Esther: Maeve, Maeve! How are the preparations going? Are you ready for the party?
Maeve: We got the pastries, we got the cake... I bought some tea from Jade and, oh, of course! We got enough honey just in case! Do you think we're good to go?
Esther: Looks like it. I finished writing the invitations too. The only issue is, Prince Clavis seems to be scheming something and I haven't found ---
A rickety sign stands in the middle of the corridor. "Careful: Spilled Tea," it says.
Spill the Tea! OC Gift Exchange party is about to start! Will you accept the invitation?
Participants
Fandoms: IkeSen, IkeVamp, IkePri, IkeVil
Must have an OC.
Additionally, you must provide us with means of direct communication (Tumblr DMs, Discord, etc).
Gift Guidelines
FanFic: 1-1.5k words
FanArt: sketch or flat colour; no full rendering; no AI
Maeve: Remember to keep it family-friendly! Your work should be SFW.
We are also open to other types of submissions, such as moodboard/playlist+writing/art sets, short fic sets (total word count within 1-1.5k range), or other configurations of those. When in doubt, contact @lorei-writes or @keithsandwich.
Schedule
The sign-ups close on May 22nd, 11PM CET or when all available participant slots are filled.
You will receive the information about your assigned giftee between May 30th and June 1st.
You will have a month and a half to complete your project.
We also expect two check-ins: around June 21st & around July 6th. We’d like to hear about your progress during the second check-in.
Sign-Ups
Step #1: Prepare your OC(s) form(s)! (Can be compiled in a single Google doc.)
Name:
Universe:
Pairing / Ship:
Personal Details (likes, dislikes, any information you consider necessary, etc.):
Appearance (preferably with visual reference):
Personality:
Backstory (short summary):
Do’s / Don’ts (crucial details that must not be omitted, anything you'd never want to see your OC doing, etc.):
AUs (information relevant to any AUs you’ve already developed with your OCs; if applicable):
Reference (links to works featuring them, moodboards, pinterest boards etc.):
Esther: No AI allowed here either!
Step #2: Fill out our Sign-Ups Survey [Link].
In case of any issues or difficulties, don’t hesitate to contact @keithsandwich & @lorei-writes.
Maeve: I hope to see you at our party! We put a lot of love into everything we prepared.
Esther: We’ll be waiting with tea and biscuits!
Fandom: Ikemen Vampire.
Word Count: 3580.
Description: Victoria came to Paris chasing a sensational scoop, not a one-way ticket to the past. But who could have guessed that her attempt to expose a suspicious art patron would turn into a trap? Stepping through a mysterious door in the Louvre, she is thrust from the 21st century straight into late 19th-century France. Now, she is locked in a lavish mansion filled with legendary historical figures who, upon closer inspection, turn out to be... actual vampires.
It looks like this assignment risks becoming the most challenging of her career. That is, if she survives to write it.
A little background on this fic: This story is my personal revenge on canon for the main character. For all my love for Ikemen Vampire, this game has one fatal flaw, and her name is Mitsuki. Like most Cybird MCs, she suffers from chronic "good girl" syndrome, an acute savior complex, and sometimes straight-up Stockholm syndrome. She firmly believes that a partner's toxic traits can be magically cured by the power of all-forgiving love.
While reading the translations, I was genuinely outraged. Seeing these brilliant minds who left a colossal mark on world history, suddenly lose all their IQ points and fall for an absolutely cardboard and "convenient" Mary Sue just because she's nice and believes in miracles is exhausting. Honestly, the phrase "so beautiful, yet so dumb" was definitely coined for people like Mitsuki.
There will be no damsels in distress or convenient plot armor in this fic. So buckle up: my Victoria actually knows how to use her brain, doesn't faint on schedule, and possesses a solid survival instinct coupled with a healthy dose of selfishness.
A/N: Please keep in mind that I don’t speak English fluently and use translation tools to write this. Some sentences might sound a bit awkward or lose their original meaning. Thank you for your understanding!
Important: "Jean-Michel" is the Count of Saint-Germain's alias in the 21st century!
