Chapter Text
"Another perfect execution, Herr Sebastian." Professor Hans's voice rumbled in Sebastian's ear from just behind him, rich with approval. "Truly perfect."
"Thank you, sir." Sebastian lowered his brush from the easel and considered his work. The oil painting was indeed expertly done, every brushstroke faithfully capturing the still life that sat in the center of the classroom. Lemons and Vase had been the final project for the semester, and of the dozen or so reproductions fanning out around it, his was by far the best.
He allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk.
"I would expect nothing less from a hereditary artist such as yourself." Professor Hans punctuated his appraisal with a quick scratch of the pen on his clipboard. Tucking it beneath his arm alongside his trusted pointer, he continued his way around the classroom. The pointer made a frequent appearance, smacking against less fortunate students' easels with all the command of a riding crop as he dealt out their grades with noticeably less favor.
No doubt Sebastian had achieved the highest grade in class. The perfect way to finish his first semester.
He preened at his achievement, chest swelling with pride and relief in equal measure. Father should be pleased. With this, he might even be spared another "lesson" at home, he thought, rubbing absentmindedly at an itch beneath his right cuff.
Anything less than absolute perfection would not be tolerated.
Being the son of world-renowned art virtuoso Gustav Shwagenwagens brought with it as much prestige as it did pressure. While Sebastian's homeschooling had given him a solid foundation, he was expected to soar to the top of the art conservatory as he paved the way for his own illustrious career.
By all accounts, he was already following in his father's straight and narrow footsteps. Just as he'd been raised to.
A burst of shrill laughter drew his attention away from his thoughts, and he turned to look out the window where he had an unobstructed view of the school's front doors. They were flung wide open as a torrent of students gushed out, all whooping and cheering. Most likely theater kids, judging by their shameless pawing.
Still, he watched them enviously and huffed out a sigh. For them, summer break was just beginning, promising sunshine and relaxation, a break from routine. Meanwhile, he and the rest of the advanced students in the fine arts department would be cooped up inside the studio for the next eight weeks.
His lower back twinged at the reminder, and he shifted in his stool, subtly trying to work out the kink. The sore muscle had plagued him since the start of his enrollment, an unwelcome pest that seemed to worsen with every day spent at the easel. Now, evidently, it'd be joining him all summer too. What he really needed was to give it a good, long stretch.
Not that Sebastian would ever do something so unseemly. God forbid Professor Hans see and mention to Father that he'd exhibited such slovenly behavior. In front of his competition no less. He passed his gaze over the other students. They were hardly what he'd consider "competition," despite Father’s strict instructions. Frankly, if summer was going to be anything like spring had been, then he could already consider himself in the clear—
"Splendid work, Fräulein Vanessa!" The outburst from across the studio shattered Sebastian's pleasant daydream. Professor Hans was standing by a workstation, uncharacteristically animated as he gestured to the other students. "Come! Gather close, everyone!"
Begrudgingly, Sebastian came over to see what all the commotion was about, wariness already tempering his earlier optimism.
"Now this is most exemplary! Look here at what she's done with the shadows," Professor Hans was saying as Sebastian neared, mindful to keep his distance from his peers as they huddled in front of the easel. "She's managed to convey a real sense of warmth here...and here." His pointer flicked this way and that over the canvas. "And note the delicate aura around the petals. That—" he said with an impressed chuckle, "—takes a steady hand. A very steady hand, indeed."
Sebastian's right fist convulsed, and his brows drew downward as he peered closer, trying to see what Professor Hans could possibly be so impressed by. As far as he was concerned, the oil painting was no more competent than his own. Hadn't he composed the same arrangement, from the dainty tulips in their vase to the plump lemons on a silver tray? His own chiaroscuro was just as pronounced, depicting the objects in photorealism; his brushstrokes, just as smooth as to be imperceptible.
So what was he missing? What did this Vanessa girl have that he didn't?
He subtly eyed the unassuming painter in front of her canvas. For having stolen the attention of the entire class, she seemed unmoved by the adulations being showered on her by arguably the country's most esteemed art instructor. Her look of complete disregard chafed Sebastian's pride. Sitting there, so cocky and self-assured, it was as though she didn't even hear the praise over her skilled brush technique, use of color, tone, and—it didn't make any sense!
He should be the one receiving such praise. He was the one who toiled to ensure his every piece of art was the very epitome of perfection. He was the art prodigy with the Shwagenwagens reputation to maintain. Every compliment paid to her instead of himself only twisted the knot in his back tighter.
