"I can't say how much I appreciate you taking the time to come here," Charlie said with a smile that could light up the entire room - something about the boyish charm that paired well with the twin pools of intense blue and made him so damn disarming. No one would look at him and suspect of foul play - at least not initially; and surely not Anton Shepard, the talented artist who had been more than eager to talk about his work and go out for dinners since they had met at a vernissage.
(Well, perhaps 'dinner' was not the best term to describe what happened when they met - Anton didn't seem very hungry for much but Charlie, what was not at all a problem.)
The basement of the house Charlie was renting out had been fitted to look like something more proper for art storage - racks, cabinets and all sort of boxes were there, piled following rigid rules to prevent artwork for bending or getting exposed to the wrong conditions. Even the room itself had the temperature under control - from the outside, it did look like the home to an art dealer and who specialized in sourcing rare items... As well as introducing new artists to prospective buyers and collectors.
Anton was his last mark - someone with the financial means to acquire a lost Caravaggio. The artist was brought over to Charlie's residence under the excuse of taking a look at the painting to help authenticate it, but the gamble wasn't even selling it for an astronomical price to the other man - that was just a nice plus.
He had already scammed Anton out of so much using false deals with anonymous collectors that did not exist; if he bought the sophisticated forgery prepared as a last trap, that would be the final bonus.
"I never brought anyone here before - I'm kind of nervous," Charlie said at the bottom of the stairs, flickering the lights on and looking at his guest who was still at the last steps of the way and towering over the other male. Gods - Anton was pretty; impossibly pretty, like a renaissance angel. It almost made something deep inside Charles twist uncomfortably knowing that he would cause that face to cry.
— from @connfidencegame, unprompted.
To Anton, the whole thing still felt like a faerie tale, even if all signs pointed to the reality that it wasn't. He'd been blessed with a multifaceted education in the arts, art history, and preservation (his father, despite all his social failings, was the most supportive parent anyone could ask for), and he knew ever since the first piece he purchased that he was buying forgeries. But in Anton's mind, Charlie sold these things for a reason, and if he was helping the man pay his rent, or any of his debts, or anything related to the trials and tribulations of being a grown-up in the city, then these purchases were worth every thousand dollars spent.
Besides, Anton was sure all these sales made Charlie happy. And if he was lucky, really lucky, then maybe even he made Charlie happy-- not only in the smiles that Charlie wore around him (Christ, Anton had to stop himself from kissing him each time he saw them), but in the way that lingered so deep under your skin it almost felt like an infection. In the wake of their many trysts, Anton always felt a euphoria so deep in his bones it almost terrified him-- that this was right, that Charlie was everything, that he'd give his false, undead heart if that meant Charlie would never want for anything again-- but Charlie was just that special, wasn't he? And Anton was blessed to be the man that gave him whatever he needed.
As he met Charlie down the steps, the hand that curved over the other man's hip came unbidden. It wasn't enough to fully restrain him, not when this was Charlie's space, but the mix of comfort and affection was clear.
"You're great at what you do, Charlie," he reassured him, dipping his head to press a kiss to his shoulder. "You've never failed me before."
And even if Anton was speaking more to Charlie's talents in art instead of appraisal, the sentiment was sincere. He'd decorated his studio workshop with every single painting Charlie had sold him-- the epic crescendo of hours upon hours of work, and gallons and gallons of paint and coffee, and all the other little things forgers used to make their work more authentic. Sometimes Anton looked at them and imagined Charlie hard at work, meticulously examining every detail to make sure everything was perfect, and just the thought of that made him fall more and more in love.
He made these with his beautiful hands, and they're all mine now.
It took an awful lot of self-control not to hold said hands as Charlie led him deeper into his basement, but the soft wow that left his lips at the sight of the offered painting was genuine.
"Tell me how you got a hold of this one, again?" Hands in his pockets, Anton leaned in to admire every brush stroke on the canvas, and his dead heart fluttered at the thought of Charlie working so damn hard to get it right. "Any painting from his exile period couldn't have been easy to find, I'm sure."
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