Prologue. Chapter 1. "The Louvre, Espionage, and a Door to the Past"
Paris, France. Present day.
The sun flooded the Cour Napoléon, turning the Louvre's glass pyramid into a blinding trap for thousands of tourists. Sharp rays bounced off the glass facets, beating down mercilessly, forcing people to squint and shield their faces with their hands. But even the scorching heat couldn't cool the crowd's fervor: the square literally buzzed with a multilingual hum, endless camera flashes, and an excited clamor that drowned out the shouts of street hawkers.
Surveying this quest called "survive the line to the Louvre and don't turn into a living exhibit," I simply adjusted the bag on my shoulder and irritably brushed a stubborn strand of hair from my face. Only one thought hammered in my head: why the hell did I even drag myself here? Ah, right. Work. While I tried to switch on my bloodhound mode, my inner Swiss was already having a quiet meltdown, demanding I immediately arrange this crowd into a perfectly straight line and force the metro to run on a schedule, rather than on the train driver's mood. But Paris honestly didn't give a damn about my suffering: it clearly lived by the principle of "if we're going to hell anyway, let's at least make it aesthetic—set to Lana Del Rey's melancholy and with a glass of something more expensive than my entire higher education."
My name is Victoria, and if I, an investigative journalist from Geneva, came to Paris, it certainly wasn't for dates by the Eiffel Tower—I've seen enough of that pile of rusty iron on postcards. My editor-in-chief didn't go to all that trouble to secure the budget for this business trip just so I could spend my time admiring the local sights. I'd have to pay off the cost of this trip with blood and sensational scoops. And in our newsroom, there was always a line of people eager to trip me up in the race for those.
The thing is, my department affectionately dubbed me an "upstart"—apparently, that was my colleagues' way of masking their jealousy over the fact that at twenty-four, I can smell a lie faster than they can sniff out cheap cognac at a buffet. But the status of the best bloodhound came with obligations: if someone appeared in the art world capable of leading France's entire elite expert community by the nose, it was up to me to deal with it.
The reason for the trip materialized faster than I could curse my career choice that morning. Over the past year, a certain patron of the arts named Jean-Michel had practically put on a spectacle of unprecedented generosity for the Louvre, causing a collective nervous tic among Swiss experts. Fabulous wealth, an impeccable reputation, and knowledge of the secrets of private collections—it was too perfect a package not to raise red flags.
His gifts to the museum—ranging from incredibly rare artifacts to canvases by great masters—looked suspiciously fresh for their venerable age. They completely lacked the noble wear of centuries: frames remained without a single crack, and ancient blades were untouched by corrosion. Looking at these exhibits, it was hard to shake the feeling that they had been created quite recently, miraculously replicating lost technologies of the past.
Thinking about this, I involuntarily caught myself giving a skeptical smirk. I didn't believe in miracles, preferring facts, logic, and common sense. And that meant there were only two explanations left: either this man had found a time machine, or I was looking at the most brilliant forger whose cases I'd ever had to unravel.
My task was as simple as a Swiss watch and as unpredictable as Paris itself: get as close to Jean-Michel as possible, record any detail that could expose his scam, and write an article that promised to be the loudest sensation of the decade.
Leaving the scorching square behind, I descended beneath the glass vaults of the Pyramid, passed security in the spacious Hall Napoléon, and, flashing my press pass, confidently stepped into the Denon Wing. It was much easier to breathe here: the massive walls reliably muffled the street noise, tourists' footsteps echoed softly, and the air was steeped in the scents of old stone, expensive perfume, and museum polish.
I navigated between tourist groups with an agility honed by years of chasing scoops. While the gawkers stared spellbound at the painted ceilings, I looked only forward, picking out my target from the stream of people. A man like Jean-Michel doesn't dissolve into a crowd—he subjugates it, silently creating an exclusion zone around himself that random passersby instinctively avoid.
It was exactly this strange lull in the center of the noisy hall that served as my beacon. I found him in front of the giant canvas "The Coronation of Napoleon." Against the backdrop of David's pompous masterpiece, his figure initially seemed almost modest, but that was a mere illusion. Jean-Michel stood absolutely motionless, hands clasped behind his back, looking at the canvas as if he wasn't studying a great work of art, but rather meticulously comparing it with his own memories.
