Work Text:
A work of art is a confession.
Albert Camus, 1935
Florence, August 1500
The third time Seoho and Geonhak shared a bed - Geonhak’s bed, after Seoho had insisted on bringing over a selection of breads for him to try, “on the house, for the return of Florence’s prodigy, of course,” - and after they finished, sleepy and soft, Seoho asked Geonhak about Rome.
“Mostly I moved there because that’s where I could get work,” he told Seoho, groggily trying to recall the exact details of his choice, five years prior. “And a classmate had plans to move to Rome - he wanted to try to convince a cardinal that one of my sculptures was an ancient work.”
Harin had posed the plan to him hesitantly, but had seemed fully convinced that Geonhak’s work would be good enough to match the ancients. Geonhak had been less convinced, but their patrons had been exiled and couldn’t support him anymore, and he doubted Savonarola would offer him many commissions. And so, with that in mind, he’d accepted Harin’s strange offer.
“Did it work?” Seoho wondered, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He was lying across Geonhak, looking up at him from where his head was resting on his chest. His dark hair was messy, strands stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, but his eyes, peering up at Geonhak, were sharp and intense, pretty lines that made Geonhak flush.
Geonhak shook his head. “The cardinal figured it out fast, but he liked the sculpture enough to buy it anyway, and invited us to Rome.” He shrugged. “He paid me, and then offered me more work, so. I went to Rome.”
Seoho hummed, closing his eyes and tracing the lines of Geonhak’s leg. “Did you like Rome?”
Geonhak considered the question. “I liked the work there. And my classmate’s friends were nice.” He hesitated, then added, “But it never really felt like home.”
Seoho’s eyes opened, meeting Geonhak’s again. “You spent a while there, didn’t you? Formative years.” His voice turned teasing as he finished speaking. Geonhak blinked.
“Five years. I suppose so.”
“You’re good at this,” Seoho said, gesturing downwards then grinning as Geonhak felt his face heat suddenly, “I was just wondering if you did this in Rome a lot.”
Geonhak hesitated, not sure how to respond, and Seoho laughed, seeming to run with his suggestion. “Did you have a wild torrid romance? With one of your classmate’s friends?” Geonhak started to shake his head - his time in Rome had been lonelier than Seoho seemed to think - but Seoho continued, disregarding him. “Did you suffer tragic heartbreak? Is that what inspired you to do the Pieta? It’s heart-wrenchingly beautiful, or so I heard.”
“The Pieta was just - a job, a commission, there was no -” Seoho giggled, and Geonhak stopped, torn between hiding his face and studying the crescents of Seoho’s eyes as he laughed. “I didn’t really do… this in Rome,” he clumsily tried to say, tried to give a concise answer, “But this isn’t Rome, is it? And, anyway, you’re not in Rome, either.”
Seoho fell silent, though the corner of his mouth remained curved upwards. “No, this sure isn’t,” he responded, “So make sure you make us a masterpiece as well. Prettier than the Pieta.”
Geonhak nodded, thinking of Keonhee and Hwanwoong's words from the night before, and wrapped an arm around Seoho’s chest, basking in his warmth.
"It's dark," Geonhak said when Seoho began to fidget, "Won't you stay?"
He'd asked Seoho to stay before, even before they'd started sleeping together, had been upfront. You could stay a little longer. Don't go just yet. Do you have to? Seoho always shook him off, smiling and cracking a joke about Geonhak needing to focus on his clients. He didn't expect this to change, when he asked again..
To Geonhak's surprise, Seoho threw his head back and laughed, but his eyes were sharp, meeting Geonhak's. "I know this place like the back of my hand. It'll never be too dark for me."
"But is it safe? Safer than staying here, for the night? With me?"
"Well." Seoho stared at Geonhak's hands. It reminded him of Hwanwoong, the night before, when he'd squinted down at Geonhak's hands and clicked his tongue. There's no elegance to how you work, is there? he'd said, voice haughty, but lacking the distance Geonhak had come to expect from other painters that echoed Hwanwoong, it's all labour, and calluses, and brute force. An artisan, really. Geonhak had closed his hands shut, and Hwanwoong had grabbed at them with his soft, charcoal stained hands, huffing. And yet I've seen the Pieta, and your Hercules, and your Bacchus. It's elegant, your work. Beautiful. A labour of love, I suppose.