"Why, you could practically reach out and squeeze them," Professor Hans continued, a hand curling in front of the canvas as though longing to pluck the yellow fruit from its very surface. His eyes lingered on it for one last moment before he finally pulled back, taking out his clipboard and jotting something down. "Splendid work," he said again. The words fell like a stinging slap across Sebastian’s wrist.
This was not the end to the semester he had been anticipating.
As the end of day bell rang and students busied to pack away their supplies, Professor Hans spoke up from his desk. "And remember, class, Monday starts the elective summer semester. Those enrolled should pick up their copy of The Joy of Human Anatomy: An Artist's Perspective before you leave for the day. The introduction alone will provide some light reading and should prepare you for our upcoming figure drawing unit."
There was a general buzz of excitement among the students as they came up to retrieve their books, chatter and juvenile giggles betraying their titillation.
"Consider this your proverbial graduation to adulthood. I'll tolerate no funny business." He shot a look at the more unruly students who were elbowing each other with knowing grins. "If you can't conduct yourselves around the models, you will be cut from class." This got their attention, and they fell back into line immediately.
Sebastian waited for the last student to leave before approaching the desk, hands clasped smartly behind his back. "Excuse me, Professor Hans."
"Yes, Herr Sebastian?" He barely glanced up from his papers, pen scratching out his assessments with clinical efficiency. "If this is about next week’s live models, your father has already assured me you're mature enough at your age, and considering your educational background—"
"It's not that, sir." What did it matter that they would be drawing nudes? Sebastian had already been exposed to the classics since he was six. No, there was something much more important to address. "Sir, I had a question about my grade."
"They'll be sent out over the weekend."'
"What I meant was... Did I..." He paused, bracing himself for the news that would either deliver him or damn him.
"Hm?" Professor Hans sniffed. "Speak up, boy."
"Did I get the highest grade?"
The answer came swiftly and without feeling. "Vanessa got the highest grade. You got second. Congratulations." He reached out and tapped the anatomy book with the butt of his pen, not bothering to look up. "Now don't forget your copy. And get plenty of rest over the weekend. Monday is the start of what's sure to be an unforgettable summer."
***
The painting weighed heavier with each step toward home—and the punishment that awaited him.
Despite all his efforts, he'd still been bested. And for no good reason he could think of. He'd done exactly what had been asked of him and executed his work with technical precision. By every measure, he was already a master of his craft. One had only to look as far as his final piece to see it!
But even that had not been enough. And now he would have to suffer the fallout of his failure.
It was dusk by the time he reached Shwagenwagens Manor, and he let himself in through the grand entrance without a sound, grateful that Roft wasn't around to announce his arrival. The butler could appear at the most inopportune moments as it was, and Sebastian suspected he got some personal enjoyment out of seeing him disparaged by his family.
Today of all days, he could do without the added humiliation. If he was lucky enough, maybe he wouldn't even see Father before dinner. He could sneak up to his room and rehearse what he'd say so that—
As though summoned by his very thoughts, the doors to the studio at the end of the hallway opened, and there stood Gustav Shwagenwagens. Silhouetted by the firelight at his back, his shadow stretched along the marble floor to grasp at Sebastian's feet.
"Studio. Now," he said before turning and disappearing inside.
Head bowed, Sebastian made his way obediently across the foyer, his small figure dwarfed by the massive oil paintings that loomed over him on either side.
Framed in ornate gold, his father's works depicted regal portraits of nameless ancestors and the lavish pastimes of the aristocratic class of a bygone era. Done in exquisite realism, Sebastian could almost feel the crushed velvet of the evening gowns, smell the perfume of coiffed wigs, and hear the chime of silver cutlery as the gentry reveled in their riches.
Gustav Shwagenwagens' magnum opus, however, was the family portrait that stood twice his height. Completed before Sebastian was born, it captured Father, Mother, and young Lydia in lifelike detail, right down to their stony expressions that looked down at Sebastian now with the same disdain they did in real life.
It may have earned the admiration of any who saw the piece, but to Sebastian it only reminded him that he had yet to earn his place in the family.
Bach's Gavotte en Rondeau wafted out from the parlor room as he passed, and he caught a glimpse of Mother seated at the grand piano, Lydia accompanying her on violin. They seemed miles away, and Sebastian envied them at that moment, wishing he too had pursued music rather than the fine arts. At least when performing as part of an orchestra, the musician's shortcomings could be masked by the rest of the ensemble. The artist, meanwhile, was alone at his easel. With nowhere to hide, every flaw was bared on the canvas for all to see.
