Work Text:
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or so they say. To describe beauty is to describe nothingness. Each to their own, a person's ideal beauty can not be compared to another's, such is what the Cornerstone Pearl had concluded from the generous amount of information she managed to find in Planarcadia's expansive social media network.
This… makes things difficult.
Pearl runs her eyes over the blank canvas in front of her. Over to her right was a recovered undocumented work of Graphia Murata, a piece the collector had named, “The Beauty,” not to be mistaken with the Aeon of beauty. It's a portrait painting of what Pearl’s research had pointed to as Graphia's idea of a beautiful person, influenced by the beauty standards of the era. A swan-like figure, long pale neck connected to a sharp jawline, and a fleeting smile etched into porcelain skin. Long, dark hair cascades down like a waterfall, some pooling on their collarbone. Graphia had put much thought into the method in which the hair falls to frame an idea of a fragile, unattainable rarity.
Now, Pearl can easily mimic each stroke, calculate the exact geometrics needed to convey the weight Graphia had put into the painting. But the collector had insisted that the painting was a reflection of one's heart, rather than preference. Thus, to simply copy the painting would be a disservice to its meaning, and Pearl's own work would be nothing more than a forgery.
That being said…
Pearl places her brush back onto the holder. As she was an Intellitron, Pearl herself had no opinion on something as subjective as beauty. Her own appearance is something that catered to the people around her, but Pearl had never found herself especially fond of her own appearance.
A knock came from the door, the secretary she had stationed outside opened the door, “Madam Pearl, your guest has arrived.”
Pearl recognizes the way Ashveil’s heels tap against the floor tiles. There wasn't any sound of his cane leading his steps, so she could assume it was tucked under his arms. There's rustling, papers fluttering in the air, ah yes, the investigation report she had requested, compiled by his monkey assistant, no doubt.
“Oh? Well, excuse me,” he says, his deep voice gliding smoothly through the space between them, “I hope I didn't come at a bad time?”
“You did not,” Pearl stands up from her seat, the empty canvas staring back at her. She turns around to face Ashveil, the detective tilting his hat in greeting, “I was the one who requested your presence at this exact hour.”
Ashveil laughed, “Then that frustration I'm seeing isn't my fault?” Pearl blinks, Ashveil continues, “That's a relief. I wouldn't want my pay cut over bad timing.”
First of all, Pearl is not so cynical as to cut someone's well-deserved compensation for such childish reasons. Though she can guess that Ashveil was simply joking, the thought that he sees her as such a person brought a strange feeling in her chest that she recognized as irk.
Second of all, “Frustration?”
“Well, not to assume, but I had a feeling this day isn't going all that well for you, or specifically,” he looks over her shoulder, “that painting.”
Pearl looks back at the empty canvas, the painting of “The beauty” propped on an easel beside it. The black-haired, fair-skinned woman in the painting smiles softly as if sneering. They say art can outlive its creators, but to Pearl, at this very moment, the painting was nothing more than Graphia laughing at her inability to create.
Hm?
Now that she’s looking at it from a distance, “The beauty” seems rather familiar.
Ashveils steps around her, leaning down slightly to appreciate the painting closer. His messy hair falls over his eyes, and Ashveils let out a quiet puff of annoyance, tucking the stray locks behind his ear. Pearl joins by his side, hoping the painting distracts him from her shameless staring. With his hair swept away, it was easier to appreciate the way shadows fall under his fluttering eyelashes, decorating the flawless expanse of his skin. His dark eyes fade into pale as if glassy, the kind of haze that paints a picture of sorrow and mysteries yet to be solved.
“Does this painting have a name?”
Pearl thanked the Aeons for her nonexistent respiratory system, lest Ashveil would’ve heard her shock. She composes herself quickly, hands once again folded on her lap; a glance confirms that Ashveil’s gaze has not left the painting. “Graphia had named this painting The Beauty.”