Geonhak had been rubbing at the callous on his left ring finger ever since. He wondered what Seoho saw in Geonhak's hands, and their calluses, and their roughness.
"Well," Seoho repeated, "I suppose the world is the one I should be afraid of. I'll stay, then. Just this once." Neither of them had really believed that once - Geonhak had seen the twitch of Seoho's mouth as he'd said it.
In the back of his mind, Geonhak had expected it to feel like a victory, finally convincing Seoho to stay. Instead, it just felt like a kiss on the cheek, or, really, looping together their two pinkies, finally coming to an agreement.
When Geonhak had woken, curled around Seoho, he'd stayed still, basking in the warmth under the blankets, how soft Seoho felt. "Thank you for staying," he'd murmured against Seoho's neck, pressing a kiss there when he heard no response.
January, 1501
Seoho stretched, arching his back into the fresh morning warmth. Sunlight fell in rows across his back, turning his skin soft honey gold. He glanced back at Geonhak, half sitting up on the bed with a blanket still wrapped heavy around him, and smiled, tilting his head to the side.
Geonhak met his gaze, dark in the early light, but soft around the edges, smoky like a dream. Seoho’s eyes were sharp, delicate crescents Geonhak wanted to smooth his fingers over.
“Would you model for me?” Geonhak blurted out, meeting Seoho’s eyes.
Caught off-guard, Seoho blinked at Geonhak, shoulders tensing and body curling up. He stepped out of the light, away from the window. “I don’t know,” he finally said, glancing down at Geonhak’s hands. “Isn’t that a bit…”
“You’re beautiful.” At this, Seoho looked away, towards the window and the sun streaming through. “I want to make beautiful things.” And I want to make things I love, he added in his mind, hoping Seoho would hear the words anyway.
“Not as beautiful as your Pieta, I’m sure,” Seoho said, lightly, reaching for his clothes, folded neatly on Geonhak’s desk.
Seoho never gave Geonhak a straight answer, never told him not to draw or sculpt him. So Geonhak allowed himself to sketch out Seoho to warm up and prepare for a day of designing, sketched him as a way to wind down, carefully pressed soft terracotta into the shape of Seoho’s eyes.
Occasionally, when he still had energy late in the evening, he picked up a page and charcoal and drew Seoho from life, watching as Seoho relaxed in his bed, watching Seoho watch him with quiet curiosity. Seoho never opposed him, never asked to see the drawings, apart from glancing at them in the morning as the two of them got dressed.
He kept all the drawings in his room, on his desk, though he repurposed his terracotta in his projects. They were never labelled, of course, and he barely organised them, just slipping them in with the rest of his sketches that weren’t part of his commissions process.
When, half a year later, Keonhee burst into his home, grinning and sweaty, excitedly telling Geonhak - it’s not been officially announced yet, they’ll probably summon you in the next week or so - that the Committee had decided to award the Giant commission to Geonhak -
Geonhak remembered the sketch he’d done that morning, of Seoho standing at his doorway, poised to leave, head held high as if the morning sun awaiting him would do more than scald his skin.
April, 1502
Geonhak scrutinised the marble chest. It wasn’t finished, not really, missing a few details that he’d have to add near the end to make sure the final piece was cohesive. But it was done, well enough that he could get to work on revealing the details of the rest of the body, matching the proportions of the chest. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to move away.
David, in the story, was a young shepherd, ordinary, but gifted with divine favour when he decided to face Goliath. Geonhak had kept this ordinary in mind as he’d created his wax models, keeping him more lithe than he customarily made his heroes. Hwanwoong, when he’d dropped by the studio a few weeks ago, had noticed this.
“He’d lose against your Hercules,” he’d laughed, holding his fingers in front of his face in a rectangle as if about to start drawing thumbnail sketches of Geonhak’s work. Seeing Hwanwoong - smaller than Geonhak or Dongju, even - in front of this block of marble two or three times Geonhak’s height had made Geonhak laugh, discarding the comment. But Hwanwoong had been right - David - the David Geonhak was carving - was but one ordinary man, seemingly incapable of facing anything, let alone Goliath.
Geonhak had expressed this thought - this proposition - one night, while he’d been sketching out plans in his room. Seoho had been curled up on his bed, reading a book, throwing out nonsensical ideas to inspire Geonhak (he’d said this and then laughed to himself, eyes curving into crescents as he grinned). Seoho hadn’t responded to this thought of ordinary, but something had made Geonhak turn around anyway.
