Page 11 of Jonathon, After All

It had been so much easier to find Jonathon at Schönbühel. All Leo had to do was follow the light.

That’s how Leo had found him during their first week at the romantic castle. Leo had grown curious as to where his guest was sneaking off to and how he passed the long, quiet hours of the day. According to Sabine, the young man had easels and canvases tucked away in various rooms and hallways around the castle. Jonathon was rarely in his own room and the staff barely heard a peep out of him because he preferred to hide with his paints and brushes.

Leo wasn’t even aware that there were guest rooms in the Rose Tower and couldn’t fathom why Jonathon had bothered to haul an easel and art supplies up the narrow winding stairwell. He couldn’t, until he peeked around the door and found Jonathon, painting by one of the narrow, arched windows.

Jonathon’s eyes were cast low, thick eyelashes fanned across his cheeks as he focused on a canvas, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. He’d taken off his shirt and his torso and arms were streaked with golds and soft blues, reminding Leo of an angel, glowing as the sun set behind him.

“I’ve found you,” Leo had said, leaning against the door jamb. He was lightheaded and his heart raced when Jonathon’s lips parted on a surprised gasp and their eyes met over the easel.

Time had stopped and Leo thought he was more beautiful than anything painted by any man’s hand. Golden light slanted across Jonathon’s face and chest, making him even more ethereal with the dusky sky and the murky blues and greens of the Danube behind him.

“I didn’t mean—!” Leo started when the paintbrush tipped out of Jonathon’s hand and onto the drop cloth under him.

“I’m so sorry!” Jonathon blurted at the same time as he bent to retrieve it. “I was told that these rooms weren’t in use and that you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t,” Leo insisted as he rushed to get to the brush first. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Jonathon laughed, swiping it off the floor before Leo could get there. “I get so focused, I forget where I am or what time it is until the light isn’t right anymore,” he explained while wiping the bristles on his jeans.

Leo’s attention had stuck to the green smear across Jonathon’s thigh as he stepped around the easel to take a look. “May I?” he asked, distracted until he yanked his eyes up and back to Jonathon’s.

“If you’d like,” he said with an easy grin. Jonathon was blushing, though, as he stepped aside and rested his shoulder against the window’s frame. “The water and the snow look iridescent from up here and at this hour with the sunset reflecting off of everything.”

“That’s why you’re always late to dinner,” Leo teased, then did a double-take. “Jonathon! That’s…stunning!”

A warmer, dreamier view of the river and the winter valley outside the window was reflected on the canvas. The snow and water shimmered in gold and pastel tones, reflecting the setting sun, adding to the dream-like aura. Jonathon had used tiny strokes, like the impressionists. But his liberal use of soft pinks and purples, glowing yellows and golds, and deep, dreamy greens and blues made the view surreal and reminded Leo of a scene from a fairy tale.

“I prefer portraits, but I’m tired of painting Muriel, so I thought I’d practice landscapes while we’re here.”

“Practice?” Leo stared at him for a moment, stunned at the younger man’s nonchalance. “May I have this when you’re finished? Give Sabine your price and we’ll hang it in the gallery on the first floor, with the other Schönbühel pieces.”

“If you want,” Jonathon laughed and shook his head. “I don’t sell my art. Not yet. I like to leave it when I’m done, as a thank you gift to whoever hosted me and my aunt, so you’ll end up with a stack of these by the time we leave.”

Leo was both appalled that Jonathon could be so cavalier and careless with his art, and staggered at the literal treasure trove of paintings he intended to leave behind at Schönbühel.

“You can’t be serious!”

Jonathon shrugged it off. “I’m too serious about too many things, but this…” His hand rolled vaguely as he gestured at the canvas. “This is merely a handful of evenings and a series of idle, rambling thoughts. A project to keep me sane and a study of the sun and the way it touches the river and the snow,” he explained, then smirked mischievously as he canted toward Leo. “And how tiresome would it—would I—be if I treated every painting like it was one of my children?”

“Now, that, I can understand and certainly appreciate. I breed horses—an expensive obsession I inherited from my father—and I can’t become attached to every foal or my stables would be bursting,” Leo mused, earning a bemused snort as Jonathon’s head tipped from side to side.

“This is almost the same except without any sentience, since we’re talking about canvas and oil paints. Anyone can appreciate a horse because it’s…a horse and what’s not to love? People will always love horses—they’re never going to go out of style or favor. But art is subjective so a stack of Hawthornes might amount to nothing but junk in a decade.”

“I doubt that,” Leo replied as he stepped out of the way. “Please, continue.”

Jonathon winced over his shoulder at the window. “I was just about done for the evening.” He reached for a rag and wiped the excess paint from the brush. “The light isn’t right anymore.”

“Where do you hide in the mornings after breakfast? Where do you find the best light?” Leo turned and pretended to study the round room’s construction, grimacing up at the beams. He hadn’t intended to sound like a stalker or admit that his mornings lacked anything resembling purpose.

“The best light is before breakfast,” Jonathon whispered conspiratorially. “There’s a small parlor on the other side of the castle, off the music room. It has a lovely view of the garden and it’s magical at dawn, when it’s still misty and the snow glitters like diamonds,” Jonathon said distantly, his lips curving into a dreamy grin. “I’ve been sneaking down before everyone’s awake so I can catch the sunrise and it’s fun, tiptoeing around the castle like a detective in an Agatha Christie mystery or a princess from one of Grimms’ tales.”

That made Leo chuckle. “What part do I play? Am I the big, bad wolf or the killer? Don’t tell me I’m the murder victim,” he guessed, but Jonathon gave him an impatient look.

“You are obviously the dashing, noble prince. You’re very charming.”

“Then, this is certainly a fairy tale,” Leo said with a sheepish smile. “No one who truly knows me would say I’m charming.”

Jonathon’s adorably pointy nose wrinkled as he cleaned his brush. “How would they describe you?”

---