Stefano Valentini x Reader: Facade - Chapter 1

Pairing: Stefano Valentini x Reader/Female Protagonist (18+)

Rating: Mature (M)

Warnings: Alcohol consumption

Notes: Author’s Notes will be included at the end of each chapter to provide insight to certain topics, events, and ideals. Warnings will be chapter-specific, and will be included at the beginning of each chapter.

Current Time: November, 2015

=2=

“…no matter how much one takes in this most recent work of – should I dare call it such – art, the vision of it is nothing short of dull, incomprehensibly bland, and incredibly awkward to look at. Despite the populous continuously declaring his artistic vision as deranged, nightmarish, and abhorrent, the photographer seemingly carries on—but for how much longer?

Though Mr. Valentini possesses a decent ability in producing photography, his vision and what he deems ‘beautiful’ is incredibly lackluster and, judging by the countless other scathing critics that stand alongside me in critiquing Mr. Valentini’s creations, just isn’t needed or necessary within the artist community.”

Soft lips twisted into a noticeable scowl as the male’s wrist flicked away from his body, the newspaper that had previously been grasped within his fingertips flopping down upon the empty seat beside him. A heavy sigh passed through his lips, his palms now rubbing against the front of his face as he contemplated what he had just read—no matter what wonderous beauty he displayed to the world, these imbecilic critics never seemed to understand his vision. How could they ever understand his vision when they were nothing more than over-glorified neophytes who claimed to have a basic understanding of what should and should not be considered a work of art?

The male groaned as he moved his hands away from his face, the soft, black bangs of his hair draping back over his right eye once more as he did so. His left eye glanced over at the newspaper now resting upon the chair beside him, and even though he knew reading the remaining critiques would end in nothing but disappointment, he reached over and gripped the paper between his thumb and forefinger to bring it in front of his face once more. He narrowed his eyes at the name that sat beneath the article he had just finished reading: John Jones.

‘Hmph. Perhaps he should apply his description of my magnificent creations to his name. He should be ashamed to sign such a pathetic name on anything.’

He skillfully flipped the newspaper over, neatly folding the other half underneath itself as he moved on to the next review of his work. His electric-blue eye began to scan over the page, but to both his amusement and surprise, the first line of the review caught his immediate attention.

“To those who have critiqued Mr. Valentini’s works in the past, how dare you call yourselves critics of the arts—you are proving to be nothing more than philistines who simply rant about things you don’t care for.”

Was this the one thing that he had been waiting for ever since he had began his artist career? Surely his good eye was failing him—this would be the very first time that someone had positively reviewed his works of art. However, knowing that this could very well be nothing more than a ruse, the artist refused to allow his expectations to grow too high; he had been fooled before, and he would have to continue reading to see if it had happened once more. With a now piqued interest, he continued to scan the words that lined the page.

“How can someone who claims to be a critic of the arts deny the beauty that can be seen within Mr. Valentini’s creations? Though his vision is much different than what society deems as ‘the norm,’ that is exactly what makes his artwork so unique. He is an artist who has gone beyond the boundaries that have been set by both the artistic world and society as a whole, and I believe that is the source of such tremendous backlash. Upon viewing Mr. Valentini’s portfolio and published works of art, I immediately noticed his professionalism in the art of photography. Each picture he snaps is intricately thought out, and each one offers something new; each idea that he shares with the world is exclusive only to him, and has never been seen before by the general populous.

I believe that Mr. Valentini has achieved a certain level of professionalism that has yet to be attained by any other photographer. However, there are those who would immediately deny this claim. In particular, I find a review of one of his older works to be quite astounding—astounding in the sense of how uninformed and uneducated it sounds. I will mention no names, but the ending of the article I will mention goes to further my previous point about how he is receiving backlash from unprofessional critics who are allowing their own ideologies to get in the way of their work. It was mentioned in this particular article that Mr. Valentini “revels in grotesquery for the sake of titillation,” but this is the furthest statement from the truth. In every image I have seen that was produced by this particular artist, the way he treats his models is almost akin to that of lovemaking. Each position is carefully tended to, each shot is delicately lit with proper lighting, and each photograph is taken with the utmost respect for the model. Yet, in the eyes of unprofessional critics, his photography is seen as nothing more than the subjugation of the female body simply for an erotic effect on the audience.

If Mr. Valentini was taking pictures of females simply for titillation, I believe that we would know it. So, perhaps instead of allowing your own personal ideologies to get in the way of the artistry you are critiquing, you should instead revel in the beauty that Mr. Valentini offers the world and see the elegance and refinement it holds.”

At this point, the artist was in utter shock and amazement. Never before had someone praised his artistry; not only had this critic praised his work publicly, they openly mocked those goddamn neophytes that saw no beauty in his artwork. His eye immediately dropped to the self-portrait beneath the article, and then the name that was printed beneath: (First Name) (Last Name). This was a critic that he had never seen before. After reading each and every article that was produced for his artwork, he had grown accustomed to seeing the same names and self-portraits at the bottom of the varying reviews; there was no doubt about it— this critic was new, and he had to admit, he held a certain affinity for her already. She was quite brave for not only criticizing the other critics publicly, but going as far as to quote one of the previous articles from them, as well. She was playing a rather dangerous game.

