Linseed oil comes from ripened flax, the seeds dried out thoroughly, then pressed like olive paste, producing liquid gold. When spilt on wood, it seeps into the grain, its soft and subtle shine easily tarnished, an unremarkable finish. But when mixed with pigment, joined with earthen dusts or botanical powders, it transcends into a higher form, empowered on a brush's hair. Paint is like a breath or heartbeat, each stroke granting life as layers emboss linen, the world recreated with thick colour, reborn with more vibrance, more brilliance, more passion. With an artist's touch, his tenderness and care, even the most commonplace scene can be a stunning masterpiece.

Plain, Kyle remembers uttering the word in his parents' presence, a fourteen-year-old carelessly lamenting maturity's toils. His mother took offense, quickly reminding him of the privilege they enjoyed. Their family was respected, prominent members of civil society; in other towns they'd dwell in a ghetto, labelled usurers and killers. His father called him ungrateful, sternly lecturing him about the values they upheld. Their family was educated, in humanism and in Torah; they'd worked hard and reaped success, from diligence and dedication. Kyle apologised for his arrogance, but couldn't shake the feeling, of being plain, bland and dull, a bare canvas stretched over a pine frame. His life was peculiar yet colourless, a lacklustre veneer, oil without pigment. Until Kenny came along and changed that, made Kyle vivid with love's deep hues.

Charcoal can create as well as destroy, imbued with the gifts of fostering flames and of nurturing expression. Paper holds no purpose without marks, a pristine page devoid of any meaning or significance. Kenny always uses charcoal, his bold marks impressing pliant paper, in a process of scratching, rubbing, smoothing, ruffling. Dark soot beautifies clean white, ordinary page then individual, given a soul through fuzzy scribbling. Kenny animates him, when he traces Kyle's body, captures his contours and curves, elevates him on the page. He inscribes image with essence, with sweeping emotions and unbridled force, with some pure and raw feeling Kyle cannot properly name; but it resonates within him, something fundamental as food, as drink, as air. Kenny calls it inspiration—calls him inspiration.

Kyle gazes up at the vaulted ceiling, at the wood beams running between the slopes, at the stark daylight pouring through the windows. His friends judge him for snubbing the sun's bright rays, favouring the walls of Kenny's workshop to the town's open courtyards and the mountain's sylvan glades. Why not lounge in the plaza with the other wealthy sons, idly theorising philosophy with Craig, lazily discussing literature with Token, indolently debating law with Stan? Why not join them, play the amateur scholar, spend his free time soaking rays and squandering words? Why shun the clear skies, ignore the empty chats disguised as intellectualism, and retreat to some dingy studio, passing hours in a libertine's den? Men of reputation care little for truth, so Kyle rarely tells them. Even if he did, they wouldn't understand, because, for a very long time, Kyle didn't either.

Wasteful, the thought sprung to his mind during Gerald's announcement, that he commissioned a portrait for his son's twenty-fourth year. Kyle protested vehemently, decried his father as vain and frivolous, claimed a sitting a misuse of money. But Gerald rebuffed him, for he'd already selected the painter, sent the payment. The son of an old friend, he said, a boy with talent and potential, but little means of his own. This portrait wasn't him flaunting their wealth or abandoning their traditions, but an extension of tikkun olam, repairing the world by supporting someone in need. Kyle wanted to argue but had no case, forced to accept the so-called present, to be civil despite his convictions.

Sketches scorch, ash without fire, only creation's burn. Kyle's gaze wanders, falls on hands stained black, Kenny guiding charcoal across paper. He draws Kyle before they fuck, after they fuck, during the interlude between one act and the next. An artist is a master of form, and Kenny specialises in Kyle's, in the hollow of his shoulder, the dip of his hips, the arch of his back, the length of his cock. What they are now began with a sketch, with Kenny studying Kyle, with palms covered in soot.

Their first meeting was awkward, Kyle's fault really, resentment bleeding through his every attempt at cordiality, and Kenny remaining mute. Or maybe it's his father's fault, Gerald insistent on introducing them, on ensuring Kyle behaved. It must have been that, because Kenny didn't immediately hate him, because Kenny took an interest in him. Their first session, the two of them alone, Kenny did the talking, asking questions about him, about what he liked and what he didn't, about anything, everything. And, without interference, Kyle answered, took over the conversation, opened up to Kenny with the warmth and ease of a friend, of someone he's known all his life. He hardly noticed the sketchpad, the charcoal stick, the quick motions and minute adjustments. Then, wearing devilish smirk, he held one up for Kyle's opinion, stole the words right from his tongue.

