They had a half hour or so to kill before dinner would be ready, so Evan took Steve back to his studio to show him the new piece he was working on. Steve, whose own apartment was little more than a glorified closet, promised himself he’d have a space like that someday – light coming in from a bank of window, which offered a view of the Seine, and room enough to stretch canvases and mix paints.
Evan’s latest canvas was still mostly sketchwork, with some color coming in along one edge as he tried out different shades. Steve knew Evan’s favorite subject was the Seine, but this one was Parc Monceau at the height of summer, full of people.
“David says my landscapes are excellent, but also a little sterile because I never paint any people into them. So I’m practicing. I’m better at drawing them than painting them.”
“That explains all this,” Steve said, gesturing at the wall opposite the windows, which was covered in sketches of faces. Men, women, and children. Young and old. Beautiful and…and…
Steve forgot how to breathe.
He pulled one of the sketches off the wall, and when his knees buckled, Evan was there to steady him.
“Steve? What is it?” Evan asked, alarmed. He led Steve over to the faded, bedraggled couch in the corner.
“How did you draw this?” Steve asked, his voice sounding like a rusty hinge to his own ears. “Did you know him?”
Evan looked confused. “No. I’ve just been making quick sketches of people in between portraits. He was just someone I saw on the promenade. Why?”
Someone Evan saw on the promenade. Just another face in the crowd, no different from any of the others pinned to the wall.
Till the end of the line, Stevie.
“It’s Bucky,” Steve whispered, the lump in his throat making it almost impossible to swallow.
“What?” Evan gently tugged the sketch out of Steve’s hand. “Your best friend? But…Didn’t he die at Argonne?”
“I saw him go down.”
But there’d been no body to send home to his family. The fighting had been brutal that morning. The air had been thick with fog, and smoke from the guns and mortars, and the Germans had kept cutting them down even as they advanced. Steve used to wish he’d caught a round that day, because watching Bucky go down and know there was nothing he could do, knowing there was no time to stop and help the wounded, or retrieve the dead, had been unbearable.
The best part of Steve had died that day.
“We’ll figure it out,” Evan promised. “There has to be a logical explanation.”
If Bucky was back from the dead, Steve didn’t think logic entered into it. Not at all.
*o*o*o*
Steve haunted the promenade for two weeks, searching in vain for the face he knew better than his own. He sent telegrams to Bucky’s family, discretely trying to find out if they’d heard from him. They hadn’t. Evan made duplicates of his sketch, and kept one pinned to his easel while he was working, asking everyone who sat for him if they knew Bucky.
The man was a ghost. Maybe literally. Or maybe Bucky had a doppelgänger that had passed through Paris and now was in London or Barcelona.
Fill 2/3: Gay Paree 'verse with bonus Evan/David and John/Rodney
Evan’s latest canvas was still mostly sketchwork, with some color coming in along one edge as he tried out different shades. Steve knew Evan’s favorite subject was the Seine, but this one was Parc Monceau at the height of summer, full of people.
“David says my landscapes are excellent, but also a little sterile because I never paint any people into them. So I’m practicing. I’m better at drawing them than painting them.”
“That explains all this,” Steve said, gesturing at the wall opposite the windows, which was covered in sketches of faces. Men, women, and children. Young and old. Beautiful and…and…
Steve forgot how to breathe.
He pulled one of the sketches off the wall, and when his knees buckled, Evan was there to steady him.
“Steve? What is it?” Evan asked, alarmed. He led Steve over to the faded, bedraggled couch in the corner.
“How did you draw this?” Steve asked, his voice sounding like a rusty hinge to his own ears. “Did you know him?”
Evan looked confused. “No. I’ve just been making quick sketches of people in between portraits. He was just someone I saw on the promenade. Why?”
Someone Evan saw on the promenade. Just another face in the crowd, no different from any of the others pinned to the wall.
Till the end of the line, Stevie.
“It’s Bucky,” Steve whispered, the lump in his throat making it almost impossible to swallow.
“What?” Evan gently tugged the sketch out of Steve’s hand. “Your best friend? But…Didn’t he die at Argonne?”
“I saw him go down.”
But there’d been no body to send home to his family. The fighting had been brutal that morning. The air had been thick with fog, and smoke from the guns and mortars, and the Germans had kept cutting them down even as they advanced. Steve used to wish he’d caught a round that day, because watching Bucky go down and know there was nothing he could do, knowing there was no time to stop and help the wounded, or retrieve the dead, had been unbearable.
The best part of Steve had died that day.
“We’ll figure it out,” Evan promised. “There has to be a logical explanation.”
If Bucky was back from the dead, Steve didn’t think logic entered into it. Not at all.
*o*o*o*
Steve haunted the promenade for two weeks, searching in vain for the face he knew better than his own. He sent telegrams to Bucky’s family, discretely trying to find out if they’d heard from him. They hadn’t. Evan made duplicates of his sketch, and kept one pinned to his easel while he was working, asking everyone who sat for him if they knew Bucky.
The man was a ghost. Maybe literally. Or maybe Bucky had a doppelgänger that had passed through Paris and now was in London or Barcelona.
Not knowing was driving him mad.