I stopped a few meters away, pretending to check the route on my phone while stealthily studying his profile. The flawless cut of his jacket, manners that couldn't be bought for any amount of money, and an aura of monumental, almost frightening calm. He didn't just blend into the surroundings—it seemed time itself thickened and slowed down around him, adjusting to his personal rhythm.
I slipped my phone into my pocket and took a few confident steps, deliberately positioning myself slightly to his right. One glance at his face was enough for me to catch the exact moment this perfect mask would crack, if I managed to provoke him.
"The scale is impressive, wouldn't you say?" I remarked without turning my head. I diligently pretended to be completely absorbed by the painting, while catching his every movement in my peripheral vision. "Though, I must admit, David flattered Joséphine a bit here. In reality, the ceremony was much more... chaotic. The Emperor was nervous, the Pope could barely hide his irritation, and the crown, if eyewitness memoirs are to be believed, turned out to be devilishly heavy."
Jean-Michel slowly turned his head toward me. For a moment, I even forgot my rehearsed role: he looked as though he had stepped right out of one of the paintings adorning these walls. A flawless three-piece suit, a long beige coat carelessly draped over his shoulders, and leather oxfords polished to a mirror shine. His entire appearance practically screamed wealth, but it wasn't the vulgar luxury of modernity; rather, it was the restrained taste of a man accustomed to existing outside of time. However, the most alarming thing was his skin: too smooth, without a single flaw or wrinkle that time should have inevitably left on a man with his experience and reputation.
When our eyes met, I felt a chill run down my spine. His gaze—heavy and somehow unnaturally golden—flared for a moment with genuine interest. To be honest, I had never seen eyes like that before. In their depths, the chill of centuries seemed frozen—centuries that had witnessed far more than any human was meant to.
"You speak of this with such certainty, mademoiselle..." he paused barely noticeably, delicately inviting me to introduce myself.
The daze lasted only a second, but that was enough. Shaking my head as if to cast off a spell, I forced myself to blink and regain control over my body.
"Victoria," I finally turned to face him, plastering on my most polite yet impenetrable mask of professional interest. "I just love the details that are usually omitted from guidebooks. And you, I see, are not just a patron, but a true connoisseur? Word has it your recent gifts to the museum made the experts quite nervous and forced them to rethink a few historical dogmas.”
Jean-Michel smiled faintly. His manners were impeccable, but there was something frighteningly old-fashioned seeping through that flawlessness. Modern billionaires don't behave like this; this was how aristocrats from old black-and-white newsreels held themselves, where courtesy was merely an elegant form of superiority.
"History is full of secrets, Victoria," he replied. His voice, deep and velvety, seemed to be a blend of multiple accents that couldn't be pinned down to one specific country. "Sometimes objects are preserved far better than the people who created them. I am sure it is precisely this... unnatural preservation that led you to me, and not at all a love for informal guidebooks."
After those words, I mentally dropped the mask of an enthusiastic tourist—that trick clearly wasn't working on him.
"I'm looking for the truth, monsieur. It's my job." I looked him straight in the eyes, searching for even a hint of deceit, but to no avail. I read the same chilling serenity there as in my cat's eyes a second before it knocks a vase off the table. "You see, the Swiss insurance syndicates are currently having a collective meltdown. Before issuing a policy for your collection, they demanded an independent audit. And the experts in Geneva are downing valerian by the liter: according to them, the paints on your canvases have the exact same chemical composition as they did three hundred years ago, yet the canvases haven't aged at all. It's as if time ceased to exist for them. The Louvre can enjoy your gift all it wants, but my compatriots are used to trusting only numbers and spectral analysis results."
Jean-Michel took a smooth, almost predatory step toward me. His proximity brought a faint scent of expensive perfume and old paper, along with a bone-chilling, completely unnatural cold. I instinctively tensed, digging the soles of my ankle boots into the marble floor so I wouldn't allow myself to flinch back. His long, almost sculptural fingers paused for a fraction of a second dangerously close to my face, then immediately retreated. My heart traitorously skipped a beat, but I stubbornly tilted my chin up, refusing to look away. On his part, it was a perfectly calculated provocation, one I wasn't going to fall for.