If only he had taken up the violin instead of the paintbrush, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe then he would have been spared his father's contempt for never living up to his expectations, for never being good enough. Never being enough.
A fire blazed in the studio's hearth despite the warm evening, and sweat immediately pricked along Sebastian's hairline as he closed the doors behind him. Past the assembly of half-finished paintings that cluttered the room, his father stood before the raging fireplace, hands behind his back. He held a wooden ruler in one fist.
"How was your final project, son?"
Sebastian's fingers automatically gripped the edge of the canvas tighter. "Successful. I was one of the best, Father." A log popped loudly in the fireplace.
His father held out a hand, and Sebastian dutifully walked up to his side, surrendering the painting. Now to await his sentence.
"I had a little phone call with Professor Hans earlier. He told me that this work—" The word might as well have been "abomination," the way it fell from his lips with disgust. "—garnered the second-highest grade in class. Is that right, Sebastian?"
Sebastian pulled back his shoulders even straighter as he repeated, "Yes, Father. One of the best."
"There's a difference between being one of the best and being the best. Or is your grasp of language as poor as your grasp of art?" Without another word, he tossed the painting into the fireplace.
Sebastian's eye twitched as he watched the flames leap eagerly to consume their latest meal: an entire semester's worth of work reduced to kindling in an instant.
"Easel," his father growled.
Sebastian knew this ritual only too well, but that still didn't stop his hand from shaking. He pressed it against his side. "Father, please—"
"Easel." His father gave the order again, the scent of whiskey on his breath reminding Sebastian there was no point arguing. "It's clear you need a refresher on the basics."
Tucked in the far corner of the studio stood Sebastian's own easel, the floor at its feet strewn with used canvases. Unlike his father's stately works of art, these featured only rows of identical circles done in black ink. As the flames feasted on Lemons and Vase, Sebastian picked up the brush and dipped it into the bottle of sumi ink on the easel's tray.
"Do you have any idea how much I've invested in you?" his father began, as he circled Sebastian and the easel like a vulture. "That suit. Those art supplies. All the time I continue to spend on a mediocrity like you."
"Yes, Father," Sebastian said on automatic. Willing his hand to still, he took a breath and raised the brush to the canvas. The bristles dragged in a circle and created the first loop. It was clean. Perfect. Thank God.
"And this is how you repay me? Wasting your entire semester at my very own alma mater, to disgrace yourself? To disgrace me?"
"No, Father." Another pass of the brush, another circle.
The rhythmic smack of the ruler in his father's palm matched his measured steps as he began the next phase of the ritual. "What are the seven essential elements of art?"
"Line, shape, form, space, color, value, and texture."
"What is the golden ratio?"
"An aesthetically pleasing composition with a ratio of 1 to 1.618..."
The time-honored lessons were recited without pause as Sebastian worked, barely breathing, all his attention taken up by the ceaseless motions of his hand. Dip, sweep, repeat.
He didn't want to be doing this. Any of this. He was tired and frazzled, and his arm was beginning to ache from holding the brush in a death grip. He was already walking along a precarious razor's edge, waiting for the pain and derision that would slice into him at the slightest misstep.
What was supposed to be a meditative practice had been twisted into this perverse form of torture, forcing Sebastian to be his own judge and executioner while he rattled off trivia to his father. There was no joy derived from being here in front of the easel. Art had only ever been the gauge by which his self-worth was measured, something to be performed under the scrutiny of others. And, right now, served as a tool for his punishment.
He gazed through tear-laden eyes at the harmless circles that would soon witness his self-inflicted abuse. It was only a matter of time. He'd just completed the seventh impeccable circle—
When just then, Lemons and Vase's wooden frame finally buckled under the heat and snapped, loud as a gunshot. Sebastian's hand jerked along its path.
No.
A fat, black tear now dripped from the lopsided eye on the canvas. His art had betrayed him yet again.
"Pathetic. You call yourself an artist when you can't even draw a simple circle?" His father's words dripped like acid in his ear. "Hand!" He roared.
Sebastian trembled as he pulled back his right sleeve to reveal the discolored rungs of flesh that crisscrossed his wrist.
The next crack from the fireplace was swallowed up by the resounding slap of the ruler.