The book had been closed, resting on Seoho’s lap, while Seoho sat still, looking at Geonhak thoughtfully. The robe he’d been wearing had slipped open, and Geonhak could make out the little mole on Seoho’s chest, a little to the right. “Well, it’s like us Florentines, isn’t it? We’re small, and we’re ordinary. And yet we’ve survived the Medicis and their overhaul. And Savonarola. He - well. He burnt things we’d long loved, you know, but we’ve gotten past him too. Our personal series of Goliaths.”
Geonhak, though he’d agreed with Seoho’s words, had found himself disappointed. He’d expected more, perhaps, from the way Seoho had looked at Geonhak before speaking.
Now, facing this lithe, almost ordinary chest, crude and unrefined as of yet, he thought again of that evening. Steadily, with what felt like tremendous strength, he carefully chipped a small mole under the statue’s right breast.
The chisel clattered coldly when he put it down and stepped back to evaluate how much stone he’d have to carve away at the thighs. He didn’t allow himself to glance at the chest again.
December, 1502
Geonhak awoke to Seoho sitting at his desk, carefully holding one of Geonhak’s small terracotta models of David. Ordinarily, Geonhak left them in the workshop, but with the sculpting started in earnest he only really needed his detailed sketches and his wax models, so he’d brought home a handful of his terracotta prototypes. He’d stepped into Hwanwoong’s studio, on the way home, shyly dropping one of his larger, more detailed ones off as a gift. Hwanwoong hadn’t been there, only Dongju, who’d been mercifully quiet as Geonhak had awkwardly offered it to him.
Then he’d brought the rest of the models home and left them on his desk, more preoccupied with finding Seoho than putting them away.
And there Seoho was, the morning after, having found them.
Gentle rays of sunlight lingered, whispering around the edges of the window, enough to illuminate Seoho’s hands, but all Geonhak could hear was the chirp of birds, the city still sleepy in the early morning. He took a moment to contemplate Seoho, the gentleness with how he held the model, the soft rotations as he observed different angles. He wondered what Seoho thought of it, having seen Geonhak’s initial sketches and final plans. If he thought the model was better than the sketches, or if it lacked something.
Geonhak shifted, sitting up fully in bed. Seoho’s body moved in response, torso tilting towards him, though Seoho’s expression didn’t change, still focused on the model. “Good morning,” Geonhak said, voice rough with sleep.
Seoho hummed in response, eyes flitting towards him and the back down to the model. He was silent for a long moment, holding himself still as he looked at the model. Geonhak waited. Finally, Seoho said, “You really meant it when you said you wanted me to model for you.”
Taken by surprise, Geonhak hesitated, watching as Seoho placed the terracotta down. The birds outside seemed to have quieted down, and the sunlight suddenly felt fresher. “Yes,” he eventually said, cautiously, “I mean. Didn’t you see my - sketches?”
He’d even done some of his sketches with Seoho present, though he was often half-asleep. And he often left them on his desk, out in plain sight for him to see.
Seoho clicked his tongue, still not looking at Geonhak. “That’s different. That’s just - thinking I’m pretty and wanting to draw me. Or whatever. Like drawing a flower or something. I don’t know.” Geonhak started to speak, to protest, but Seoho continued. “But you really meant it as - more than that? And then - for your David -” He fell silent, shoulders tensing as he seemed to search for words.
The terracotta model seemed to stare at Geonhak, and all he could think was how obvious he must be, if all it took for Seoho was a rough, half unfinished model to see how much Geonhak craved to immortalise him, to create in his image; if a single rough model showed how much Seoho inspired him. He wanted to stand up, and step towards Seoho, and kiss the back of his neck, but the stiffness of Seoho’s spine reminded him of a cat arching its back, getting ready to hiss if Geonhak makes any movement in its direction.
“...You really do care for me,” Seoho said, like he was coming to a conclusion. “I’m… not just a source of enjoyment or pleasure. Or fun. To you.”
Geonhak nodded, quietly saying yes.
Seoho continued, following a thread of some kind. He spoke slowly, weighing his words as he spoke; still, Geonhak could hear a light tremor under each syllable. “I liked this. Like it. I like it being something fun. I was fine with it. But you have to realise - that that’s it. You can’t treat this as something more, or take it seriously. And you can’t do this - be so obvious. You shouldn’t.”
