Aesthetic [Jacques/Yuriy]
Dec. 10th, 2016 07:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: Aesthetic
Fandom: Original
Characters/Pairing: Jacques Li-Levesque/Yuriy Zaitsev
Rating: 0+
Length: ~700
Summary: Jacques has a certain aesthetic appreciation for the way his partner's hands look as he peels potatoes.
Other: I'll probably never actually write the story of how these guys got together, because writing little moments with them is more fun for me. :)
Aesthetic
Yuriy's hands are long-fingered and bony. The veins stick out in them.
Jacques watches them move, sketching them while Yuriy peels potatoes for supper. Glances up, takes him in, and then quickly looks down to the paper again, pencil grazing down the page, picking him out in black and white.
Yuriy's hands look as if they should be delicate. Jacques knows they aren't.
He's felt the strength in them often. Every time their hands touch. When their fingers slide between one another, knitting together. When he feels Yuriy's palm on his cheek, and tilts his head into it, and waits for the kiss that he knows will come.
It has taken them a long time to get to this point, and Jacques savours every second that those touches linger, every brush of contact.
"Are you using me as a model?"
The question is sudden, unexpected. Jacques freezes, his gaze darting up to him. He's been caught using people as reference before. Some of them don't like it. Yuriy hasn't always liked it.
Yuriy isn't looking at him, but there is a hint of a smile on his face, a tug at the corner of his lips that says that he knows Jacques had his eyes on him, and that he doesn't mind.
"Maybe." Jacques looks at the paper again. Sets his pencil down. "...Yes." A pause. "Does it bother you?"
"No."
He looks up once more, feeling cautious about it, even though he knows he shouldn't.
Yuriy still hasn't turned to look at him. He just keeps doing what he was doing before, his strong hands steady and smooth as he works the knife, freeing the potatoes from their skins.
The word, that simple "No," sounds like an invitation to go on, and Jacques knows him well enough by now to know that it probably is.
Jacques picks up his pencil again.
He has drawn Yuriy before. So many times. The pages of his sketchbook are full of him. They were full of him even before the two of them were together. When they were only friends. And long before that, too. When Yuriy was nothing to him but a stranger he had spotted through a cafe window.
It was a bit awkward at first; Yuriy's shyness, or confusion, or whatever it was, caused him to ask questions like, "Why are you drawing me?" And in response, Jacques could only shrug, and offer him an apologetic smile. "Because you're there?"
When he was feeling bolder, Jacques would just keep drawing, not even bothering to apologize as he said, "Because I need a reference for this. Could you just turn your head a bit to the left, please – ah, there. Thanks!"
The other reasons he had for drawing him, such as the fact that he liked the way Yuriy looked, went unsaid. And those things still went unsaid, but now it was not because they had to be, but because they both already knew how they felt about each other.
Yuriy doesn't seem bothered by it any more. Hasn't for a while now. Months. Longer than that. But it's good to have some confirmation, some way of knowing for sure that everything is just fine.
As Jacques draws, he lets himself enjoy what he sees.
He knows those long hands, the curve of his wrists. The shape of his arms. The long strands of hair, the way Yuriy tucks it behind his ears to keep it out of his face. Jacques lets the image flow, sweeping his pencil across the page. His lines are quick and loose, even if Yuriy usually isn't. Even if, so much of the time, he carries himself in a way that's stiff, uptight, tense and unsure.
He's more relaxed here, in moments like this, in this kitchen surrounded by the scent of onions and spice. Jacques is glad for it.
Hands. Potatoes. The warmth of the late afternoon light and the way it presses through the window and paints gold edging along his dark hair. The contrast of the angles of his face, the way the sunlight caresses his cheek, the bridge of his nose.
Jacques sets his likeness down on paper, and knows that he could do this for hours.
He'll settle for doing it until supper.
Fandom: Original
Characters/Pairing: Jacques Li-Levesque/Yuriy Zaitsev
Rating: 0+
Length: ~700
Summary: Jacques has a certain aesthetic appreciation for the way his partner's hands look as he peels potatoes.
Other: I'll probably never actually write the story of how these guys got together, because writing little moments with them is more fun for me. :)
Aesthetic
Yuriy's hands are long-fingered and bony. The veins stick out in them.
Jacques watches them move, sketching them while Yuriy peels potatoes for supper. Glances up, takes him in, and then quickly looks down to the paper again, pencil grazing down the page, picking him out in black and white.
Yuriy's hands look as if they should be delicate. Jacques knows they aren't.
He's felt the strength in them often. Every time their hands touch. When their fingers slide between one another, knitting together. When he feels Yuriy's palm on his cheek, and tilts his head into it, and waits for the kiss that he knows will come.
It has taken them a long time to get to this point, and Jacques savours every second that those touches linger, every brush of contact.
"Are you using me as a model?"
The question is sudden, unexpected. Jacques freezes, his gaze darting up to him. He's been caught using people as reference before. Some of them don't like it. Yuriy hasn't always liked it.
Yuriy isn't looking at him, but there is a hint of a smile on his face, a tug at the corner of his lips that says that he knows Jacques had his eyes on him, and that he doesn't mind.
"Maybe." Jacques looks at the paper again. Sets his pencil down. "...Yes." A pause. "Does it bother you?"
"No."
He looks up once more, feeling cautious about it, even though he knows he shouldn't.
Yuriy still hasn't turned to look at him. He just keeps doing what he was doing before, his strong hands steady and smooth as he works the knife, freeing the potatoes from their skins.
The word, that simple "No," sounds like an invitation to go on, and Jacques knows him well enough by now to know that it probably is.
Jacques picks up his pencil again.
He has drawn Yuriy before. So many times. The pages of his sketchbook are full of him. They were full of him even before the two of them were together. When they were only friends. And long before that, too. When Yuriy was nothing to him but a stranger he had spotted through a cafe window.
It was a bit awkward at first; Yuriy's shyness, or confusion, or whatever it was, caused him to ask questions like, "Why are you drawing me?" And in response, Jacques could only shrug, and offer him an apologetic smile. "Because you're there?"
When he was feeling bolder, Jacques would just keep drawing, not even bothering to apologize as he said, "Because I need a reference for this. Could you just turn your head a bit to the left, please – ah, there. Thanks!"
The other reasons he had for drawing him, such as the fact that he liked the way Yuriy looked, went unsaid. And those things still went unsaid, but now it was not because they had to be, but because they both already knew how they felt about each other.
Yuriy doesn't seem bothered by it any more. Hasn't for a while now. Months. Longer than that. But it's good to have some confirmation, some way of knowing for sure that everything is just fine.
As Jacques draws, he lets himself enjoy what he sees.
He knows those long hands, the curve of his wrists. The shape of his arms. The long strands of hair, the way Yuriy tucks it behind his ears to keep it out of his face. Jacques lets the image flow, sweeping his pencil across the page. His lines are quick and loose, even if Yuriy usually isn't. Even if, so much of the time, he carries himself in a way that's stiff, uptight, tense and unsure.
He's more relaxed here, in moments like this, in this kitchen surrounded by the scent of onions and spice. Jacques is glad for it.
Hands. Potatoes. The warmth of the late afternoon light and the way it presses through the window and paints gold edging along his dark hair. The contrast of the angles of his face, the way the sunlight caresses his cheek, the bridge of his nose.
Jacques sets his likeness down on paper, and knows that he could do this for hours.
He'll settle for doing it until supper.