"Holy shit."

"That bad, huh?"

"No, it's…" His likeness, like he'd never seen before, likeable. Not like when he looked in the mirror, finding flaws in his features, the angle of his nose, the shape of his chin, the size of his brows. He liked how he looked, how Kenny made him look, how Kenny saw him. He swears to this day that, nestled within the monochrome, the tints and shades at their most extreme, Kyle saw the vestiges of colour, saw crimson embedded in swirling curls, saw green hidden in light eyes. He hated himself for pausing, hesitation jeopardising sincerity, finally finished, "It's great."

"We'll do a few more o' these," The book shut, slid into satchel, Kenny packed in a blink. Only when he was about to leave did Kyle look with the same keen perception, close examination, careful consideration Kenny afforded him. Hair spun from gold, skin kissed with sun, eyes the same blue as a summertime sky, Kyle never met someone like him before. Everyone spoke ill of artists, slow to deliver works they'd been paid for, quick to drain accounts on lecherous indulgences and selfish whims. Kenny was rich, in character and charm, in ardour and intensity, inspiration. Kenny winked, knowingly or unknowingly, his smile lopsided, "'Til I getcha perfect."

Kyle practises viewing the world like an artist, exercising the same perspective Kenny uses every moment of every day. His tousled locks are a messy crown, soft strands like smelted ore, more precious than any minted coin. Freckles lightly brush his cheeks, a thin layer barely visible, ghosts lurking in the shadows. The tip of his tongue peeks from the corner of his mouth, lips pulled into a tight line, pressed shut in concentration. His eyes, narrow and vigilant, follow his strokes, focused on illustrating exactly what his eyes behold. Blue is difficult for painters, the pigment ground from a mineral both exotic and expensive, costly to craft and sinful to trifle. Kenny's eyes are a genuine blue, rare and expressive, unique and honest. No powdered rock can imitate them, replicate that look, the gaze that sparked what they are now.

Their arrangement was simple, a schedule arranged around the Sabbath, the one Kyle guarded, not the one the Church preached. The sittings hardly constituted work, Sheila thought, liking the idea of Kyle sentenced to rest, so she told Kenny to come around the midmorning, and draw Kyle over and over until the Havdalah blessing. It must have been rest, because Kyle adopted Kenny as ritual, because Kyle preferred Kenny over prayer. He'd sketch at the residence, but move to the workshop once he traded charcoal for brush, once he got Kyle's likeness perfect. And, to depict him truthfully, Kenny required propinquity, sitting near Kyle, leaning in often, the two of them constantly close, intimate. Kyle carved the smell of his breath, the touch of his hand, the taste of his spit and his come. Over months, lust consumed his mind, all efforts to contain it fruitless and futile, merely fuelling him further, further, further.

His eyes, Kenny was working on Kyle's eyes. Unable to draw them to his satisfaction, Kenny resorted to staring at them again, staring into them again. His face was right there, lips under an inch apart, Kenny drawing in Kyle's tense exhales. Kyle could only see blue, Kenny's blue overwhelming him, smothering him. All it took was a blink, one scintillating glint, and Kyle surrendered, impulse igniting into action. One moment, breath, the next moment, mouth, was the one after that tongue?

Kyle expected him to push away, in disgust and repulsion, innocent peck misconstrued as a betrayal of trust. But a hand cupped his face, charcoal smudging his skin, and Kenny surprised him, pulled him closer. Everything blended, Kyle's insipid oil mixing with Kenny's brilliant pigment, binding together as sunbursts and apricots, as glowing flames and blooming marigolds, as a warm and radiant orange. They were paint, kisses cultivating a renaissance of colour, everything bright, everything saturated, everything intense. Black handprint smeared across his cheek, thick slather trailing from his mouth, Kyle stopped feeling plain, started feeling alive.