"Time is an incredibly elastic substance, mademoiselle," he said with a soft, almost lazy smirk, making me barely suppress the urge to roll my eyes. "Perhaps these canvases were simply waiting for the right moment and the right person to come to light once again."
He let his gaze linger on my face for a moment, sending another shiver down my spine. It seemed he saw right through me—not as a woman, but as a complex clockwork mechanism that he was unhurriedly trying to figure out in his head.
"You have a sharp mind, Victoria. And a wonderfully... lively gaze. That is a rare stroke of luck these days," he stepped back, instantly restoring that invisible but insurmountable distance between us. "But I'm afraid I must go. I have a scheduled meeting that would be impolite to postpone."
Jean-Michel gave me a shallow, elegant bow. In modern Paris, such a gesture would look ridiculous on anyone else, but on him, it looked as natural as the gold on Napoleon's frame.
"I was delighted by our chance meeting, Victoria. Adieu."
Jean-Michel turned and walked away toward the side halls of the Denon Wing. I waited just long enough not to seem intrusive, then followed him. My "curious historian" mode had officially switched to spy mode. A meeting in a closing wing of the museum? Too convenient to be true. If this "ghost of the nineteenth century" thought I would just let him fade into history that easily, he clearly overestimated his much-vaunted insight and underestimated my need for a bonus. The main thing now was to avoid giving myself away with the clatter of my shoes and not lose him in the crowd.
The man turned into an inconspicuous passageway leading away from the popular routes. I followed him calmly, trying to stay in the shadows of the columns, and noticed that this wing of the museum was suspiciously quiet. It was right here, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket mid-stride, that Jean-Michel made a blunder that completely clashed with his image of a flawless gentleman.
With a dull, metallic thud, a gold pocket watch on a chain dropped to the parquet floor. Jean-Michel seemed so lost in thought that he didn't even pick it up. Without breaking his stride, he swept forward and vanished behind a heavy velvet curtain in a wall alcove.
I froze, pressing myself against the cold stone. The golden disk of the watch gleamed dully on the floor, like a thrown gauntlet. For a man who "compares memories" with David's masterpieces, such carelessness looked almost staged. My inner skeptic sounded the alarm: this was either incredible luck or a perfectly laid trap. But before common sense could take the wheel, I was already heading toward the prize.
Crossing the distance between us, I crouched down to pick it up. My fingers closed around the gold casing, and I barely stifled a gasp—it was surprisingly hefty and impossibly, wrongly ice-cold. Not just cold from the museum AC, but freezing, as if it had just been pulled out of liquid nitrogen. This deathly chill literally burned my fingertips, making my muscles clench reflexively, but I managed to hold onto it. On the flawlessly polished, gleaming lid, completely free of scratches or tarnish, there was an intricate, ominous engraving: an hourglass tightly entangled in thorny briars. It looked as though the plant was strangling time itself.
"Hey, wait! You dropped..." I called out, darting toward the alcove, but the heavy velvet curtain swayed one last time and stilled, cutting off the path.
I stood rooted to the spot, gripping the icy metal until it hurt. The watch in my palm ticked slowly, hollowly, with some unnatural rhythm reminiscent of a heartbeat slowed to its very limits. Common sense and self-preservation chanted in unison: "Hand the find over to administration and go get your well-deserved croissant, Victoria. Your work here is done for the day." But the journalist in me was already stringing together another, much more tempting chain of events: a suspicious door in a closed section of the Denon Wing, a mystery patron, and a watch that blatantly spat on the laws of thermodynamics.
If I let him slip away now, I’d never forgive myself for the rest of my career. After all, back in Geneva, they didn't call me the best bloodhound for my ability to blindly follow the rules.
Shifting my bag for a better grip, I resolutely flung back the heavy fabric. Hidden behind it was a massive double door set into a light stone archway. It looked as if it had been transported here straight from some French Renaissance château: heavy dark wood with intricate carving, sturdy metal hinges, and austere handles.