Abruptly Geonhak felt every bit of distance between them, between his bed and his desk; a few feet at most, but it reminded him of his youth, with seemingly everyone at arm’s length whispering about him, avoiding his gaze, only looking at whatever canvas or clay in front of him. It reminded him of how he’d felt in Rome, when Harin got busy with other work, and all he’d had was the Pieta to focus on.
“Why shouldn’t I?” he asked, helplessly, “I do care for you. I do treat this seriously. How couldn’t I?”
Seoho still didn’t look at him, head bowed.
“I don’t know why you want me to - to hide it,” Geonhak continued, lost.
At this, Seoho looked up, tilting his head as he made eye contact with Geonhak. He didn’t seem angry, but the corners of his mouth were tense and downturned, something almost scared in his eyes.
“You know you have to hide it,” Seoho said, voice rising strangely, “you haven’t told - what is it - Keonhee, your closest friend, about me, about us. And whenever we go out it’s always - always far away places where nobody would recognise you. And then there’s - but then here you are, sculpting me? A sculpture that the whole city has its eye on? With the Arte della Lena and the whole signoria watching over your shoulder?”
Feeling like he’d been suddenly hit, Geonhak scrambled for a response - “Keonhee - I haven’t told Keonhee because he’s busy with his work and the Committee and -”
“Yes. He works for the signoria. And this is illegal. And Florence isn’t nearly as lax as you and your Rome seem to think.” Seoho paused, looking back at the model on the desk. “You’re as good as telling the city about us - and - you weren’t here when the monk - when Savonarola ruled.”
Geonhak shook his head. After Savonarola had become head of the city, Geonhak had left Florence for a year and gone to work in Venice and Bologna, and on his return he’d been met with such sudden coldness that he’d almost immediately followed Harin to Rome, desperate for a commission of some kind. He’d exchanged letters with Keonhee as much as possible, but Rome had kept him busy, and he’d heard little of Florence in his time there.
Seoho shut his eyes, breathing in deeply. Guiltily, Geonhak studied the curve of his body, the invisible weight seeming to lay across his shoulders, like one of the tragic heroes Geonhak had often sculpted.
“You want to know why I work in a bakery now?” Seoho asked, barely waiting for an answer. “It’s because I - I had fun with a boy and the Office of Night caught us and I lost - ” He opened his eyes a fraction, glancing at Geonhak sharply. “All that was required of me was a small fine. But by then the whole city knew about me, and my parents - they were flourishing, and they were constructing a new church for our district and - I was an embarrassment. And now I have no name, no family. Because I was careless - too caught up in something so dumb as - as -”
A ray of sunlight inched across Seoho’s hands, warm and soft as they shook. Geonhak leaned forward, moving his feet out from under the covers and gently placing them on the ground. “Seoho, I - we -”
“Yes, we,” Seoho cut him off, “I’ve been so careful, and now you’re - this is dangerous, now. More than before. And I’m - I don’t want to lose again.”
Geonhak stood up, shivering in the morning air. Seoho, he wanted to say, I could sculpt you a million times over. I would stop if you asked, as long as I was still allowed to hold you. Instead, he said, quietly, “I’ve used models and references in my work before. David alone won’t - reveal us.” Then, hesitating, “I wish I’d been there. To help you.”
Seoho shook his head, hair floating across his eyes. “No, I’m glad you weren’t there. Your art - didn’t you hear about the burning of the vanities? Your art is - it’s you. It’s beautiful.”
“You haven’t even seen the Pieta,” Geonhak mumbled.
A strangled sort of laugh, watery, bubbled out of Seoho. “I don’t need to. I saw your art when you were still under Medici. And I’ve seen your sketches and -” he gestured at the model, biting his lip. “Even your rough work is so impressive. I just - I don’t want to lose this.”
Geonhak nodded, still standing. He slowly sat back onto the bed, pulling the blanket close to him. Seoho was half-dressed, chest still bare, evidently having gotten distracted once he’d noticed the model.
Clearing his throat, Geonhak met Seoho’s eyes, and said, “I’ll talk to Keonhee.”
At this, Seoho frowned, as if confused. “You shouldn’t. I wasn’t - I wasn’t upset that you didn’t tell him.”
“I know. But he is my closest friend and he - can provide a layer of protection. If I ask him. If you want.”
