Paint Me Like One Of Your French Men

Painting Eighteen

The redhead stood at the doorway of Vincent's apartment with tear stains and a miserable complexion. Vincent stared, confused needless to say, and wondered what could've possibly happened. "I got a phone call," Grell's eyes teared up again. "I got...the phone call." 

"Oh my, Grell, I'm so sorry," Vincent replied. He was stunned, to say the least, and unsure of how to act. Adrian wasn't pleased with the sight of Grell. He hugged Vincent from behind and glared at the man from under his fringe. Phone call or no phone call, Vincent was his. 

"The treatment isn't working," Grell sobbed, "they said if it didn't work I would only have six months to live...and," Grell held his head in his hands, unable to say the rest. 

"And that was five months ago..." Vincent finished for him. Adrian almost felt guilty for being rude to a man that was so sick. That didn't stop him from clinging to Vincent. Nothing could stop him from clinging to Vincent. Because, well, as stated before, Vincent was his. 

"I don't know what to do," Grell said. He stared at Vincent with such a hopeless expression. Vincent didn't have the answer he was looking for, but Grell sought one anyway. "Will you...comfort me?" he asked. Vincent assumed by this question that the relationship between William and Grell hadn't born any fruit. Either that or Grell was simply too shocked by the news and had forgotten about William altogether. 

Vincent grabbed Grell's hand and dragged him into the bedroom. Adrian was beside himself with anxiety. Vincent's silence had made him uneasy but this... this was worse. What the hell was going on? Didn't he deserve at least an explanation? Were they just going straight for the bed? Damn. Vincent didn't mess around. Adrian wished he'd continued clinging to Vincent. That way he wouldn't feel so awkward following them. But with his unease his grip wasn't strong and Vincent escaped so quickly. 

The beauty-marked man threw Grell onto the bed. Just like that. Grell curled up into a ball and hugged a pillow. He was just as confused as Adrian but didn't want to say anything to stop the process. (Let's be honest, who wouldn't want to be bedded by Vincent?)

Adrian grabbed Vincent's wrist. His fringe covering his eyes but his hand shaking with fear. He didn't want to lose Vincent. Not once. Not even to a sick man that wouldn't ever come back. He dreaded the thought. Vincent smiled and patted Adrian's head. He looked as if there wasn't anything strange regarding the current situation. He looked as if there was a misunderstanding. This only frustrated Adrian. He wasn't a child. 

Silently, swiftly, softly, Vincent moved around the room. Not explaining a thing. Not wanting to. Not needing to. He set up the usual supplies. Realization struck the two men. Of course. Vincent was going to paint. What were they thinking? Grell and Adrian simultaneously shook their heads, disappointed in themselves. 

Grell sat up and positioned himself in a way that might look appealing. He knew he looked terrible. His eyes were red, his face a mess, his hair tangled in every which way. But, he trusted Vincent to ignore all of that in his painting. 

And so, it began. Adrian watched from behind the canvas. He stared at the brushstrokes. He hadn't ever been able to see Vincent from this side. He'd only been the subject painted before. There was something thrilling about it. A feeling he couldn't quite place. He liked to watch him paint. He wished he could do it more. However, having Vincent paint someone else was equally displeasing. This discomfort he felt reminded him of the time he'd found the painting of Diedrich in Vincent's closet. 

It took time, lots of time before the first painting was done. Vincent refused to allow Grell to see it and brought out a different canvas. There were three so it would take quite a bit of sitting on Grell's part. He hated the suspense. How many times had he asked Vincent in the past to paint him? Why was he just now doing it? This wasn't comforting in the slightest. 

Right on cue, Vincent fell backward and into Adrian's arms. His eyes closed and the brush fell from his hand. He was clearly exhausted and his fatigue transferred itself to Grell and Adrian. They hadn't realized until seeing Vincent fall asleep immediately that they were so tired themselves. 

"He must be really wiped out if he is falling asleep with his clothes still on," Grell got up off of the bed and went to assist Adrian in bringing Vincent to bed. Adrian glared, full force, unwilling to give Vincent over. He tried his best to bring Vincent to the bed all on his lonesome. It was tiring, a struggle, and very unproductive. Grell sighed.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he apologized. "I won't do it again, I promise. Vincent is all yours, right?" 

Adrian looked suspicious. He wanted to trust Grell (not really) but he just didn't want another man touching his man. That's not how things worked. Luckily, he didn't have to worry about it. Vincent rose from the dead and stripped before crawling under the covers. He completely ignored the fact that Grell and Adrian were even in the room. 

Wait a minute. 

How did Grell know that Vincent was the type to strip before sleeping? Adrian stared, waiting for an explanation. Did he have to write his question? Or would Grell understand via telepathy? 

"Don't look at me like that! I didn't look at anything! I promise!" Grell waved his hands frantically with a face as red as his hair. Adrian sighed. He hadn't thought about that but it didn't make him any less annoyed. 

'How did you know Vincent has to strip before he can sleep?' Adrian grabbed his pocket notebook and wrote the question down. 

"Oh," Grell looked a bit calmer, "well, have you ever seen him drunk?" he asked. Adrian thought about it. No, he hadn't, had he? He couldn't think of a time where he'd seen Vincent drunk. Damnit. That meant Grell had seen a side of Vincent he hadn't. 

"Please take pity on me and don't kick me out tonight," Grell put his hands in a praying position and pleaded with Adrian. "I don't want to be alone. I won't ask to sleep in the bed but at least let me have the floor in here."

'I'm not so rude as to have a person on their deathbed sleep on the floor.' Adrian grabbed Grell's hand and brought him to the bed. As long as he was in-between Grell and Vincent his mind should be at peace. Theoretically, it was ideal, in reality, things got a bit out of hand. By morning there were many regrets running through Adrian's mind. But, what was done was done.