“Hoh…” An amused smile graces Ashveil’s lips, “So this is Graphia’s interpretation of Idrila the Beauty?”
“No, it is simply called The Beauty. There was no correlation to Idrilla in Graphia’s recorded notes.”
A fleeting laugh, Pearl braves herself to turn her eyes back to Ashveil, her scope studying the way his lips part to let out a chuckle, chest puffing slightly, “So this is your current plight?”
Pearl immediately rights her gaze when Ashveil finally turns to her, “To portray beauty requires one to have a definition of what is beautiful, and the ability to imagine it.”
“A muse, then?”
Pearl stares, “A muse, definition: a person, or an imaginary being or force that serves as an artist’s source of ideas and inspiration. Conclusion: You suggest that I find a muse to serve as my painting subject?”
“Organic beings do it all the time,” Ashveil shrugs, “You praise that our imagination is endlessly creative, but even imagination needs to be trained for it to flourish, and creativity needs to be triggered.”
The calculations at the tip of her tongue would normally slip out to rebuke his theory. Ashveil can only say that because he himself is an organic being. That being said, if Intelitrons are entirely without creative abilities, Screwllum would not have been accepted into Genius Society. To calculate, to study, and to conclude ultimately takes some amount of imagination.
Though, finding a fitting muse is an entirely different issue altogether. It requires knowledge beyond her computing abilities.
Ashveil taps his cane onto the floor, drawing Pearl’s attention. He hands Pearl the report, the whole and only reason he came here in the first place, and tilts his hat in salute, “Then, I wish you good luck, My lady—”
“Detective.”
“Hm?”
Ashveil turns around. Pearl stands by her canvas, hands folded and back straight, composed without a crease in her expression for him to deduce her thoughts. “Mr. Ashveil, I believe you’ve said before that the Ashen Detective Agency takes on all kinds of commissions.” Ashveil nods, yes, that is correct. “So I’d like to commission you for an unusual request.”
A bead of sweat formed on his temple. Ashveil gave Pearl a look of disbelief, his brows knitting together in contemplation, “Correct me if I'm wrong… but are you suggesting…?”
Surely not…?
“Hrmgh…” Ashveil let out a frustrated noise as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. The tainted skin of his arm paints an ugly picture with its crosstique roots embedded into his shoulders, dark veins crawling to reach even his chest.
A muse…
There’s a Yukata folded neatly on the bathroom counter, which Ashveil promptly puts on. Pearl had told him to clean up and prepare himself, which already sounds wrong when thought out loud in his head. At the very least, she had allowed him to bathe and undress in privacy, so he could rule out a pervert virus. He remembers that painters often practice with naked models, so the yukata was definitely a surprise, a welcome one, but unexpected nonetheless. It hangs from his broad shoulders, tied together at the waist, the sleeve perfectly covering the ugliest part of him. He wonders if Pearl knew, or if she didn’t, and Aha had simply spared him theatrics for today.
Ashveil caresses his cheek curiously. He understands that for someone his age, he looks incredibly young, miraculously young even, but he had never considered himself beautiful, or muse material. He’s been called handsome, the many wives roping him into their infidelity requests were proof enough. But surely there are more, much more handsome men out there that outshine him, beautiful, befitting of a muse rather than a conveniently attractive gigolo. All things considered, this old man is only slightly above average in terms of attractiveness.
The crescent moon hairpin glistens under the bathroom lights. His braids had not fully unraveled, sticking out messily from the back of his head, the locks curling around themselves from being stuck in a braid all day. Ashveil grabs the comb lying on what he can only guess was a complimentary box of bathroom essentials, and brushes out the knots he usually ignores
There was a knock on the door, “Mr. Ashveil.”
Ah, he must’ve forgotten the time. Ashveil puts the comb down and moves his crescent moon hairpin onto his stack of poorly folded clothes. He reaches over to the bathroom door, promptly unlocking it and letting it swing open to reveal Pearl waiting outside, her raised hand quickly dropping back to its usual folded position, “Sorry, Miss Pearl. Did I take long?”
