#i hope it makes sense hehehe it's 2 am here so y'know i'm tired but also can't sleep so the brain is ahhhhh

[harry-leroy]

Warlenys + Artist/Writer AU + Mutual Pining, maybe? :)

Hi! Thank you so much for this ask - and for waiting five million years for me to get this fic written. Y’all all know I’m a mess when it comes to these things but I get around to everything eventually so here we are. Remind me to write everything with the premise of mutual pining because this was really fun to write. I hope you enjoy! Tagging the Warleggan fam: @upstartpoodle, @ticketybooser, @lashbrook11 

“Just a little to the left, Mr. Warleggan,” the painter poked his face out from behind the canvas as he and his sitter nearly locked eyes. George tilted his chin up and turned his eyes to the window. It had been a pleasant day, much like the others in that rather pleasant summer, but there was something particularly lovely about that day of all days. George made a mental note of it in his head, composing poetry and rhythms in his head that he could only hope would sound just as nice coming from his pen when he had the time to write. 

Dwight turned back to his canvas, half-admiring the work he had done, but also cursing himself that the likeness was not exact. There was something more behind the eyes of the man who was sitting before him than he could capture with his brush. The portrait would serve the point it was intended to, certainly, but it would frustrate him to no end every time he looked at it. It was the curse of every artist. All the best things were created with the power of hindsight. He frowned, and set the brush down on the small table beside him. 

“Everything alright?” George turned his eyes to the canvas, not moving his head in case he were chastised for it. 

Dwight picked his head up, only to bury it in his chest again. He nodded, suddenly unable to look at George’s eyes altogether. Any artist would be lucky to have a sitter such as George Warleggan, for there was handsome pay, but furthermore he was a handsome subject. 

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s take a break for now. You must be tired from sitting,” 

George relaxed and rose from the chair from which he was posed, making his way to the sitting area at the other end of the room. 

“And you must be tired of standing,” he said as he walked past the painter and made his way to another seat, infinitely more comfortable. “Come and sit. I’ll call for some tea,” 

Before Dwight could respond, George was ringing a small silver bell set on the end table beside him, so the painter could only manage a stifled laugh before removing his apron and deciding to make himself welcome. 

“Have you many other friends here in Cornwall?” George asked, following Dwight with his eyes and finding the rhythms beat in his mind again. If he were someone of George’s status, there would be many fine ladies to ask for his hand, no doubt. Perhaps he would introduce him at a ball. It was the least he could do in an attempt of a friendly gesture. No sooner had he had the thought before he began to hate the very idea of anyone else even speaking to the painter. George recognized it as selfishness, an interesting flourish to the little poem dancing in his head, but a flourish of anguish nonetheless. 

“I would be privileged to call my subjects acquaintances, let alone friends,” Dwight managed a smile, but behind it was a man tormented by his own loneliness. 

“Then I shall introduce you to mine,” George decided. “In fact, Caroline Penvenen is meant to be here later today along with her uncle. I’m sure you would all get on charmingly,” 

Dwight shook his head, and managed another smile with that little laugh. 

“Ms. Penvenen and I have met before,” he said, his heart falling into his stomach. The thought of her was an equal agony. “Perhaps I should stop painting the portraits of those above my social call,” 

“Oh, you mustn’t say that,” George said. “I hope she did not vex you. A temper and will as hers can be near maddening at times. She said nothing to me about you. Nothing ugly anyway,” 

“Right,” Dwight said. She had no reason to mention his name to George. Now, as he sat before this man of near equal beauty, he did not feel cured of his affection for her, but instead a double deep misery at the thought of his affection for them both. He was saved in time from a total breakdown by the arrival of a servant carrying tea for them both. 

“Ah, thank you,” George said to the servant as he set down the glasses and handed one to Dwight. He then turned to his new companion, “I must have you over some other time then. Tell me, does an artist ever get a spare moment outside his profession?” 

“Perhaps physically,” Dwight said. “But I am always thinking about my work, so I can’t say that I really do get a spare moment,” 

“I know exactly what you mean,” George smiled before taking a sip of his tea. “Our minds are always turning,” 

“I’m sorry,” Dwight leaned forward slightly in his chair, something of a rough habit. “Are you an artist yourself?” 

George shrugged slightly, “I’ve published a few poems here and there,”. 

He then reached for a small stack of papers on the other side of the table they had been sharing, and handed them to Dwight. The painter hesitated a moment before accepting to take them, at first unsure of what they were. 

“I really shouldn’t leave them lying around,” George managed a nervous sort of laugh. To anyone listening through the walls, the whole conversation between the two men might as well have been nothing but nervous laughter. It was the language between men who felt immensely, for better or for worse. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Dwight said, rubbing the corner of one of the pages between two slightly trembling fingers. “I -” 

“I want you to have them,” George said. “If you will not stay the afternoon. Perhaps they shall inspire you. That is all I could wish for, ” 

Dwight looked at George, but found that this time it was the poet to turn his head away in shyness. The painter looked down at the pages again, and found himself not wanting to part with them anymore. 

“Forgive me,” Dwight said. “For being so short with you about staying. I wish I could spend the afternoon here, but I am needed elsewhere. I will, however, take these poems with gratitude,” 

Dwight Enys was not needed anywhere else, except perhaps in the room where he was presently. He had, however, decided it was for the best for him to never lay eyes on Caroline again, and with this new, strange affection pulling at his heart, the idea of staying to see them both would certainly tear him in two. 

“Oh, I do not mind it,” George said, minding it intensely. “An artist must go where he is called,”. He would miss the company of the painter until he returned again tomorrow. The thought was terrible, so much so that he had half a mind to accidentally ruin the portrait in some manner so that Dwight would stay to fix it. It was intercepted by the mental reminder that he had a stern and unforgiving uncle. To Uncle Cary, time was money. 

George then raised his teacup in a fashion that encroached on haphazard, but his refined manner still controlled it enough so Dwight did not notice.

“Well,” he said. “To art, and to the love of art,” 

Both the men smiled, hiding their pain behind manners and propriety, just as thousands of lovers had done before them.