CHINK! Kenny tosses the stick aside, its aid no longer necessary. His thumb strokes his fingers, dust gathering on the tips, and critiques his work, severity sharpening his gaze. Kyle doesn't know where Kenny finds his flaws, convinced he invents half the faults he describes. If Kenny saw the world as Kyle had, saw how vapid and flat life could be, maybe he wouldn't be so hard on himself, so needlessly critical. He shies from compliments, towards him or his pieces, yet showers Kyle with praise incessantly, worships him for just being. Others commend his modesty, but Kyle hardly finds it fair, Kenny deserving to take pride in his labours, his love.

He blends with his fingers, a few rubs here and there, the last touches personal. A grunt declares his sketch complete, then his eyes flit up, blue locking with green, meshing on the palette. His expression softens, gentle as a sable-hair brush, wet with clean spring water. A smile spreads on his face, one corner higher than the other, childishly defying the rules of symmetry. He flashed that same grin the evening of that fateful day, as Kyle bid him goodbye. Kenny laughed, slyly mentioning they switch to his studio, then left in a breeze of cloves and cinnamon. Kyle stood there, sniffing myrtle and anise, imagining how Kenny would paint him, the violets and mauves he'd daub on his skin. Kyle lingered in the cloud of spice, when Ike cast a leery look, younger brother too wise for his years.

"His smile's kinda dumb."

"You're kinda dumb."

Ike smirked, swallowed a chuckle, then paused. A pensive sheen glazed his eyes, gravity setting in. He took to banking quicker than Kyle did, his mind calibrated to calculation, of values, of stakes, of return. The town's apparent tolerance could vanish overnight, the same people he called friends one day demanding his exile the next. Possibly worse, if the fat bishop got his spiteful way, declaring they banish the family but execute him, such a blasphemous sinner unable to repent, destined for the noose. His hanging would be a holiday, crowds cheering as he gasped and choked, toasting as his legs swung limp and his flesh turned cold. Cardamom ebbed into the night, and, in a low and quiet voice, Ike warned him, "Just don't be too dumb."

Kyle's heart skips, his smile intoxicating as sweet heady wine, enough to make him buoyant and drunk. No, he isn't as smart as his brother, yes, he is stupid for loving Kenny, but Kyle is clever, and his cunning saves face. Amongst the affluent crowds, patronage is the latest trend, funding the arts a noble pursuit. The very practice he decried gave him an excuse, Kyle publicly pledging his support to the local artists' guild, offering his silver and concealing their affair. Some questioned his sudden change in tune, Stan particularly sceptic of his newfound appreciation. Kyle hated lying to him, hates lying to him, but he knows how Stan would react if he knew. He'd scold Kyle for being idiotic and naïve, for risking everything over fleeting want and carnal desire, for rejecting the drab and embracing the iridescent. So he told Stan the same thing he told everyone else, that this is tikkun olam, repairing the world by supporting those who improve its quality; because oil without pigment holds no splendour, canvas without paint lacks any excitement, life without colour is devoid of soul.

What most don't understand is that inspiration is as fundamental as food, as drink, as air, one needs it to truly live. Kyle needs Kenny to truly feel alive.

THWUNK! The sketchpad lands on the table, and thin puff of soot leaps from the page. Discarded, like the clothes littering the tiles, the linen shirts and dyed hose, silken doublet and woollen jacket, brimmed hats and woven kippah. The workshop is their haven, its high walls shielding them from stifling conventions, protected behind the heavy doors. The only barriers allowed are those between them and the society's drain, casting off fineries and stripping each other down, to essential elements, to natural form, florid and rubicund. He slides off the stool, no intention to share, and claps his hands. Black flecks fly from his fingertips, the embers of his smouldering creativity.

Kyle frowns, watches Kenny walk to the washing basin, his pace slow and deliberate. A grumble brews in the back of his throat, Kenny teasing him again. Curiosity nourishes the precocious mind, his tutors always said, but none of them mentioned how it could be used against him, used to toy with and tantalise so easily. Finely attuned to emotion, Kenny figured him out early on, spent their first sessions dodging questions to play with him, shrouding himself in mystery to frustrate and entice. The closer they grew, the more he improved, an expert at rendering him a mess of passion and frenzy. Kyle hates him for it, and loves him for it, too.

"I don't get to see?" He asks, sarcasm tinging his tone. The dais creaks under him, Kyle stretching his arms, curling his toes. Every studio has a platform where models pose, display their bodies in one way or another, some holding still for hours on end. Kenny and Kyle prefer using it as a performance stage, their private show comprised of panting and moaning, kissing and touching, sucking and screwing. During their intermissions, though, it functions as intended.