“You took your time, but it is no issue, it is still quite early in the evening. I only came to confirm that everything is alright.”
Ashveil nodded, “All’s well, Miss Pearl.”
The moon had just fallen asleep outside. The windows span throughout the walls, offering the glittering city view of Duomension city from above. Ashveil knew a Cornerstone like Pearl would own a designated space for her aspiring artistic dreams. He just didn’t expect it to be on the top floor of one of the most renowned apartment towers in the Glee side of Ahatopia. (That being said, the building is owned by the IPC, so perhaps it was a given.)
“Mr. Ashveil.”
“Ah, sorry.”
For someone usually so composed and prepared, Pearl had to compromise with what she had in her studio. Sitting in the same position for an extended period of time on a hard surface would undoubtedly be painful on the flesh, and she hasn’t really decided on what position she wanted Ashveil to do. Ideally, she would have Ashveil sit on something like a bed, unfortunately she does not require or own a bed, so she opted for her low desk as a platform, layered with a rug and the complimentary towels the apartment staff gave her when she first moved her studio here.
She senses Ashveil's presence beside her. He whistles, impressed, “Should I sit there then?”
“Yes, please sit however you are comfortable.”
“Oh?” Ashveil raises a confused eyebrow as he sits down on the low table, it’s more stable than he expected, “Isn’t there a specific pose you want?”
While that is true, Pearl can’t seem to calculate how to replicate the pose of The Beauty. It focused on the subject’s expression, the shoulders seemingly light and airy, the neck craned to expose the nape. It was as if The beauty was a picture taken of a fleeting moment, which was probably what Graphia wanted to convey.
She stares at the painting sitting on the easel, once again, Graphia was mocking her from beyond the grave.
Ashveil stares at Pearl’s frown bemusedly, laughter bubbling up his lips. He brought his right arm around to pull his hair over his right shoulder, leaving only the shorter choppy strands behind to frame his features. Pearl does not know if Ashveil realized how well they defined his jawline. Studying the painting, he cranes his neck and tilts his shoulder, where his hair pools and falls freely down. Pearl can’t help but compare the way Ashveil’s midnight locks fall over the white Yukata to the night sky behind him. Her eyes travel back to his face, to which Ashveil returns her gaze with a flutter of his half-lid eyes, shadows dancing under his lashes.
“Something like this, perhaps?”
For some reason, Pearl could not bring herself to speak. It’s not often that she doesn’t trust her own voice. So instead she simply nodded, hurrying to the desk and the cushion she had designated to be her station for today. She sits down, legs folded and back straight, as she lifts the brush off its holder and dips the tip into ink.
The brush trails over paper, wet ink absorbing into the fiber. Occasionally, she looks up to adjust her vision. Her eyes zoom in to study the little details she can not see from afar, comparing them to the whole picture. As she worked, Pearl heard a chuckle. Out of curiosity, she looks up from her painting. Ashveil noticed and forces his laughter down, “Sorry, Muses usually stay still, don’t they?”
“I do not mind. My photographic memory should suffice as reference.”
“Then why’d you need me here?”
“I was unable to properly portray The Beauty with the original painting as the reference. Conclusion: To capture the essence of The Beauty as an artwork is to capture the moment of fleeting beauty it meant to immortalize… would that answer make sense?”
Ashveil pursed his lips, “I suppose?” He rights his pose, a sigh escaping his lips as he entertains himself by observing Pearl’s studio, eyes moving from one painting to another. “I must admit, your proposition had shocked me quite a bit. With your resources, you could’ve hired professional models to be your muse. Surely at least one in this cosmos would’ve suited your fancy?” Ashveil doesn't want to be ungrateful for the huge sum she had given me as payment, but as a detective, she can’t blame him for being curious.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Pearl replied, “I don’t have a particular taste in appearance.”
