Saturday // Peterick Oneshots

6. The Painter and the Playwright

Renaissance au, because I got inspired while working on Shakespeare-related English homework. A lot of this probably isn't going to be accurate to the 1500s-1600s, but whatever. I have a knack for fucking time and logic. FAD era. Strap in, it's a long one. I may turn this into a full fic if it's popular enough.

He wrote Richard III on a whim, okay? It was supposed to be a joke, a product of rainy day research that had no real use, it wasn't supposed to turn into an actual job. But now here he is, writing under the most flashy pen name he could think of, cranking out plays.

"William Shakespeare" is turning out to be pretty popular with the public.

It's fun though, because now he's friends with Queen Elizabeth (who prefers to be called "Elisa, Pete, Jesus Christ I am a PERSON TOO") and he's met a shit ton of other really cool artists, like Andy (who works under the name Michelangelo) and his actor friend Joe. The four of them sometimes get together to talk about shit like whatever DaVinci's come up with; he's not a close friend to the group, but he's pretty cool and has a similar stance with Andy on sticking it to the Church.

He's waiting for Andy now, curled up at a table in a tavern near where Andy's being forced to paint a fucking ceiling of all things, scribbling madly only to mark out what he's written.

Writer's block sucks. Especially when you're constantly under the looming threat of everyone discovering you're a talentless fraud after all, therefore dooming your entire livelihood, and possibly your entire existence as a member of society.

But hey!

He looks up at the sound of Andy's voice and smiles at his tired but lively paint-covered friend crosses the room.

"Well? How was hell?" he asks with a smile, putting down his quill and paper.

"Oh you know, hot." Andy waves at the bartender, who promptly brings him a water and refills Pete's drink. "Been on my back all day, same old torture. You'd think they'd come up with something new after a while." He shrugs. "But what about you? How's writing going?"

Well. Considering Pete hasn't felt any good writing emotions (sad, angry, hopelessly in love, etc.) in the past two weeks, pretty shitty, and if he doesn't come up with an idea soon his own panic is going to eat him alive, but. He can't tell Andy that.

"Slow," Pete says.

"I might have something that can help inspire you," Andy starts. The knowing look in his eyes and the smallest smirk on his lips tells Pete he sees right through his bullshit, but he's not going to say so. "Elisa's been talking about holding a party for artists. Calling it a gala. She's planning to invite all the painters, sculptors, and writers she knows."

"Sounds interesting."

"You should come." Andy waves his glass in Pete's direction. "Elisa said there'll be food and beer."

"Sold!" Pete slams his hand on the table in imitation of an auctioneer. Luckily for him the noise is lost in the chatter of the tavern; it would spell out bad news for both of them if someone thought there was a fight going on. He cowers back into his chair. "You and Joe will be there, right?"

"Do I hate painting ceilings? Of course we'll be there."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week passes. Another twelve sheets of paper and two wells worth of ink are wasted on terrible ideas and choppy soliloquies. He kind of hopes his fingers break so he has an excuse for his lack of work.

At least Andy wasn't lying when he said there'd be booze at Eliza's party.

He'd already said hi to her on his way in, and he knows he saw Joe somewhere, but he hadn't seen Andy yet. If Andy skipped out after convincing him to come, Pete's going to kill him.

"Are you biting your thumb at me, Pete?" He hadn't realized he was zoning out until he noticed Andy had appeared in front of him.

"Nah," he replies. A smile spreads across his face. "Just in general."

That'd be a pretty okay opening scene, he thinks. A couple of asshole guards nearly getting into a brawl over something really fucking stupid? Why not.

"I've been looking for you," Andy says, pulling him out of his thoughts once again. "There's someone I want you to meet." Andy grabs his arm and pulls him towards the east end of the building, where the sea of artists starts to get marginally thinner. "Out on the balcony." Andy stops suddenly and points towards a doorway across the room. "He's mostly a painter, but he's got a killer voice." With that, Andy leaves.

Pete winds through the crowd, dodging anyone who's eyes flicker with recognition when they see him, and pauses beside the doorway Andy had sent him to. He pokes his head around the corner and looks. The fading light from the not-quite-finished sunset casts a glow on a plush figure leaning on the side of the balcony. Pete steps outside, clearing his throat a little awkwardly.

The painter looks over his shoulder with bright blue eyes, quickly smiling. It's as bright as the sun. Correction: he is the sun. "You must be Pete, Andy's friend."

Pete nods.

"I'm Paolo," he says, turning around completely and holding out his hand. "At least, professionally I am. You can call me Patrick."

Pete reaches out and grasps his hand. Not surprisingly, it's warm. There goes his brain with the sun metaphors again.

It's no secret he's as queer as one of Eliza's knights, but the thought of him developing a crush on this random painter has his stomach turn to knots in seconds. Up until now, people have left him alone because there hasn't been any concrete proof of his queerness, but if he ends up falling for this bright-eyed boy, like he can feel himself doing as they start talking, he'll be royally fucked.

Two men together? In a time where people are threatened just for asking questions and expressing themselves? No way. Even assuming that his barely there crush is requited, it'd never work. They'd be star-crossed lovers.

The more they talk, the more Pete can feel a tragedy brewing in the back of his mind.