It has a rough quality to it, and glows with dapples of dry pastel, but it conveys the morning he created it so perfectly I choke up just thinking about it.
It was so very sunny that day, and we’d decided to share sandwiches and pastries in front of the tall windows of the studio.
In the picture, he’s made of barely a few shadows, but my flesh appears supple, dare I even say kissable, with shiny hair and a smile so sweet I fail to see any flaws in it.
I still can’t believe this is how he sees me.
“You’re thinking really loudly today,” Seva says, glancing at me.
I groan, my shoulders fall, and I put down the brush so abruptly several others on the table roll down to the floor. Of course. Because I can’t do anything right. I scoot down to pick them up. I should have put them in a jar.
“Because it’s shit. I mean, you are the perfect model, but I can’t get anything right. Not the proportions of your nose, not the shading, it’s a big fucking mess.”
“You’ve only started experimenting with oils last month. It’s all new to you.”
I groan, putting the brushes into the jar a bit too abruptly, but my frustration is overflowing.
“Okay, but I’ve been drawing for years. I shouldn’t get the proportions this wrong!
” I wave my hand in the direction of the monstrosity next to me.
I should burn it. Or throw it into the sea.
And then follow it into the crashing waves.
Seva leaves behind his beautiful new work and steps closer to look at my pathetic attempt at painting. His eyes narrow as he leans forward, focusing on details when I haven’t done a single thing right. But he’s analytical about it in a way he only is about art and murder (apparently).
“That’s because oils stay wet for a long time, even when you use them thinly. You will need to get used to that, but I think you did very well on the shading, which is something lots of people struggle with. Maybe take a break, and then do a few watercolor studies to cleanse your palate?”
I have to take a deep breath, because I might just scream otherwise. “Okay. I think I’ll go grab something to eat. Or do you need me for anything?”
Seva kisses the side of my head, instantly soothing some of my fury. “No, go ahead, I’ll join you in a bit.”
I don’t care to look back at my disastrous underpainting and head out of the studio.
It’s so weird how I’ve gotten used to the casual nudism Seva enjoys.
I’m not even bothered anymore, and if push comes to shove, I know of a few hidden spaces in the house where I can find clothes.
After all, fighting for my life naked could present a challenge.
After my initial weeks here were over, Seva has also allowed me to roam much more and doesn’t police my every move.
He’s got cameras all around, so I know he can still do that, but I don’t mind.
I’m happy that I can do things like go to the kitchen on my own, or hang out on the sofa when he’s elsewhere.
Though we do spend an alarming amount of time together.
I can’t get enough of him. I’m even a willing participant in DIY and maintenance projects, which has never been my forte.
Now that I’m aware of the possibility I might be spending the rest of my life in this house, I want to make sure I know how to fix things, as Seva is pretty adamant about independence.
While I still don’t know where the panic room where I sleep with him every night is , Seva has revealed its inner workings.
I know it has a separate air supply, a whole host of medical equipment, water, a food pantry, and contains many other useful things, including weapons.
I was bewildered at first, but then Seva showed me a scar from a wound he had to suture himself, so maybe all the first aid tools are not such a bad idea after all.
I can only hope the bolt that went through my calf is the last serious injury I will have to deal with for a while. Though with my clumsiness? Who knows?
Sadly, my leg still hurts sometimes when I stand wrong, so I’m guessing there’s some permanent damage. I didn't tell Seva, because what can he do? It’s not as if he would take me to a hospital over something so miniscule.
A pang of hunger calls me to the fridge, and I follow, passing through the rooms separating the studio from the kitchen.
We are well stocked with all kinds of food, but my current state demands something way more substantial than some Doritos with salsa.
Fortunately for me, Seva and I prepared a huge portion of Hungarian goulash last night so. .. don’t mind if I do.
The scent of beef and paprika brings a smile to my face as soon as I uncover the glass container holding some of the stew. When I pour some of it into a saucepan, it occurs to me that Seva hasn’t had anything since this morning.
He’s so deep in his work he likely forgot to eat, but it’ll hit him the moment he smells my food. Might as well prepare two bowls.
The anger and disappointment I felt only minutes ago get milder with each bubble popping in the pot.
I put two slices of frozen sourdough (because Seva claims toast doesn’t deserve to be called ‘bread’) into the oven, and just ten minutes later, two portions of nutritious food stand on the dining table.
Like clockwork, I didn’t even need to go call Seva. He walks in, radiant in his naked beauty. “Oh. The stew. Good idea,” he says and heads for the fridge.
I beam at him and present him with a bowl. “Already a step ahead of you.”
His hand hovers as he looks back, eyes pinned to the table. Tension infects the air around us, and suddenly I’m feeling even more insignificant than usual. “I... didn’t burn it or anything.”
Seva clears his throat and faces me, hands resting on his hips. For a man so confident, he appears surprisingly... awkward. “No, I know.”
I’m… confused. “You loved it yesterday. And I even made it with your favorite bread.” The plate looks good to me too. I even put some parsley in the middle, to make the brown stew more appetizing, so what is his deal?
“I’m sure it’s very tasty,” Seva tells me and rubs his scalp. He seems unsure what to say, but just as the tension inside me is about to reach the boiling point, he finally meets my gaze. “I just... never eat things I didn’t prepare.”
I stare back at him. At first, I think this is about macros, making sure there’s a good amount of protein, or something to do with his workout regime, but then the truth hits me.
“You think I’d poison you?” It’s so unfathomable, yet the truth is, every night I still sleep with my arms bound. “What would I even use to do that? I’m pretty sure you’d know if there was bleach in your stew!”
He has the audacity to roll his eyes at me as he gestures in the vague direction of the studio. “The vintage pigments are toxic. The Paris Green literally contains arsenic. That’s why we use gloves and filtering masks when we experiment with them.”
I push my fingers into my hair in disbelief. “What are you even saying? That when I lie in bed with you, suck your dick, or paint with you, all I’m really thinking about is how to kill you?”
He scowls, wrapping his arms across his chest. “ No! I don’t think that.”
“Then why?” I demand, squeezing my hands into fists. “If you don’t think I plan to kill you, why would you be afraid to eat the food I prepared?”
Seva licks his lips and starts to pace. “It’s not that I think that. I simply need to be sure, and I can only be sure if I see the food cooked.”
“How can we build anything if you don’t trust me?” Saying it out loud hurts more than I’d like, and I’ve already had a frustrating day. “I’d offer to cook you another portion, right in front of you, but then you’d suspect I already tampered with what’s in the fridge? Make it make sense!”
His face falls, faint crow’s feet deepening, and I let my arms drop in frustration, because I can see in real time that I have now created a new level of paranoia.
“You can’t be serious! This is so messed up!”
Seva steps closer, reaching for me, but I withdraw, because I’m angry and won’t be influenced by his warm touch.
“I’ve put up with so much to be with you. Every day I fall for you more, and you don’t even trust me enough to eat food I reheated.” I take a step back, shaking my head
“I told you it’s not that!” Seva hisses, once again reaching for me. I intend to step away, but my bare foot slips when the floor under our feet shakes. A deafening boom somewhere in the house makes me yelp and grab the table for stability as I look around in panic, our argument forgotten.
“The fuck was that?”