“So it’s just a matter of availability?”
Pearl’s brush halts for a moment, before it continues its glide. Availability? “No,” no, that is extremely incorrect, her voice strains with discontent. Pearl is in no rush to finish this painting, and as Ashveil had said, she has all the resources she needs. This isn’t something so shallow that she would hire a model purely from availability.
Muses are sources of inspiration, sentimental and precious. Even the most beautiful model in the cosmos wouldn’t satisfy her.
“I asked you because I find you beautiful.”
When she doesn’t hear his reaction, Pearl lifts her face to find a gaping mouth and wide eyes looking back at her. Ashveil broke his pose, pink staining his cheeks, “I… what— huh?!”
Did she say something wrong? “Are you not satisfied with that answer?”
“I... you... I... Ugh, Agh...!” Ashveil buries his face into his hands, red climbing up the tips of his ears, “Miss Pearl… do you enjoy tormenting me?”
“I do not enjoy torture, Mr. Ashveil. We’ve worked together long enough for you to know that.”
Pale eyes peek through reddening fingertips. Ashveil drops his hands, propping them on the towel-laden surface. “I guess I’m honored?” Ashveil throws his head back, chuckling to something he finds funny, whatever it is that Pearl doesn’t know about. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re flirting with me.”
Flirting. Verb: To communicate via body language, verbal expressions, or written language with the intention of evoking feelings of playful excitement and potential romantic or sexual interest.
Flirting. To communicate interest. Regarding the matters of the heart.
Romantic or sexual. An interest. “... Think however you like.”
Ashveil’s eyes widen at her response. It started with a muffled sound, which escalates into laughter. Pearl lifted her face to find beauty.
A fleeting moment of humorous joy, her hands moved before she could process the sight before her eyes. Wishpower gathers at the tip of her brush as she lets it glide over the paper. Pearl studies the way Ashveil’s shoulder trembles with his laughter, the way his neck cranes to reveal his swanlike neck, the way his dark hair falls and bounces, messy strands framing his cheeks and jawline. She tries to capture the joy in his smile, pushing his red cheeks up against his eyes, forcing them to crescent, hiding his haze-like eyes under dark, long lashes.
Then, the laughter calms. His eyelids lift slightly, the faded color of his iris peeking through. Serene, a moment after the joy. “I return the sentiment then, Miss Pearl,” Ashveil’s lips close into a gentler smile, Planarcadia’s native energy of fiction bleeds into her ink as Pearl added the final, finishing strokes, “You’d suit The Beauty even more than I would.”
Pearl takes a moment to pause. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She places her brush down and stands up from where she sat, taking a step back to admire her work. There’s an alien feeling in her chest that she recognizes as satisfaction. Her Beauty was nothing like Graphia’s. It does not depict an idealized, fictional picture of beauty, instead it depicts a moment of humor, joy, and a serene aftertaste of the financially difficult detective of the Ashen Detective Agency.
It is incomparable to The Beauty, because for the first time, Pearl had created art with her own unbeating mechanical heart.
Ashveil steps off the low table and circles around her desk, admiring the painting. The figure resembles him, is undeniably him, yet it’s so… gentle? Warm?
“It’s beautiful, Miss Pearl,” so much so that he could not believe it was a painting of him.
“I have you to thank, Mr. Ashveil.”
“No, no, please, don’t let me have the credit.”
“You should have the credit,” Ashveil froze when Pearl’s mechanical hand reached inches away from his face. She brushed his messy bangs away from his eyes, tucking the long, overgrown strands behind his ear. Ashveil’s cheeks feel warm, but he can’t tell if it was him or Pearl’s internal heat. Machines are warm, right?
Oh, who was he kidding?
The sensory nerves under her skin plating catch the contrast between Ashveil’s warm cheeks against her cold fingers. So perhaps she was indeed flirting, but she would never lie.
“You are the most beautiful in my eyes, Mr. Ashveil.”