They both had rather....big personalities, both had a temper so, when together, Edmund and Ernest were meant to clash at one point or another. Such as today, another day of Edmund painting Ernest’s portrait, another day of Ernest unable to stay in the some position for more than a couple of minutes. Exasperated, he threw his brush to the ground with a groan and stepped back from his easel. “I can’t work like this, I simply can’t!”, muttered more to himself, hands on his hips. “I refuse to - how can anybody be expected to work under these conditions?” Accompanied by furious pacing around the room, a sip of wine, more pacing, all while Ernest remained laying comfortably on the chaise longue, Edmund hadn’t missed the roll of his friends’ eyes - which made him all the more angry. Coming to a halt, he frowned, sternly painting a finger at Ernest. “And don’t! Don’t you dare utter ‘ you know you love me’ because I don’t, I truly don’t!” A deep exhale, Edmund stared at the ground for a moment - then took his place behind the canvas again. “At least not right now.”
Eyes widened, Edmund stared at his sister in horror. He’d been sprawled out on the sofa in his study in his family’s London residence, lazily nursing some wine while chatting to his sister about one thing and another when she had dropped quite the bomb on him. Now he’d sat up, as straight as a post, while his sister had the audacity to laugh at his antics. Oh, the nerve!
“Lavinia!”, he exclaimed with a shake of the head. “What has gotten into you? Are you quite mad?”
She waved it off, barely able to get the words out between fits of laughter. “I could ask you the same thing, dear brother. Why, I don’t understand your sudden...outrage. I thought my statement was quite sensible.” Lips twisted into a grin, she gestured to the pile of canvases stacked carefully against each other, all adorned with pictures of Ernest’s likeness. “It is quite obvious that you are smitten with the lad, Edmund. You could fill all of Somerset House with his pictures.”
Trust his sister to manage to catch Edmund at a loss for words. He shook his head, quite adamently, insisted: “No! Lav - I am not smitten, I - poppycock! That - that’s, what, one and a half dozen, at most. You exaggerate.”
Another giggle, Lavinia raised her hands in defense, took a deep breath. “You needn’t deny it or be upset with me, Edmund. I am simply telling it as I see it. Don’t worry, I won’t tell mama about your infatuation.”
A drunken tumble through the dimly lit streets of London, Ernest had offered to walk Edmund home after a night at Brook’s - well, he had offered to send for a carriage, Edmund had insisted they walk. A night of overindulgence, he had some trouble walking and seeing straight, held onto Ernest for steadying and comfort. Oh, the absolute rubbish he talked - some gossip, some exclamations of admiration for his favourite artist, some complaining about his mother. A lengthy monologue, surely worth of a run at Covent Garden, cut short by their arrival at Edmund’s residence. There was a silly grin glued to his lips, they stood by the front door, he grabbed Ernest’s shoulder for balance. “Oh, Ernie”, he said and giggled at the nickname he knew his friend detested, “Oh, thank you so much for taking me home - I would’ve made an absolute mess of the carriage had I taken it, you know how travel sick I get.” He winced at the imagery, then snorted with laughter. Finally, he placed on hand on Ernest’s cheek, patted it lightly. Edmund smiled an awe-struck smile as he met his friend’s eyes. “You’re so good to me, Ernie. So very good. I love that you’re my muse, I truly do. You’re so very, very good at it.” A beat passed, Edmund leaned in to press a big, sloppy peck on Ernest’s forehead. “Goodnight, bye bye, now. Love you.” And with that he made his way back into the house, as quiet as possible - which wasn’t very quiet.