SPLASH! SPLASH! Kenny plunges his hands into the water, chalky darkness engulfing clear crystalline. He erases the residue from the creases on his knuckles, the crevices under his nails, the dips between his fingers. Before they do things dirty and rough, they must be fresh and clean. Blue eyes flicker to Kyle, catching him prop up, scratch his head, the scoot to the dais' edge. His feet dangle above the floor, hips bucking forward as he leans back on his palms. Kyle tilts his head to the side, gaze meandering to the table, and Kenny laughs, short and staccato, smile tugging at his lips.

"You will…" He drawls a dulcet promise, and splatters drops of black around the basin, shaking dry, stepping back. Now, the only marks on his skin are those Kyle gave him, impressions left by his teeth, troughs dug by his nails, injuries treasured like brooches and gems. Kenny's long strides carry him across the room, so swift his soles barely touch the ground. His touch is warm, despite the tepid dip, hands running up Kyle's legs, pushing them apart. Thighs flush, Kyle's blood boiling, searing his veins, as Kenny looms over him, body exuding heat, emanating life. Their noses brush together, and, overcome with fluttering anticipation, Kyle parts his lips. But, Kenny stops, hovering just before they kiss, a merciless ransom. A torrid whisper, spoken into Kyle's mouth, "Later."

One word, a dizzying zephyr, arouses a tempest in him, envelops him in swelling infinity. Kyle is verdigris and vermillion, copper and mercury, painted with Kenny's brush and breath. Kenny sculpts him, makes him supple and smooth, pliant as clay on the wheel, hard as marble to the chisel. He presses against him, and Kyle blanks on the artisanal terms. What's the difference again, between pitching and twitching, does the mallet know or does the stone? Heel grazes calf, hearts beat in rhythm, and Kyle needs more than mere air. But, when he leans forward, Kenny draws back, maintains that cruel sliver of distance, tortures him with a smug smirk. Instead, he ghosts Kyle's base, teases his balls, coaxes a strained hiss from his lips, "Bastard."

"C'mon," He purrs, relents, seizing his mouth, finally rewards him. One hand rests at the small of his back, pushes Kyle's hips closer, as he tilts him back. Kyle shifts his balance, raising one hand, cards through Kenny's hair. His fingers weave with gold, yanking the roots, begging he please, please, please. Sate him, slake him, slather him with vibrancy, with fervour, with love. Turn him into linseed and powder and linen, splay him with colour and with life, fuck him into a masterpiece. A shudder rushes up his spine, Kenny grabbing his shaft, Kyle breaking the kiss with a yelp. Kenny laughs, "Y'know the wait makes it worth it."

"'m impatient," Kyle heaves, stifling a moan as Kenny tug, tug, tugs. Their hips grind together, both erect, sweltering. Those who only see in ink would brand them perverts, surrendering to base impulse, because none of them comprehend the variance of ecstasy. People enshrined in the arts, people like Kenny, illustrate the errors of in academia's closed mind, their scathing diatribes contrary to the spirit of discovery, thrill of exploration. No word penned in malice compares to experience gained in pleasure, and Kyle has learned that love is painted colours, like cerulean or ochre, what Kenny makes him feel.

"I know," He says, sentence incomplete, the rest etched in blue. He slows his pumping, eases into gentle pets. His other hand slides down, cradles his ass, fingers pressing to soft cheek. Another kiss, slower, deeper, then Kenny steadies his gaze. He stares into the green, the way he has so many times—first meeting, first session, first kiss, first fuck—and lets Kyle read his eyes: That's why I love you.

Perhaps being smitten is the same as inspiration's strike, but falling in love is a gradual process. Love is a painting, made over time. Kenny and Kyle met as two blurs of scribble, barely holding shape, but defined themselves the more they bonded. They glazed the canvas when they admitted their emotions, applied more and more swatches as they pursued their passions. Unlike a commission, though, love is forever a work in progress, added to for eternities, until gravestones fashion a frame, caskets sealing it with dammar. Bodies decompose beneath the earth, but their lives—their love—is conserved. Nothing can steal this from them.

