Andrei wasn't as capable of gentleness as he should've been. His nails were coarse and dusty, filtered with grim and grease. His scowl stayed bitter throughout every holiday and every season. He loved baseball. Shook with excitement when the Dodgers played. That was all he did. He buzzed for three minutes before calming down. Smirnov Andrei wasn't the type of man to be 'soft' or even 'happy.' He was a gloomy, ridiculous man.
Yet, his fingers softly caressed each groove of the petals. Made by his hands and carved from stone, every detail is more perfect than Andrei himself. Even as his palms were callous and dusty from woodworking, he hadn't shaped the stem-every small detail he quirked was fitted by realism. His eyes glanced at the clock that ticked every hour. Each time it would get louder, a calm reminder. Andrei didn't know what being careful was, so why is he able to mold these intricacies from the earth's substance?
The pink lip between his teeth didn't hold back from bleeding. Vampire-like, gemstone-having teeth clenched the muscle. He has never been gentle and it showed in the way he too his lip captive and wouldn't let go. Why was he able to manipulate the porcelain? Nothing would explain it better than his greed.
To succeed is to be perfect.
Andrei didn't understand that feeling.
Perfection.
One piece in his entire workspace screamed the word. Andrei wondered, many, many times, how long would it take to get that again? To become flawless? To believe in yourself with no doubt? The young Russian man could only grunt with his fingers lodged in sludge. The terra cotta, bubbling water tendered his rough skin. Slid beneath every crevice and bodily tissue. The grumpy artist could only sigh. His eyes tapped the back of his skull with pure annoyance. The third petal sat to the side, beside his spinning wheel. Pink, luminous, perfect like every other star in his studio. It waited for the other pieces. Specifically the flaccid stem that flopped around Andrei's arms. No matter how many times he forced a sound, it only got worse.
Under his fingernails. Disgust crawled at him through behind. His skin prickled and twitched at the feeling. He should be used to it. He wasn't.
"God." He gulped. The bend of the matching stem was nothing against his hit. One slap, the machine writhed. Second slap? The clay flopped on top of itself like something inappropriate and meaty. "Nope. Nope. No today. Or...maybe? Fuck, fuck...I can't abandon anymore projects," he told himself. A smack on the shoulder stiffened him. His own palms didn't feel like his anymore. They felt like pounds attached to anchors. Flowing to the bottom of the sea and gone. Drowned.
His fists palmed at his thighs, luckily, they're protected by a pair of jeans and a deer-skin satchel. His throat bobbed, liquids rushing to him cataclysmically. Those blue eyes hidden by monolids and dark circles homed on him. The statue on the floor. The flat, rounded bottom is deep to the floor. You couldn't move it if you tried. The flesh and veins popped on the arms. They're hoisted above a slightly off color bubblegum curtain bang cut. The wrists wrapped together tightly, eyes snapped shut, and the chin was forced up. As though someone had been holding up the tears crawling down those gluttonous cheeks. The lashes were shadowed on almost ethereally.
Andrei caught the body with his glance. He couldn't help gazing.
A wet, half-buttoned Oxford shirt. That was what he wore. The type of white to cling to your skin. To infiltrate itself in your bloodstream and find its way to your heart. Andrei's body was dehumanized after carving that. The creases, the bubbles of tears and saliva formed after hours of dancing. The way the boy's buttons were only clasped in the middle and riding up with every move. How he wore tiny, underwear-like shorts. The type that followed the muscle in his thigh. Andrei sat in the gym at their apartment complex late nights, listening to the music as he smoked cigarettes in the AC. The popcorn wall warmed his back and his lungs always gasped for help. He loved it, though.
Sometimes that boy would glance over with a smile. Hed wave. Andrei would smile back.
It's a gift, the creativity that his neighbor has. That berry-haired baby would be swirling around. Turn, turn, turn. Spin. Spin. Spin. Till his ankles snapped and his eyes wallowed with tears. A woeful sight it always ended. Glancing at the way his body curled, the fixture of silent whimpers and even quieter prays. Andrei always frowned. The boy had a dream; for sure. Andrei could see through it like glass. The boy wants to dance. But that Velcro lace around his ankle says otherwise. It's pure serotonin to watch someone sweet be amazing. And it hurts to watch them falter.
The pink-haired ended up on the floor multiple times. Every time, his feet would be in his lap, eyes losing their light on the mirror. The heated floors didn't seem as warm anymore as his tears graced them.
The sculpture was to replicate that pain. The anger and frustration tucked between those polite smiles Andrei's next door neighbor has been forcing.
Yeah, did he forget already?
They were neighbors. For three months straight. An unspoken respect hung low between them. Andrei wanted to bite it off with his teeth. Even if he had no visible bone left.
The man cleared his throat. Off-track. The statue was amazing; perfect in every way. It embodied the fiend who salivates over dancing. Why couldn't Andrei recreate that? Why couldn't he use dainty hands and keep his head down, focused? Fuck. Andrei sniffled. His fingers crossed over his dirty lap. He stood with an uncareful ease, a frown on those Cupid-made lips.
The corners of them ended up in his mouth. Ravanged to feed his growling stomach. The clock tick ticked each second and he still couldn't remember to eat. The unfinished projects lay untouched, but every single one of that boy are prim and proper, like Andrei couldn't resist perfecting them the way the boy perfects himself despite being flawless as was.
And, Andrei's eyes vanish when they see any other 'muse.'
The blonde had yet to see what was better than that boy.
Andrei Smirnov didn't even know his name. He didn't need to. Appreciating the art and skill the boy possesses was enough.