Work Text:
The most satisfying part of creating art, Calum would say, is signing the little ch at the very bottom. It’s a beautiful thing, the way his calligraphy pen slides along the canvas, leaving a trail of black to shape the two tiny letters.
There’s always that consistent warmth that flows through his chest, telling him that he finished another painting, that he made another person happy, and that he has one less person to meet before he finds his soulmate.
It’s a two-syllable word. So easy to say, but they’re so hard to find. In a world of eight billion people, finding that one person seems impossible, and to Calum, it certainly feels like it.
Since he was sixteen, he’s met 438 people, painted them, and came to the conclusion that they aren’t his two syllables, his one person. Since he was sixteen, his hope has diminished by a little bit 438 times.
But when he signs his initials in dark cursive, a little bit of hope is revived. Because, soon, someone new will walk in and maybe, just maybe, they’ll be his two syllables.
Maybe, they’ll splash colour on his black and white paintings.
“It’s done!” Calum plasters a smile on his face, happiness in his voice.
He looks up to find his latest model, Ryan, with a relieved expression on his face, bones cracking as he moves from his original position with his arms loosely wrapped around his knees. He extends his legs and stretches his hands behind him.
Calum didn’t take too long with this painting, he never does. Looking at the clock, it’s only been forty minutes. A record, actually.
Over the years, he’s gotten quick with his brush strokes, but they’ve never wavered in quality. He’s gotten much more talented during this last decade of painting.
Ryan stands up and walks toward Calum with his hand ruffling his hair. To most people, the man has blond hair, but to Calum, it’s light gray. Or maybe it’s dyed, and it’s yellow or something.
God, he hates this. It’s annoying to be reduced to such bland shades when he creates. He wants to see what his parents do, he wants to know what blond or yellow looks like, he wants to meet his soulmate.
He doesn’t want to live in the dark forever. He doesn’t think he can.
He wants to love and to be loved. He wants to have picnics in flower fields with them. He wants to see the way their lips change shades when they’re kissed. He wants to make them blush pink, not gray. He wants to paint his person without restrictions. He wants to learn how the colour wheel works. He wants to see a rainbow for what it’s known for.
Ryan stands behind Calum, slightly to the side, looking at the portrait with admiration.
“It looks identical,” he laughs in astonishment, glancing at the artist with wild eyes.
Besides the colours, yes.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, his cheeks becoming a darker shade of gray at the compliment. He picks up the canvas and hands it to the model with paint-stained hands.
“Thank you.” Ryan takes it, his bewilderment never leaving his eyes. This is why Calum still does this. Mostly.
“Um, is… this all? Do you have to take a picture or anything?” he asks.
“No,” Calum shakes his hand, his smile real this time. Nothing like a little bit of someone else’s happiness and the hope of his one person walking through the door soon to cheer him up. “You paid me upfront, so you’re free.”
“Thank you again. This is truly amazing.” And then he’s gone, walking out the door with his smile and his happiness following him.
Calum glances at the clock again. He’s got about ten minutes before his next client comes in for their appointment. Perfect, that’s just enough time to get reorganised.
His art studio, his safe space, isn’t all that messy. Sure, there’s paints and brushes everywhere on top of the little table he keeps next to the easel, and the trash can is about to overflow with paper towels and empty paint bottles, but other than that, it’s pretty tidy.
There’s a small selection of furniture that he keeps tucked to the side in case any of his clients would like to use them. There’s a small white sofa that most of the models pick, but there is also a wooden stool and a cushioned chair.
Both the couch and the chair are on wheels though. Calum’s not that strong.
The rest of the room is pretty much empty. There’s a closet in the corner where he stores his extra painting supplies, and a small hallway that leads to the bathroom, which also has a washing/drying machine and a mini-fridge. But, yeah. That’s it.
Calum sits up from his stool to begin getting ready. He washes and dries all of his brushes, wipes down his table, and grabs a new canvas from out of the closet.
He heads to the bathroom next. It’s not small, but with all of the appliances in the room, it’s a little bit crowded. The floor is always cool, despite how hot it gets in the summer. It’s tiled, but Calum can’t tell what colour the darker ones are. It all just looks white and dark gray to him.
