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It’s lovely.
Subtle enough that she can’t be entirely certain that it is his.
The names of the land that was haven’t been lost to history yet, though you’d be hard pressed to find someone who recognized them just milling about.
They are a long way from home.
Always are, these days.
The post is dated two years back when she finds it. There’s some speculation on the meaning- the name, word, both and neither.
Irene scours the image.
The word matches, but nothing else depicted does.
But why would it?
A castle, or fortress of some sort- none that she’s ever seen. It might be made of white sand for all its wear under the crashing waves of a greedy plumb stained sea. The foundations of the building have already started washing away, lower points eroded into irregular and blocky shapes. Crumbling.
It’s beautiful too. The straight lines of the upper walls of a fortress still standing. At alternating points sharp, and rough, and soft.
She hardly even notices the very most background details until she zooms in to search for hidden things among the castle and the sky.
But oh how lovely it is, cradled in a distortion of one looking through a snow globe or sea glass. Like something out of a dream.
Still.
It’s got the biggest piece going for it, and it’s so accessible it’s practically an invitation.
Almost too perfect.
Like it’s begging her to mess it up.
Of course Irene practices. She's not an idiot.
She doesn't practice much, but it's better than nothing.
The first two art stores she visits don’t have what she needs. At the third she picks out six very large letter stencils with simple box borders. Grabs the hot pink. A few other colors just because she likes them. One specialty paint pen in silver and another in black.
She finds some thin wooden boards of a great size at the home improvement store next door that will serve her nicely as canvases.
A solid round up.
She spends half a day trying and testing out shapes and coverage, the hold of her hand, how tired her arm will get.
(let’s be real. She spends hours drawing lines and squiggles and it’s great.)
Irene isn't trying to make a masterpiece. Quite the opposite.
It's a little like the adult version of silly string, she thinks. It's the only comparable experience these hands of hers have had.
Maybe she needs to get out more, if an afternoon of spraying wood has got her waxing poetic about having fun with aerosolized cans.
Maybe he'll know exactly what she means.
It’s a two day drive to the location. Which, all things considered, isn’t a bad distance.
She’s been on longer trips to worse destinations.
(How her friends now wonder at her ease spending week long trips sleeping in cars!)
A seed of doubt flourishes in her stomach once she's standing on the sidewalk and facing it.
The wall.
Her fingers drift to the paint covered brick, tracing lines and shadows. It's much more real than the picture on the screen.
The castle isn’t even white!
It’s blue. Cornflower blue, light blue, baby blue highlights, dark blue shades, the shadows are navy and the outlines the same. Soft yellows shine from windows because there’s still lights from within.
It's all so… solid. The lines are clear cut when they mean to be, the ocean spray is literally a spray, and whoever made the piece is very talented.
Irene scours it for signs that it was made for her, hoping there'd be more she could pick up in person.
She wanted to see him in this too.
She doesn't know if she can.
Instead she's just here, feeling up a wall in public.
In her defense, it is a very nice wall.
She wanted to see it in the daylight.
She has. It's beautiful.
She's still going to mess it up.
Irene gives the wall a fond pat and silently promises she'll see it again very soon.
Less witnesses and all that.
Her fingers linger that night. Tracing, trailing. Sliding down the straight lines from the highest point of the castle walls to edges that bend and bow, details rounding and getting less distinct, slipping away towards the tide.
And above all that-
Attolia.
It’s not written as a signature, or a claiming. Not a tag or a pithy statement.
The name takes up so much space above the waves; it’s just as much part of the art. Not a title of a piece.
ATTOLIA.
It could almost overtake it.
Irene pulls out her stencils and the hot pink.
She’s glad she brought gloves for this part, because just from holding the stencil in place her hand catches a good amount before she’s finished the A.
Her letters aren’t as big, but they’re a nice size for her purpose.
It’s not long before the boxed letters of A T T O L I S are sprayed under the artful Attolia in hot pink, as they should be.
