Page 40 of Never Quite Gone

“You'll manage it,” I said softly. “I have faith in your vision.”

He looked at me with slight surprise, as if unused to such direct praise. “You speak as though you know my work well, my lord.”

“Alessandro,” I corrected gently. “Please. And I've studied every piece of yours I could find. There's something special in how you paint. Something real.”

The morning light caught his profile as he turned back to his sketches, and I had to stop myself from reaching out to trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck. He was so beautiful when he worked, lost in the joy of creation.

“This will take time,” he said finally, indicating the scale of work we'd discussed. “Months, at least. The family may not wish to wait...”

“Time,” I replied, letting myself smile slightly, “is something I have in abundance. Take whatever you need to make it perfect.”

He nodded, already reaching for fresh paper to sketch new ideas. His fingers moved with wonderful precision, creating beauty with careful dedication that made my heart ache.

“Return tomorrow?” he asked, then flushed slightly at his own forwardness. “That is, if my lord has time to discuss the composition further...”

“Alessandro,” I corrected again, gentler this time. “And yes. Tomorrow.”

I left him there in his paint-scented sanctuary, morning light turning his workspace into something almost sacred. The street below felt colder somehow, less real than the warm space I'd just left.

But tomorrow... tomorrow I would see him again. Would watch him work, would listen to him talk about light and color and truth. Would fall a little more in love with the way his hands moved across canvas, the way his eyes lit up whendiscussing his art, the way he made the world more beautiful just by being in it.

For now, that was more than enough.

Weeks flowed like paint into months, each day bringing me back to Elia's studio with new excuses to linger. The other artists whispered about my frequent visits – a Medici patron spending so much time with a relatively unknown painter. But I couldn't stay away. Watching him work was like watching sunrise, each brush stroke revealing new beauty I hadn't known to look for.

The commissioned piece grew slowly, transforming from sketches to underpainted forms to something magnificent. Though ostensibly a religious scene for the family chapel, I saw our story hidden in every detail – in the way light fell across upturned faces, in the tender gestures between figures, in the healing hands of saints that matched Elia's exactly.

“The light changed,” I said one evening, another excuse to stay as the sun painted his studio gold. “You should wait until morning to finish that section.”

Elia smiled without looking up from his palette, hands moving with practiced grace as he mixed colors. “You said that yesterday, my lord. And the day before.”

“Alessandro,” I corrected automatically, loving how the informality made him blush slightly. “And perhaps I simply enjoy watching you work.”

His hands stilled briefly on his brushes, that lovely color rising in his cheeks again. “You must have more important things to do than watch paint dry.”

“Nothing more important than this.”

The words came out more honest than I'd intended, making him look up finally. Evening light caught his profile, turning him into one of his own paintings – all perfect angles and warm colors and grace that made my heart ache.

I'd taken to bringing him small gifts – the finest ultramarine pigments, brushes from Venice, candied fruits that made him smile. Today's offering sat unopened on his workbench, wrapped in silkthat matched his eyes. He treated each present like something precious, though they were nothing compared to what I wished I could give him.

“You've painted yourself as the wounded saint,” I observed, studying the massive canvas that dominated the studio's north wall. The figure's face was technically different from Elia's, but I saw him in every line – in the gentle hands, in the upturned gaze, in the way light seemed to radiate from within.

His brush stilled. “And you as the healing angel,” he replied quietly, then looked startled by his own admission.

The studio was empty save for us, Florence's evening bells creating privacy with their bronze song. I moved closer, drawn by a smudge of paint on his cheek that I ached to wipe away.

“The resemblance is remarkable,” I said carefully, not wanting to spook him. “Almost as if you've seen that scene before somewhere.”

Elia's hands moved restlessly over his palette, mixing colors that perfectly matched the sky outside. “Sometimes,” he admitted, “when I'm painting, it feels like I've done this before. Not painting, exactly, but... creating. Making something from nothing.”

I watched those beloved hands, the precise way they held brushes, the careful attention they gave to every detail. “Perhaps we have,” I said softly. “Perhaps some souls are meant to find each other, meant to create beauty together.”

Elia's brush traced the angel's wings – my wings, though he didn't know why he'd painted them that way.

“You speak strangely sometimes,” he said, but his voice held warmth rather than accusation. “Like you're from some other time entirely.”

“Do I?” I moved to stand beside him, close enough to smell paint and oils and the essence of him. “Or perhaps you just understand me in ways others don't.”

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