He makes quick work of cleaning his water cup and then he tosses his apron into the washing machine, along with the other three he’s used today.
He used to wear only one apron a day, just leaving the spares in the closet, but then a disaster happened when he reached over for a thicker brush and his apron spilled the paint water all over his current painting.
Luckily, the client understood and was more than happy to reschedule, but it could’ve been bad if he hadn’t had one of the nice ones that day.
Calum crouches down and pawns the mini-fridge for a bottle of water and a yogurt parfait. He gulps the water down and swallows his snack down before taking the leftover garbage back into the studio.
Usually, he’d put food-related trash into the bathroom bin because he doesn’t want his clients to think he’s eating near their future portraits, and plus, he doesn’t wish for his studio to smell. But he’s got a few minutes left before his next (and last for the day, thank God) model gets here, so he’s going to take the garbage out.
He drops his empty bottle and yogurt cup into the bin before tying the bag and opening the door. The chilly air hits his bare arms, and he lets out a shocked gasp. It hasn’t been this cold yet this year.
He shivers all the way down the stairs, and for whatever reason today, the dumpster lid is really heavy to lift. That doesn’t make sense, shouldn’t be possible, but alas. Maybe his muscles are just shrinking.
On his way back to the stairs, he nods in acknowledgment to his neighbour, who does the same. She’s tall with long hair, and her nose is upturned and shiny. Calum’s always wanted to paint her, but she’s never scheduled an appointment. Shame.
He coos and waves at her dog, a puppy golden retriever (who doesn’t really look golden at all), as it tries desperately to escape its leash and say hi. Or rather, bark it.
He sprints back up the stairs and checks the time. Two more minutes until the model gets here, more or less.
He grabs another apron out from the closet and pulls it over his head, tying it tightly around his waist, before he scans the room for anything else he needs to do. His brushes are good to go, as is his canvas and his paints.
Oh, right. He needs to clean his paint palette.
He quickly grabs it before speed-walking back into the bathroom. He runs the palette under warm water, using his hand and a little bit of soap to wipe the excess paint off. It’s still wet, so it isn’t a hard job to accomplish.
Calum likes to wash his black-and-white-covered paint palette between clients because maybe, just maybe, he might need some more colours.
He’s almost done washing it when a knock sounds from the front door.
“Come in!” he shouts, hopefully loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear. Judging by the click and footsteps Calum hears, he assumes they have. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
He sets the pallet on the counter before running just his hands under the rushing water to clear them of black and white. He dries them with a paper towel, and then he dries the palette as well.
The model has been silent this whole time. Not a peep.
Calum walks back down the hall and into the studio. “Alright, what’s your name? I’m Calum, as you kn–”
His eyes snap shut, hands coming up to cover them. Too much, too much, too much.
Too much colour.
Too much colour.
He rubs his eyes before opening them slowly and peaking up at the person in front of him. It’s a man, and, oh God, is that what blond looks like?
Tears are welling up in his eyes as he stares at the beauty in front of him. The man is wearing a beautiful and really hot outfit that Calum can’t for the life of him name the colour of, but it’s bright and it’s gorgeous and it’s colourful, and it’s an outfit he wants to paint so badly it hurts.
The man’s eyes are squinting, yet they’re still conveying as much amazement and excitement as if they were widened. His smile is radiating, and he’s laughing breathlessly. “Wow…”
He’s looking around the room, and so Calum does too. His art studio is filled with new life. The furniture pushed off to the side is no longer gray but something incredible. There isn’t much colour besides the usual shades Calum’s used to, and he’ll have to go to the store at some point to find some things to spruce it up, but for now…
He looks back at the man, who’s already staring at him, taking in his appearance. “I… I’m Ashton.”
He reaches out to shake Calum’s hand and Calum just can’t help but think about how stupid that action is before he jumps into his soulmate’s arms. Ashton’s arms.
Ashton stumbles back slightly, a loud cackle falling from his mouth as he supports Calum’s weight and wraps his arms around him.
Ashton is his soulmate, his two syllables, his one person–
“I’ve been waiting for you,” his soulmate's warm breath caresses his ears.
“So have I,” Calum whispers back.
–And his reason for more colours on his palette.