Further Adventures in Bearbee Painting
Feb. 24th, 2006 05:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
akainagiFurther Adventures in Bearbee Painting
Author: AkaiNAgi
Rating: G
Pairing: Kyou Kara Maou, Yuuri/Wolfram
Word/Prompt: Wait/Smell
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wordclaim50 and like whoa
Yuuri fought against the involuntary wrinkling of his nose. If he didn’t, Wolfram would probably paint it that way. It wouldn’t do, he mulled in his boredom, to have a portrait of the Maou wrinkling his nose. Then again, the figure in the portrait was likely to have a couple extra appendages and probably resemble a circus animal more the king, so what was a little wrinkle on top of it.
He smoothed the pleats of the strange kilt he was wearing. It earned a rebuke from his artistically challenged fiancée, who ordered him to stop playing with his skirt. He fidgeted with the hem of the garment in rebellion. Kilt. Not skirt. He refused to wear a skirt, let alone be immortalized in one. Honestly. How come Wolfram only wanted to paint him shirtless and in drag? And couldn’t he use something besides that noxious bearbee-poop paint?
Yuuri sighed loud enough that he was sure the blonde heard him this time. But Wolfram went right on painting with enthusiastic abandon, just as he had for the better part of the interminable afternoon. He was really going at it, his brow knitted in concentration, totally oblivious to his model’s state of discomfort.
Why the hell did he agree to this anyway? It wasn’t often he managed to weasel out of Gunter’s clutches for the day. And here he was spending his morning in a way that was more akin to torture than fun. What the heck had he been thinking?
When Wolfram had informed his fiancé that he would be privileged enough to sit for another of the blonde’s paintings, Yuuri’s first inclination was to laugh. His second inclination was to run and hide. His third was not much different. So he had maybe-a-little-less-than-respectfully declined.
Big mistake. How was he supposed to know that Wolfram had his heart set on making another portrait of Yuuri? The blonde had blustered and yelled and stalked out of the room in a huff. That was something Yuuri was used to. The distinct undercurrent of badly hurt feelings, however, was not.
He wondered if women were like this when they were crossed, or whether it was just men, or whether it was just Wolfram. It had taken considerable wheedling on his part to get back in his fiancée’s better graces. He never slept well at night when Wolfram was mad at him. Partly because the blonde kicked a lot more in his sleep when he was angry. And partly because Yuuri somehow felt restless and malcontent when Wolfram was mad at him.
Wolfram was right. He was a wimp. But he became a very relived wimp when he finally heard the words he’d been waiting for.
“Finally! Done!” the would-be artist announced.
It felt so good to get out of that position. Yuuri strode over to see the result of all his discomfort and Wolfram’s hard work.
Yuuri thought he did an admirable job keeping a straight face when he looked at it. It was, in layman’s terms, just this side of hideous. The figure that he supposed was him looked more like a cross between Mister Potato Head and a squashed onigiri. And for some reason his skin was neon green. The ripe smell coming from the canvass didn’t help his impression either.
But he wasn’t going to say any of that. Once bitten, twice shy. He learned his lesson from spending the last 24 hours trying to get his fiancée to lay off the silent treatment. Whoever advocated complete honesty as the best policy must have spent his life as a bachelor.
Wolfram was looking up at him with that ridiculous beret on his head, the clip on his nose and wearing a smock covered in the world’s stinkiest paint. It was the expression on the boy’s face that did it. Yuuri’s fiancée was waiting expectantly for the verdict, his face full of two parts hope and one part promise of violence if Yuuri dared to impugn his artistic talent yet again. The king realized he needed just the right words to appease, but yet not sound like he was trying to blow smoke. Yuuri looked back at the painting.
“Well?” Wolfram prodded. “Didn’t it come out better than the last time? Do you like it?”
Taking a stab in the dark, he placed a hand on the Wolfram’s shoulder and smiled. “How can I not love something you made for me; that you worked so hard on?”
The pink blush spreading over his fiancée’s cheeks told him that, for once in his life, he had stumbled on the right thing to say.
Yuuri had paid for that painting with the longest morning of his life. The thought was kind of depressing. But now Wolfram was looking up at him with his large, expressive green eyes and a smile that made Yuuri think that there was a small sun in the room with him, one that was shining solely in his honor.