Seoho bit his lip, about to argue, but finally inclined his head in what seemed like quiet agreement. Outside, voices rose, the sounds of people waking up and beginning their days. Seoho tilted his head towards the window, its half-open blinds, and stood, clutching his vest and top in his hands. He slipped them on quickly, then moved towards Geonhak, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Geonhak closed his eyes, relishing in the feeling, the sensation of Seoho’s fingertips resting on his shoulders, warm against his skin.
“I have to go to work,” Seoho said, quietly. He moved back, and Geonhak reluctantly opened his eyes, watching him walk to the door.
At the door, Seoho lingered, holding it half open with his left hand. “If you ever,” Seoho started, clearly hesitating, “if you ever need help with - your work - sculpting - or someone to hand you a glass of water or - something -”
Geonhak nodded, and Seoho inclined his head, face hidden by his hair, and then stepped back, pulling the door closed behind him. Geonhak found himself alone in his room, only a handful of rays of sun and a couple of rough statues keeping him company. He found himself wishing Seoho had lingered longer. Wishing that Seoho would linger in his rooms forever, just the two of them.
He sighed. There was still marble to carve.
May, 1503
Midsummer crept closer, noon becoming more and more unbearable. It made Geonhak thankful for the coolness of the studio, though if he let himself sit too long the heat started to creep under his skin. As a result he found himself more engrossed in sculpting David than ever, trying to push the approaching summer heat from his mind. His breaks were short and irregular, and often he ate later than he should, closer to an early supper than a midday meal.
Seoho was often the one who broke this rhythm, venturing into the studio while the bakery closed for lunch, trying to drag Geonhak to the table to eat the various foods he’d gathered wandering through the markets in the morning.
During one such meal, after Geonhak had squeezed himself onto Seoho’s seat, resting his head on his shoulder, Seoho brought up Keonhee. It’d been a few months since Geonhak had admitted to Keonhee he was in a relationship with Seoho - Keonhee had squinted at him in confusion, had asked who Seoho was, seemingly barely remembering the Seoho of their childhood, though he nodded in recognition once Geonhak mentioned Seoho’s former family - and the edge had worn off a bit, with Keonhee seeming unconcerned and Seoho refusing to acknowledge the conversation that had led to Geonhak telling Keonhee.
“Keonhee dropped by my work the other day,” Seoho said, delicately adding some orange jam to a slice of bread, “I half-expected him to have wandered in by mistake. He’s definitely grown, in the past few years.”
Blinking slowly, Geonhak took a moment to gather his thoughts. “He did?”
Humming, Seoho continued, “I expect he mostly grew because of the pressures of public office. All that manipulating the public, you know.” When Geonhak grunted in annoyance, he laughed. “If you insist. I’m sure he’s very nice to the public.”
Geonhak sat up, shaking his hair out of his eyes and reaching for some bread. “Why did he drop by?”
“He came in just before closing, so the bakery was empty except for the two of us. He bought the most expensive loaf - you know, the bread with the French flour, I’ll get you to try it one day - and as he was paying he asked me if I knew that you were sculpting the David, and that it looked like me. And then he asked me if I knew what that meant, that you were using my likeness.”
Geonhak stilled, mouth full of bread, and ducked his head to the side, feeling his ears flush. Seoho laughed, clearly realising the source of Geonhak’s embarrassment. “You know I knew already. And anyway, he did offer an interesting view of it. Insightful.”
Chewing intently, Geonhak tried to eat the bread faster so he could respond or change the topic or convince him that whatever Keonhee said - probably about how much of an exception he was making for Seoho -
But Seoho continued to speak. “It really made me think. I mean, I know you’re talented, but Keonhee treats you like -” he hesitated, frowning as if thinking intently, “Phidias, the old master. And really - it’s easy to picture your work being talked about for - for years, for decades. Long after we’re both gone.” His voice seemed to turn brittle, something wistful in it.
Hesitantly, he grasped Geonhak’s hands, turning them over so his palms faced the sky. “Isn’t it funny,” he continued, “to think that despite all this - your hands in mine, my mouth against yours,” at this, the heat on Geonhak’s face seemed, impossibly, to increase, “the only thing that’s going to matter decades from now is what you make with your hands. Out of rock that’s been around forever, that’ll be around forever.”