Since she’s already defacing art, she uncaps the thick silver paint pen and draws a three prong crown over the A of her name. She has to stand on her toes to do it.
At the underhang of the S of Attolis she uses the black paint pen to write the common word from back then that would come out to Sunday in this day and age.
Again, she’s not an idiot.
Terrible planning to leave a calling card and not a meeting time.
Who knows where he is now, or what he’s wrapped up in.
So. Three days. For him to hear of it, get here, and wait.
If he misses it, there’s always another Sunday to follow.
Irene steps back to take it all in.
It still needs something… ah.
Yes, that will do well.
Irene scrounges around her bag for the yellow can.
It's a light yellow, soft in a way that she wasn't sure what to do with. She liked it anyway. Brought it anyway.
It'll be a nice finishing touch.
And… there.
Mission accomplished.
It’s only once she’s started to leave she realizes that if she just ruined some poor history nerd’s mural…
Sunday, the scene of the crime:
She starts scouting high first thing.
Ledges, balconies, open windows, trellises. Rooftops, fire escapes.
And… there.
In the shade of an adjacent building, seated quite comfortably at the top of a three story with many windows is a figure, legs dangling over the ledge.
Considering the height of the apartment building beside it- which twists up to many floors- she can only assume he clambered up the fire escape before jumping across to reach such a prime vantage point.
From the angle of the figure’s head, they aren’t looking at the art despite what must be an unparalleled view.
The movement and bustle on the street, the passers-by and conversations of life being lived seems to be where their attention is collected.
There isn’t an anxious line in their body, all smooth curves, like they were born to be up high, to relax and observe the milling about below.
She takes her chances.
Irene jumps onto her toes, waving her arms to get the figure's attention.
Look, it's me! Is it you?
Attention successfully drawn, it's a blink, two.
The figure- man- swings to a stand, laughing, waving an arm back at her quite wildly.
Quick as a climbing lizard he throws himself off the building toward- yup, the neighboring fire escape- catches himself on the rails, and scrambles down three levels in a series of hanging drops. Finally he catches himself in a rolling movement on the pavement.
Then it's just a matter of crossing the street (he absolutely does not go to a crosswalk, just cuts straight across, but he does look both ways before, at least).
He's breathless, panting when he pulls up short right in front of her. His grin is effusive. She wonders if she caught his, or he caught hers.
He doesn't look like he did, though he's always retained a similarity to himself that she finds herself lucky for.
“Do you like it?” She gestures to their magnum opus- presenting his skill in this life and her amateur work slapped on top of it like a grand reveal.
Gen laughs again, smile splitting his face. “I'm torn between telling you it's perfect, and teasing you that it got the job done.”
He hasn’t so much as glanced towards it. Too busy looking at her.
She’s much the same. Not even cataloguing the differences, just thrilling at the recognition she finds. Ready to sink into it.
“I thought the hearts were a nice touch,” his smile is impish, caught between his lower teeth. Chin tipped, teasing. He might as well be glowing.
Her finishing touch. She'd painted two hearts right over the wine dark sea, very amateur, incredibly irreverent.
“Yes, well. I wanted to make it clear it was an unauthorized edit.” Irene gives a haughty sniff.
“Oh?”
He twines his fingers with hers. Easy as you please. Eyes already lighting, not because he’s caught on, but from the anticipation and expectation that he will.
He knows her well.
“I was counting on the outrage and the disrespect. To make some noise.”
To reach you.
Oh. Irene was wrong.
“My clever queen.”
There’s the glow.
It only takes a tug of his hand before he's kissing her against the wall like they never left.
This is familiar too, but it fills her lungs with space. Her chest collapsing, forming, breathing star swept dust. Set spinning again with the press of his lips. Again as he cups her jaw. Again as she twists her hand in his shirt to pull him closer and sets her teeth to the edges of their kiss.
It might be paint fumes that have set her lungs swirling, actually.
It's probably paint fumes.
No matter.
Eugenides is warm and pressed against her, deepening the kiss, humming into it, and Irene is right where she wants to be.