“Hmm…”
Standing beside your companion, you give him a sidelong glance from the corner of your eye, watching his finger tap his chin in thought. He’d been staring at the same painting for about 5 minutes now, pondering what, you weren’t sure. But as the rest of the art gallery visitors came and went around you two, he elected to stay and stare at this one in particular.
“You like this one?” You venture to ask, since it was clear that he’d be standing there another long while unless you spoke up.
“Yeah, it’s…something about it just…” Shanks shakes his head slowly, then glances your direction. “What’s it called?”
“The Ninth Wave.” You tell him, recognizing the style. “It’s by Ivan Aivazovsky. I studied his work quite extensively in my artistry school. This one is one of his most famous works.”
“I can see why.”
“It’s an excellent piece.” You continue, head cocking to the side as you step in closer. Your curiosity was getting the best of you, and seeing Shanks actually take some sort of interest in something you were passionate about, well, you weren’t going to let this opportunity go to waste. The fact that you had convinced him to come was luck enough.
“What do you like about it?”
“It’s…well, the sun looks…” You could see the frustration on his face, as he struggled to come up with some way to vocalize his feelings about it. He finally gave a sigh, gesturing to it with his one hand.
“Views like that? Those’re the reason I set out to sea as a kid, why I wanted to leave my little home island behind. The dying of the light on the horizon, and the dangerous waters that could tip you at any moment. The complete trust in and fear of the seas you sailed…that’s what it reminds me of. I’ve seen so many in my days pirating but…this Ivan must’ve been out there to see it too, if he could paint it so perfectly.” He finally stated, eyes enraptured on the curve of the wave and the dazzling orange of the painted sun.
You can’t help but smile, moved by his surprisingly deep interpretation of the piece. You didn’t think Shanks would appreciate going to the art gallery, a place you felt so at home in, surrounded by paintings, but it seemed he was actually invested.
Before you can make any other comment, he suddenly turns to you, the moment broken as he flashes you his signature grin. “Enough about me, though. Which one’s your favorite? I’d love to know what the artist herself thinks.”
“My favorite?” You glance around the place, looking for a certain piece you’d caught a glance of earlier. Spotting it on the opposite wall, you grab Shanks’ hand and drag him towards the wall in question, stopping several feet away to admire it once again.
“This one.”
“This one?” He questioned, rather redundantly, glancing at you with a growing smile. “And what is this one called, by chance?”
His smile is infectious, and your eyes glance back up at the painting as your lips curve upwards too. “The Kiss.”
“Aptly named…” He muttered, taking in the image of the man and woman locked in a kiss themselves. You could feel him glance in your direction, though tried not to make it obvious. You still noticed, though. “Any reason why this one catches your attention?”
“Just look at them, you can see the love in every brush stroke.” Your hand reaches up and traces the path of the man’s fingers without touching it. “The soft edges, the tenderness and care in the way he holds her…it perfectly encapsulates the movement of Romanticism. It’s one of my favorite art styles, so based in reality and yet it’s life through rose-colored glasses, I suppose. Francesco must have been in love himself to have painted it with such adoration and care.”
You realize that you’re probably rambling. Your hands link behind your back, and you gaze lovingly at the painting, offering one last bit of input. “I’ve always wanted to be able to recreate something like this, in some way. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Definitely.” Shanks too admires the piece, though his smile turns from amused to thoughtful with each second that passes. He turns to you then, catching your attention. “You know, you could recreate it right now if you wanted to.”
“I don’t think I’m that skilled yet-”
“No, you definitely can. Right here, even. You can recreate it. Trust me.” He insists, stepping closer and turning to you. You frown in confusion.
“But I don’t have my-”
“That’s the best part, love.” He chuckles then, reaching out his hand to gently caress your cheek and leaning closer. So close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. “No paint required.”
Your eyes flick back and forth, searching his for any sign that he was just joking, as he so often did, but there was only the same adoration he’d paid the painting in the art gallery, directed so intensely at you.
“So? Is that a yes?” He breathes, eyes drifting lower to gaze at your lips.
Swallowing past the surprise, you manage a tiny nod. “Yes.”
A little breath leaves his lips, and then he leans in to close the distance. His lips are so soft, gentle and light, moving slow against your own. His fingers cradle and trace a feather-light trail against your jaw. It didn’t matter that you were still standing in a public art gallery, standing before one of the paintings. Everything fell away, and you and Shanks were the only two that mattered.
It is over in a moment, sweet and tender, and when you open your eyes to look at him, his own are half-lidded and holding you captive in their dark, loving depths. His smile grew, and you swore you fell in even further in love with this beautiful, captivating man.
“You’re the most beautiful piece of art in this gallery, and it doesn’t take an artist to see that.”
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