“I mean, you didn’t see the state of the marble they gave me - a couple more rainy seasons and I’m not sure there would’ve been much to -”
Seoho shushed him, then appeased him by bringing his face down to Geonhak’s knuckles, breath ghosting across them. “All this,” he continued, voice turning melancholy, “it makes you think - it makes me think - of how meaningless and trivial this must be, compared to your work.”
Geonhak decided to ignore the knot in his throat.
“Who cares about decades? This matters now, and that’s all we’re ever going to have,” he said instead, moving his hands so that he held Seoho’s, lifting them up to where he could kiss them gently. “And your bread - that ugly burned loaf you dropped off last week is still in my pantry and that’s definitely still going to be around a hundred years from now -”
Seoho’s gasp of shock interrupted him, a hand pulling free from Geonhak’s to start hitting him. Laughing, Geonhak caught it and pushed Seoho down, running his hands down his sides where Seoho was sensitive.
If this is all I get out of my life, he thought, grinning as Seoho squirmed away, face red and smiling, it’d be enough.
January, 1504
Keonhee leaned against Geonhak, studying an almost finished David. Geonhak didn’t say anything, content to let him take it in. He wondered what Keonhee would say. Ever since Geonhak had introduced Keonhee to Seoho, and had seen the recognition in Keonhee’s face - Keonhee, who’d seen David at every step of the process, who had one of Geonhak’s wax prototypes in his house, who was, of course, familiar with the planes of David’s face, of Seoho’s face - Keonhee had been quieter, more contemplative when he checked on Geonhak’s progress.
A month after the two had first properly met, Keonhee had said to Geonhak, voice deceptively neutral as he watched Geonhak study his half-submerged wax model, “I didn’t really realise what he meant to you, at first.”
Geonhak had stilled, angling his head towards Keonhee, immediately understanding who he was.
“I mean, it didn’t really come as a surprise that you had a male lover. I half-thought Harin had been -” at this, Geonhak had shaken his head, “Well. I have no problem with it. I was surprised you were telling me about him, but -”
Keonhee had hesitated, looking back at David, head still a smooth marble cube, and continued, “But this isn’t just a passing muse, is it? You never represent people - when you were sculpting Hercules, I remember your model. I couldn’t see him in the final piece.”
“I mean - David isn’t Seoho,” Geonhak had weakly tried to point out, “The build is different, and with the angle of the piece I’ve had to - take liberties anatomically-”
Keonhee had met his eye, looking at him disbelievingly. Geonhak had fallen silent, his face heating as he had looked back at his wax model, the curve of Seoho’s lips clear even through the water. “Well. I see now why you were so solemn about him.” Geonhak remembered him biting his lip, voice losing its practiced neutrality, as he’d finished with, “I’ll make sure the two of you are safe. Your job is to create something you love.”
Now, over half a year later, Keonhee leaning against him, with David close to finished, with a kiss left behind by Seoho on Geonhak’s shoulder - a mark he hadn’t noticed until Keonhee had laughed at him in the early morning light, when Geonhak was too sleepy to keep his collar closed - he kept coming back to that conversation. You never represent people. When Geonhak had realised how close to being finished he was, he’d stepped back and hadn’t looked at David for two weeks, hiding away in his home studio to work on small church commissions, while Seoho brought him lunches and told him about gossip he’d overheard at the bakery.
Stepping back into the old workshop, after time away from David and any of his prototypes or sketches, he’d been able to see David with clarity. The planes of his face, the mole on his chest, even the shape of his hands were all unequivocally Seoho, but Geonhak was reassured to see that his adjustments - both for perspective and to communicate the story of the shepherd David anticipating a potentially suicidal confrontation - meant that his David was someone wholly new, both familiar and close to Geonhak’s heart, and distant, a stranger from tales of long ago.
He wondered what Keonhee saw.
Keonhee shifted, stepping away from Geonhak, towards David. Geonhak couldn’t see his face.
“Geonhak…” Keonhee started, voice soft, “it’s incredible.” The reverence in his tone made Geonhak’s ears heat. Keonhee was kind, always, and supportive, but he’d never been so awed by Geonhak, and especially not by an unfinished piece. “I mean,” Keonhee continued, “we were all half-joking about you making us a masterpiece, but this is - I know it’s only been a month since I last saw it, but truly it is a masterpiece.”
