The Art Gallery (One-Shot) (Frerard)

The Art, The Artist & The Admirer

(A/N: I meant to use this in an actual story, but I got so caught up in writing the scene before writing the actual story that I thought it would go fairly good on it's own. Thus, this one-shot. A major thing to note is that there is not much romance or Frerard action in here, mostly just a peculiar encounter with peculiar conversation. That said, please enjoy. xx)

*EDITED*

*Frank's P.O.V.*

The Artist's Eulogy:

He was an artist.

He was the best artist I had ever known. Yet for some reason, he only sold his Art to me. I never could figure out why I was an exception to him, why I was so special. There were plenty of other more qualified art collectors that could appreciate the true beauty in art as well as see the depth in it more than I ever could. Yet he only gave his real works to me.

Whenever I look back at his intricate and beautifully crafted Arts customarily made for me, it makes my heart flutter and hang heavy. Each one was filled with memories of my time with him. Bittersweet memories that I sometimes couldn't bear to look back on, but other times felt so overwhelmed with the love he had left behind.

Most would say he was an introvert, a cracked artist stuck in a nutshell, but I knew better. He was eccentric and outgoing and just misunderstood. He had the sharp insight of a true artist and the words of a poet. People thought him strange, but that was just part of who he was. All the more reason I loved him.

In all the fortunate time I had spent with him, there had never been a dull moment. He centered his passions and brought them to life. It was the quality I admired in him so much. He was passionate and driven when it came to his Art. Nothing could stop his delicate and tender hands from creating jaw-dropping masterpieces. Not even when he fell ill did he drop his Art . . .

As he explained it best: Art was something that never died; only in Art could the world made sense. I followed that view on a personal level. That man would continue to make Art until he drew his very last breath, which he did. He was like a mad genius with a paint brush.

The moments I had spent with him would never be forgotten. Sure, we had our ups and downs, but that was all part of being in love. Though his absence leaves a dull ache in my heart, I know that he loved me as much as I him, and I will fondly take our memories to the grave alongside him.

I won't lie and say that I've been okay since his passing—it's been hell—but as the years whirl by, the ache in my heart smooths over with time. I've learned to accept fate and the way it's turned out, realizing that I shouldn't dwell on the downsides but cherish the beautiful memories of him. His soft and rosy lips that would frequently turn up like he was a crazy genius with some mad plot; those wise hazel eyes that held more knowledge and perception than anyone else; the delicate hands that could create the most breathtaking things out of nothing.

I especially cherished the little things such as the way his regularly dyed hair was always mussed and draped over his face like a curtain he as huddled over a recent drawing; the way his face would light up like a child on Christmas when he saw coffee; or when he was talking really excitedly, his eyes would be animated and he would make a lot of inadvertent hand gestures. Most of all, the way he would look at me as if I was his whole world as well as he was mine.

Instead of brooding over the fact that I would never see him again, I had decided it was best to look on the bright side, to visit my fond memories of him.