But there was one detail that made my inner skeptic stand at attention again. There wasn't a single speck of dust or a trace of restoration on it. No electronic card readers, motion sensors, or the omnipresent Louvre cameras—just solid, monumental antiquity, polished to the same suspicious perfection as everything else Jean-Michel touched.
"A secret vault? Or a personal Narnia for eccentric art patrons?" the sarcastic thought flashed through my mind.
I pulled hard on the austere metal handle, and the hinges yielded without a single sound. Through the resulting crack, the muffled light of antique sconces spilled into the darkness, revealing rows of grandfather clocks and glass display cases out of the gloom. This looked absolutely nothing like a faceless utility corridor with mops and spare fire extinguishers. More like a secret archive of time, whose existence had been forgotten even by the omniscient curators of the Louvre.
Yielding to my bloodhound instincts, I stepped inside, and the heavy door clicked softly shut behind me, completely severing the hum of the museum crowd. The corridor turned out to be intimidatingly long. My footsteps sank without a trace into a thick crimson carpet, and the dark wood-paneled walls faded into some otherworldly, violet twilight, as if compressing the space. There were clocks everywhere—wall clocks, grandfather clocks, mantel clocks. Their glass dials gleamed dully in the shadows like blind eyes.
The air here changed instantly: it became thick, crypt-cold, with a sharp tang of old varnish and long-snuffed candles. But the creepiest part was the oppressive silence. Not a single one of the dozens of mechanisms around me was running. They were all dead silent, except for the icy trophy in my hand, which, conversely, began to tick faster and more aggressively, echoing like an anxious pulse right in my veins.
Jean-Michel was nowhere to be seen. I picked up my pace, eager to push through this surreal clockwork cabinet of curiosities, but the gloom at the end of the corridor suddenly exploded with a blinding white light. It turned into a solid veil that didn't just hurt the eyes but felt almost tangible. The air around me thickened in an instant, turning into an invisible, elastic wall. It resisted my every movement, as if space itself refused to let me go further, trying to spit me back out into the safe wing of the museum.
"What the..." I tried to take a deep breath, but my chest felt squeezed by an invisible press, like a sudden drop in cabin pressure.
My ears popped painfully from the change, making me instinctively squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the floor sway beneath my feet and vanish for a split second. It felt like dropping into a deep air pocket—a brief, terrifying sense of weightlessness before the soles of my boots met solid ground again.
When I finally forced myself to open my eyes, the world around me was still a corridor, except... it was absolutely, unequivocally no longer the Louvre.
Instead of a cramped service passage, I found myself in a spacious gallery bathed in warm golden light. It looked aggressively expensive: walls upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, rows of tall polished dark wood doors, and massive bronze chandeliers whose glow shattered across the lacquered parquet. On one side stretched an endless enfilade; on the other, enormous windows draped in heavy scarlet velvet to match the walls.
Taking a few hesitant steps, I grabbed the edge of the fabric and yanked it back, expecting to see the familiar Parisian smog and the crowds by the Louvre pyramid.
Except…
Behind the glass reigned a deep, absolute night. Billions of stars were scattered across an ink-black sky, surrounding an unnaturally bright, sharp crescent moon. I froze, almost mechanically dropping my gaze to the screen of my phone, which I had managed to pull out of my bag. 14:21. The middle of the day.
"Solar eclipse? No, that's bullshit," I whispered. My voice sounded hoarse, drowning in the hall's soft acoustics. "Am I in a basement? A windowless pavilion? But here it is..."
I pressed my palm against the glass. It was real—smooth, frighteningly icy, and vibrating from the night wind. I watched as clouds slowly drifted past the moon, veiling it in a translucent haze. My brain, desperately clinging to the remnants of rationality, started throwing up barricades: A secret immersive show? Ultra-high-def screens instead of glass? Or some experimental hallucinogenic gas leaking straight from the fire suppression system?