Then, he hesitated, and added, “I don’t think it’s going to be placed on the cathedral.”
Geonhak latched onto that thought. “Yes, I.. overestimated the size. Lifting it up that high would be difficult.”
“I mean - yes, but, really - it does nobody any good to hide it away, where nobody can see the details. I mean, how much time did you spend on his expression? I doubt a single Florentine could look at this and not feel moved.” He tilted his head, seeming to look at Geonhak out of the corner of his eye. Geonhak felt his cheeks warm, the praise - not the first time he’d heard such praise, not after the Pieta, but still touching, nonetheless - making him flush. “And for that,” Keonhee continued, “our citizens need to see it. After everything - all the troubles, all the uncertainty- it’s perfect, Geonhak, really. It’ll be in a place of honour. I’ll make sure of it.”
Geonhak looked at David again, evaluating its flaws. He could still see the oddness of some of the muscles, limited as he’d been by the flaws of the marble, could still see the echoes of what the marble had been before, in the shape of the thighs. It had been a chore, it had felt ordinary. The Pieta - he’d planned for it from the start, knowing that all he needed was approval from the cardinal and he’d get success. He’d worked for it, but he’d hoped for a masterpiece from the start. David had been an experiment, of sorts, and to hear what Keonhee thought of it left him feeling like he’d suddenly lost a great weight across his shoulders.
He swallowed, and said, “I’m glad you asked me to come to Florence. And got me this commission.”
Keonhee smiled at him, turning away from David. Geonhak watched his shoulders straighten out, mentally setting himself back into alignment before starting to explain to Geonhak a recent argument two of his superiors had had in front of him, one which had frustrated him to no end. Geonhak listened to him vent quietly, amused, interjecting with pointless observations where Keonhee left him space, all the while gently wiping and polishing his tools.
When a harried man came knocking at the door to the workshop, hesitantly telling Keonhee he’d been sent to find him and that his presence was urgently needed, Keonhee had petered off and half-pouted, before squeezing Geonhak’s shoulder and saying, solemnly, “I think your David could define a century.”
In the sudden quiet of the workshop - the quiet buzzing of Florence unnoticeable with the door shut - Geonhak looked up at David. Leaving his tools on his worktable, he stepped up, climbing up his scaffolding till he found himself face to impossible face with David. He leaned forward, and ran his hands over the right shoulder, revelling in the smooth marble texture. He found himself thinking of Seoho, as he always did in front of David.
Long after we’re both gone, Seoho had said.
Geonhak’s hand was more tanned than it had been a couple of months ago, slowly reaching the warm brown he always finished summer with. Hands which Seoho had kissed; which Hwanwoong had grabbed and considered; which had attempted to carve life from marble. Geonhak’s hands wouldn’t remain forever, either - all that would be left of them would be the stone that he’d touched. And then years into the future, after he’s dead, people wouldn’t remember him, or Seoho, or Keonhee, or Hwanwoong - they would just see these pieces of marble he’d spent years of his life on.
He considered Donatello, his favourite of the old masters; of Donatello’s version of David, a sculpture he’d been desperate to see in his youth. And yet - all Geonhak felt for Donatello - the man himself - was appreciation of his artistry; admiration. If Keonhee was right - if David and the Pieta do outlive them - live as long as Polykleitos’ Doryphoros, as long as Phidias’ Zeus -
Closing his eyes, he imagined, centuries from now, his David standing finished, silent, on its own; Geonhak’s sweat long wiped off. The sun glows across it, illuminating and warming its face the same way the sun glowed across Seoho in the mornings, when Geonhak woke before him and sat quietly, watching.
But nobody else will - could - see that - Geonhak’s care for Seoho carved into it.
He pictured someone approaching David, staring at it. Does it remind them of Florence? Or of classical times, a time long over by the time Geonhak was born? He pictured them reaching over, resting a hand on David’s thigh, hesitant, curious, unfamiliar. He hoped, suddenly, fervently, that they’ll try to imagine him, try to imagine his hands moulding the marble, an echo of conversation lifetimes apart.
Opening his eyes again, he let his hand slip from the shoulder, and slowly climbed down again. He reached for his chisel, the small one he used for detail work. David was still unfinished, and if it is to outlive his memory, he wanted it to carry all the care and love he could give it, all his memories of Seoho, of years spent learning, spent dreaming, spent yearning.
He starts to carve into warm, white stone.