Kenny watches Kyle blink, nod his head. He reciprocates with every subtle motion, how his breath hitches, how his legs quiver, how his grip tightens and how his dick throbs. Kyle implores him, every fibre of his being, to take, take, take him. In his arms, in his mouth, somewhere vibrant, somewhere bright, display him in a gallery as his greatest work. Kenny thumbs his tip, topped with a thin film of translucent damp, and drags his lips along Kyle's jaw, planting kisses all the way to his ear. Kyle melts under his mouth, moans when a tongue flicks his lobe, when teeth lightly nip, when arms jerk faster. Kyle scratches down the back of his neck, carving streaks of red, as Kenny issues his order, "Oil."

Olive not flax, referring to the bottle from their earlier exploit. Kyle glances behind, Kenny tipping him back into a recline. As Kenny reangles him, Kyle lets go of his head, reaches for the oil. He swipes it eagerly, pops off the loose cork, coats his fingers. A strong squeeze, and a tense sigh escapes, Kyle nearly spilling the bottle as he sets it down. One more pull, then Kenny snatches the lubricant, quickly dousing one hand at a time, while Kyle slicks him head to sack. Sufficiently slicked, Kenny pushes cheeks apart, slides in a finger. Kyle showed up at the studio three or four times before they tried any sort of penetration, Kenny adamant they not rush and regret, although spoke bitterly of this necessary restraint. He only conceded at Kyle's behest, yearn to please outweighing lurking trepidation.

"Fuck!"

"Easy."

Sex wasn't new, having tried a few times with women, but having someone inside him was. He didn't really expect much of anything, let alone it feeling so good. Kenny tentative thrusted in and out, asked Kyle if he liked it, and Kyle goaded him, wanted it faster, wanted it harder, wanted the index and the middle and the ring. Sweat beaded their foreheads, and Kyle pleaded for Kenny to fill him, to damn hesitation, to stick his cock in and come. Their moans echoed through the room, loud enough they should have been heard, but neither cared if anyone caught them. In the afterglow, Kyle clutched Kenny's wrist, and, in a breathless rasp, sputtered out, "Again."

How many times since then? He's lost track, at this point, only keeps track of fingers now: one to start, two to widen, three to spread. Then none, just a stretched rim, only for a moment. And then dick, sleek and dribbling. Kenny's inside him, Kyle's in his grasp. His mind bounces between, like the pants and groans volleying between the walls: harder, harder, harder—faster, faster, faster—deeper, deeper, deeper.

Artists are masters of the body, and Kyle has given every inch of his for Kenny's study. He doesn't care if some still scorn painters, cite their creative freedom as a symptom of moral lax, they don't understand. They lead sad and boring lives, so smug in their complacence, when they are blind to life's grand gifts. Kyle cherishes his sight, the one Kenny bestowed on him, the power of colour.

Cadmium grinds into orange, and orange absorbs green and blue. Green meets blue, blue locks with green, and skin flushes vermillion. If love is painting then lust is a palette, the messy combinations of swatches, the smears and the streaks, emotions strewn across a wooden disc. Without them, the world wouldn't be so vivid, so brilliant, so intense and alive. Life without colour is dreadful plain, but Kyle will never live that way again. Kyle may have been commonplace, but Kenny makes him stunning, makes him a masterpiece.

White reflects colour, all of them at once. White stains chest, hand, and skin. White fills, fills, and fills. Sticky and sloppy, just like paint, the product of linseed and pigment. Kenny collects it with his fingers, brings it to his lips, licks Kyle off his hand. For all they're denied, they take what they get, whether it be a touch or a taste. When they walk out of the workshop, they'll resume their roles of patron and artist, and tell no one what they do. People will make their assumptions, when Kenny refers to Kyle as his muse, when Kyle dotes on Kenny's paintings, but they'll never interpret correctly. People don't see the way they do.

Kenny taught Kyle how to see, depth and richness, contrast and light. He took a vapid world and showed Kyle anything can have colour, even him. The more he looks at Kenny, the more he appreciates, loves how his colours stand out from the rest, no one else so vivid, no one else so bright. He's like his artwork, imbued with something strong, something powerful, something Kyle struggled to name. But he knows the feeling now, knows what Kenny is: inspiration.

A/N: Why'd I write this? Because I love Kenny being an artist? Because I wanted Kyle to have feelings about being drawn? Because I've had this patron-of-the-arts idea since watching Medici on Netflix? I don't have an answer however I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting. See you on the next story!