I spun around, intending to go back out the way I came, but the massive door I had walked through a moment ago was locked. I yanked the handle—it wouldn't budge. I shoved it with my shoulder—the wood didn't give way, as if behind it lay not an empty corridor, but a solid brick wall.
With trembling fingers, I unlocked my phone screen again. "No Service." Right in the center of Paris, in a building stuffed to the gills with routers and cell towers, the signal bar was as empty as my wallet after paying rent in Geneva.
"Okay, Victoria, calm down. This is just a very expensive and highly illegal escape room," I took a deep breath, trying to soothe my racing heart. "Find an exit, find people, and then sue the Louvre for kidnapping and emotional distress. It's a great plan. Almost genius. Now I just need to figure out what kind of nowhere I've ended up in."
I looked around again. Everything around me—from the gilded candelabras with real, flickering candles to the heavy, suffocating smell of wax and old wood—screamed that I was no longer in the twenty-first century. In this silence, there was no hum of ventilation or beep of security cameras. Only a deathly, frozen stillness.
Suddenly, this oppressive silence was shattered by the distinct sound of footsteps and a voice ringing out right nearby:
"What are you doing there?"
The voice was commanding, sharp, and nothing like Jean-Michel's soft baritone. It carried the tone of someone used to giving orders that are not up for debate. I whipped around, already armed with my most withering tirade about human rights and the illegal detainment of journalists. Hell, I was even ready to yell loud enough to make Napoleon's ears pop in the next hall over, but the rehearsed words instantly decided to commit suicide right in my throat.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the first chapter and your impressions of Victoria in the reblogs or comments! If you have any questions or prompts, feel free to drop them in my ask box. If you want to be tagged in future chapter updates, just an leave a comment!
Le comte de Saint Germain is the title that seems to have resided in Paris for generations, but there seem to be something odd about the family... the next heir gets more identical than the last..
when the voices become so loud you put stylus to phone and create your oc:
please love and accept him (😭) he’s partly inspired by the fact that I believe the ikemen games (sengoku + vampire) are connected, and that my self insert (kaori ikeji) has gone back in time twice: to the 1500s and 1890s.
then, i started to think: “what if a vampire hunter met kaori while she was out with Nobunaga or hideyoshi on the port? then, what if said vampire hunter had a failed mission which led him to becoming a lesser vampire? and now that he has a long lifespan, what if he finds the mc again—but in the 1800s?”
also, here’s a longer description of his origin:
Once a wandering French poet and petty outlaw, François Villon vanished from history after a string of crimes and mysterious sightings. What the world doesn’t know is that Villon was a hunter of monsters—specifically vampires. During one of his pursuits, he was bitten and left for dead.
He should have died. Instead, he awoke between life and death: a half-vampire, cursed with their immortality and hunger, but not their full power. Convinced that God spared him only to finish the job, Villon became a phantom in the shadows—hunting vampires across continents and centuries.
But he wasn’t always alone. In the 1500s, while tracking a bloodline of foreign vampires through the port cities of Japan, he met a strange, clever woman from another time. She didn’t believe him. But he never forgot her.
also! art study of ikemen prince because the style is so pretty 💕
Title: In Loving Memory
Rating: General-ish
Fandom: Ikemen Vampire
Characters: Theodorus van Gogh, Abigail Clarke (OC)
Summary: Theo helps an aged Abby work on a portrait she’s making.
Notes: Original Character; Bittersweet Fluff; implied/referenced character death; not explicitly noted but this take place long after Vincent’s endings in canon; references to another fic I’ve written with Theo and Abby (I’ve Waited For This) ; Originally the ‘Old’ prompt from my 100 Themes Challenge now brought to completion. And thanks again to @dodomindraws who did the lineart for the banner!
WC: 945
Also on ao3!
My Masterlist!
Theo sat by Abby's side, the pair looking at a medium-sized canvas. Abby, older now with her short hair almost completely white, held a long paintbrush towards the canvas in her small, wrinkled hands that were dotted with age spots. Theo, still as youthful as when Abby had first met him with his reddish-brown hair and familiar blue eyes that had gentled somewhat with time, watched patiently as her hand moved, graceful in the memory but a little clumsy now with age. The younger van Gogh held a palette filled with colorful paints in his lap.
