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 handsare‘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 itconveys 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 proportionsthiswrong!” 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 abreak, 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 nightis, 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 onlyhope 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’mfeeling 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.
