When I Dream of Michelangelo - Matthias and Felix
Matthias didn’t always get to do this, get time to himself, but having done all that he could realistically expect to do today for productivity’s sake, he found himself on the beach close to the harbor, boots off and feet in the sand, sketchpad in hand. He often did this in his rare moments of free time after every other potentially useful avenue to better his skills for his time in the Navy had been improved. Even today, on a quiet day, a peaceful day, he was panting and out of breath from his run, muscles aching pleasantly, shirt removed in the heat of the day. He had run until he couldn’t run anymore, and hair wet and tousled, breath hard in his chest, was using the opportunity to draw a touch to calm himself down, getting his heartrate back to normal.
He sketched the edge of the dock, a touch listlessly, sketched a few impressions of birds, just light, easy strokes, but finding nothing of interest. There was a man working on the docks, carrying heavy things as if they were feathers, and Matthias, struck with an artists’ sense of proportion and shape, began to draw him. Freely, he drew in broad shoulders, a wide, strong back, powerful arms and legs, narrow hips and big hands. The man’s hair was harder, curly and dark, and it took him a few tries to get the texture of it right, like it took him a moment to puzzle out the shape of his nose in profile, or the way the light seemed to glow in his pale skin as he lifted and carried the wood in the sun.
He was so absorbed in his drawing that he didn’t notice at first when the man had stopped moving until he looked up to take in the line of his jaw again, freezing. His large dark eyes, worried, apologetic, cast up to his.
“S-sorry— I s-should have asked, b-but you w-were—.”
He flushed pink, and averted his eyes, blushing furiously.