"Just a little longer," Abby said, her voice cracking.
"Take your time," Theo said gently. "No need to rush."
Silence overtook the two of them, sunlight peeking through the nearby window. Where she needed it, Theo held up her elbow, keeping her arm steady as she made her short, careful strokes.
"…Talk about him, Theo." Abby asked, squinting her eyes.
"Hondje, you sure?"
"A happy memory… for me, please?"
Theo closed his eyes and breathed out a sigh. He looked up towards the ceiling, thinking for a moment.
"Back when we used to live in le Comte's mansion, he often painted outdoors. He'd taken you with him one day. By all accounts, it should have been sunny all day. But, there was a pop up shower."
"Ah, yes." Abby's eyes lit up with the memory. "Vincent had wanted to teach me about plein air painting. But then it started raining half way through what he was teaching me."
"I was just getting back from selling his work. I got caught up in it too. Soaked to the bone. I had to run all the way to the mansion after the carriage dropped me off nearby."
"So were we. We had to pack up in a hurry!" Abby laughed.
"Clearly." said Theo. "Broer had you in his arms and you had all the supplies in your lap, trying desperately to keep the canvases from getting wet when I saw you two. You looked like a couple of idiots, running in the rain."
"I don't doubt we looked very silly. Vincent kept saying I should put his painting apron over my head so I wouldn't get wet, but I was so focused on protecting the paintings, the paint hadn't even dried properly. But, both of canvases got smeared with rain water anyway, despite our best efforts. I was so upset then because I had been so proud of my painting and thought it was ruined."
"Broer just smiled," Theo said, "and gladly told everyone and anyone they were twin paintings. It was probably the first time I’d seen him genuinely proud of something that wasn’t his own artwork."
"I remember Vincent held onto those paintings for a while. I was a little embarrassed on how long he kept them, messed up as they were."
"From what I remember, Comte had them put up in the parlor after you two had left. Even had them framed and properly sealed so they’d last longer."
"That's even more embarrassing!"
Abby lowered her elbow, setting her brush down, her smile lifting the wrinkles on her face.
"Thank you, Theo. For cheering me up. For staying and putting up with me. For everything, really."
"You'd be lonely if I didn't, and Broer hated leaving you alone for long."
"…I miss him. So much."
Theo reached up to her cheek, smearing a little bit of yellow paint on it.
"When you came around, he was happier. More than I had ever seen him, I'll admit. He shined brighter than before. Blindingly so some days. He cleared looked like a man in love whenever he was around you. I was a little jealous—okay, a lot jealous—of how this little pup once scared of her own shadow that came out of nowhere had managed to capture my Broer so completely, so quickly. It was almost unfair how quickly you changed him when I couldn't over a lifetime."
"Theo…"
Theo patted her elbow again.
"Remember when I came to the house the first time? Because your aunt had sent those pictures of his paintings?"
"Yes," Abby said, "I showed you all those pictures of Vincent and me… of the kids when they were little…"
"You showed me that he had lived a good life and that's something I can't thank you enough for. I had failed in that regard, even in our second lives. You gave him something that I couldn't without even trying."
Abby sat her paintbrush to the side, reaching up with both her hands to hold Theo's face.
"Your wish allowed us to meet, Theo, so don't sell yourself so short. My happiness was thanks to you, after all. You didn't fail in anything. You did what you could for him. We both did."
"Hondje…"
Abby cleared her throat and rubbed at her eyes, refocusing on the canvas before her and trying to pointedly ignore the matching paint smear she had put on Theo’s face.
"He wouldn't want us to be sad for long anyway. He'd be worried if we were."
"Right. And you have a portrait to finish."
Abby nodded and picked up her brush again, filling it up with some light blue paint, something that was quite close to Theo’s eye color, but not an exact match. It was a blue that was more familiar to her, the one she had known and loved the most over the years. Theo lifted her elbow once again, helping her reach the soulful eyes staring back at them, his gentle smile endearingly etched into their memories now coming back to life on the canvas once again.