He had paid for that smile with the longest morning of his life.
It was worth it.
Author: AkaiNAgi
Rating: G
Pairing: Kyou Kara Maou, Yuuri/Wolfram
Word/Prompt: Wait/Smell
X-Posted:
wordclaim50 and like whoaYuuri fought against the involuntary wrinkling of his nose. If he didn’t, Wolfram would probably paint it that way. It wouldn’t do, he mulled in his boredom, to have a portrait of the Maou wrinkling his nose. Then again, the figure in the portrait was likely to have a couple extra appendages and probably resemble a circus animal more the king, so what was a little wrinkle on top of it.
He smoothed the pleats of the strange kilt he was wearing. It earned a rebuke from his artistically challenged fiancée, who ordered him to stop playing with his skirt. He fidgeted with the hem of the garment in rebellion. Kilt. Not skirt. He refused to wear a skirt, let alone be immortalized in one. Honestly. How come Wolfram only wanted to paint him shirtless and in drag? And couldn’t he use something besides that noxious bearbee-poop paint?
Yuuri sighed loud enough that he was sure the blonde heard him this time. But Wolfram went right on painting with enthusiastic abandon, just as he had for the better part of the interminable afternoon. He was really going at it, his brow knitted in concentration, totally oblivious to his model’s state of discomfort.
Why the hell did he agree to this anyway? It wasn’t often he managed to weasel out of Gunter’s clutches for the day. And here he was spending his morning in a way that was more akin to torture than fun. What the heck had he been thinking?
When Wolfram had informed his fiancé that he would be privileged enough to sit for another of the blonde’s paintings, Yuuri’s first inclination was to laugh. His second inclination was to run and hide. His third was not much different. So he had maybe-a-little-less-than-respectfully declined.
Big mistake. How was he supposed to know that Wolfram had his heart set on making another portrait of Yuuri? The blonde had blustered and yelled and stalked out of the room in a huff. That was something Yuuri was used to. The distinct undercurrent of badly hurt feelings, however, was not.
He wondered if women were like this when they were crossed, or whether it was just men, or whether it was just Wolfram. It had taken considerable wheedling on his part to get back in his fiancée’s better graces. He never slept well at night when Wolfram was mad at him. Partly because the blonde kicked a lot more in his sleep when he was angry. And partly because Yuuri somehow felt restless and malcontent when Wolfram was mad at him.
Wolfram was right. He was a wimp. But he became a very relived wimp when he finally heard the words he’d been waiting for.
“Finally! Done!” the would-be artist announced.
It felt so good to get out of that position. Yuuri strode over to see the result of all his discomfort and Wolfram’s hard work.
Yuuri thought he did an admirable job keeping a straight face when he looked at it. It was, in layman’s terms, just this side of hideous. The figure that he supposed was him looked more like a cross between Mister Potato Head and a squashed onigiri. And for some reason his skin was neon green. The ripe smell coming from the canvass didn’t help his impression either.
But he wasn’t going to say any of that. Once bitten, twice shy. He learned his lesson from spending the last 24 hours trying to get his fiancée to lay off the silent treatment. Whoever advocated complete honesty as the best policy must have spent his life as a bachelor.
Wolfram was looking up at him with that ridiculous beret on his head, the clip on his nose and wearing a smock covered in the world’s stinkiest paint. It was the expression on the boy’s face that did it. Yuuri’s fiancée was waiting expectantly for the verdict, his face full of two parts hope and one part promise of violence if Yuuri dared to impugn his artistic talent yet again. The king realized he needed just the right words to appease, but yet not sound like he was trying to blow smoke. Yuuri looked back at the painting.
“Well?” Wolfram prodded. “Didn’t it come out better than the last time? Do you like it?”
Taking a stab in the dark, he placed a hand on the Wolfram’s shoulder and smiled. “How can I not love something you made for me; that you worked so hard on?”
The pink blush spreading over his fiancée’s cheeks told him that, for once in his life, he had stumbled on the right thing to say.
Yuuri had paid for that painting with the longest morning of his life. The thought was kind of depressing. But now Wolfram was looking up at him with his large, expressive green eyes and a smile that made Yuuri think that there was a small sun in the room with him, one that was shining solely in his honor.
He had paid for that smile with the longest morning of his life.
It was worth it.