‘I recall the article this woman quoted. Susan Phi was her name, I believe, and she was quite upset that my most recent work was rather revealing of the female anatomy. It’s such an marvelous feeling to see her put in her place like this.’

This was the first time the artist had felt such jubilation in quite a long while—never had he suspected that he would obtain his first positive review, but it was certainly something that he could grow accustomed to. He hummed to himself as he rose to his feet from the chair he had been sitting upon, newspaper still clutched within his hand, and then made his way over to the desk that sat in front of his most prized photographs that were plastered across the wall. He looked them over, a sigh of contentment passing through his lips—that one review proved to him that this was all worthwhile, and that his work must continue on. He placed the newspaper down upon the desk, gracefully tearing the article from its resting place and setting it neatly underneath the lamp that sat upon the corner of the mahogany table.

With a tender hand, his fingers curled around the camera that he held dear to him, plucking it from its resting place upon the center of the desk. He stared into the lens, his reflection causing a smile to form upon his lips. One more time, his gaze fell to the review that had invigorated him. The world was begging for a new photograph from Stefano Valentini, and now he had all the inspiration that he needed.

=2=

“Next on KCN: another model has been declared missing in the series of recent abduction-homicides. The newest victim, Morgan Augustine, was reported missing three days ago after—”

You glanced up at the television right as it was switched off, and you cocked your eyebrow as your (color) eyes fell upon the bartender that was placing the remote back down upon the corner of the counter. You slid your sleeve up a bit, glancing down at the watch upon your wrist to see that it was about a quarter past eleven; the bar was surprisingly quiet, especially for a weekend. You gently tapped your middle and forefinger against the wooden counter to grab the bartender’s attention, and then gave him a small smile.

“Mind getting me a Pimm’s Cup, Vincent?”

“Ah, sure thing. Y’know, ever since you released that review about that Valentino guy, you’ve been showing up here more often.”

“Valentini, Vincent. Not Valentino. And yes, I know… the other critics in Krimson are out for my blood, now. I have a very unpopular opinion about Mr. Valentini, and I’ve already gotten several vulgar emails from the other critics about my column. I’m swear I’m not attempting to drink my sorrows away, but it’s helping take my mind off things.”

Vincent hummed softly as he grabbed a bottle from the shelf, pouring the dark liquid it held into a small cup to measure out the amount that he would need. You figured that you shouldn’t bother him further with your laments, and you sighed softly as you brought your cheek to rest upon your palm. You knew that your opinion was yours and yours alone, and no one could change that, but receiving such absurd emails from the other Krimson critics was rather depressing. After all, this was the first column you had ever managed to procure within the Krimson paper, even though you had been trying for years already. You had your moment of triumph, finally being able to call yourself a real critic, but now it was turning out to be rather distressing.

Your attention was drawn from your thoughts as a tall glass was placed in front of you, a thin, black straw sticking up from within the orangish liquid it held. You noticed that Vincent was giving you a small smile as he ran his white cloth across the countertop, and he parted his lips to speak.

“Don’t worry too much about them. After all, you finally got a column, right? For as long as I’ve known you, that’s all you’ve wanted. Screw what those other guys think— after all, how can they get so upset at your opinion when they’re literally screwing over an artist for a living? They can’t be critics if they can’t take criticism themselves.”

You felt your lips curl into a small smile upon hearing Vincent’s words, and you tipped your head forward in a nod before wrapping your fingers around the cold glass in front of you. You brought it upwards, taking a small sip of the drink through the thin straw— it was refreshing, and it was something that made the end of the day more bearable. You turned your attention to the door as a group of men stormed through it, large grins spread across their lips.

“Oi, Vincent! Fill us up, will ya? Oh! Hey, (Name)!”

You gave a small wave of your hand in the direction of George Cline, who was a regular visitor to this particular bar. You watched as the group of about eight or nine men plopped down at one of the large booths that sat against the wall, and then rolled your eyes before taking another long sip of your drink. You heard Cline and his buddies laughing loudly at whatever topic they were currently on about, and then noticed that Vincent had already begun filling up several jugs of beer. You watched as the fluid filled each cup, the white foam gently running over the sides on the occasion that Vincent happened to fill one up a bit too much. The bar was finally beginning to grow in terms of how many people were within it, the entrance to the building opening and closing constantly as new customers made their way inside. Thankfully, most were with friends or family and took the booths—you weren’t really in the mood to have people crowding around you at the front bar.

Once more, you slid the sleeve of your shirt up a bit to take a peek at your watch, and the time was now fifteen minutes past midnight. Had it really been that long, already? You exhaled deeply, moving your straw to the side to take a rather large gulp out of your glass. You then gripped the tip of your straw between your thumb and forefinger, poking the opposite end into one of the pieces of strawberry that lay resting at the bottom of the glass; once you had successfully done this, you brought it to your lips and popped it into your mouth. It was sweet, the slight taste of alcohol mixed in with the juice as you crushed it between your teeth. You absentmindedly began to stir the remains of your drink within your glass, your (color) eyes staring off into whatever space you were currently visiting.

“Pardon, buon uomo, perhaps you could prepare an Americano for this parched artist?”

The sound of a voice coming from your right pulled you back down to earth, and you gave a quick shake of your head to clear away any clouds in your mind. You then cleared your throat, bringing your glass to your lips and finally finishing off whatever liquid remained within it. Even though you didn’t want to drink too much, your apartment was only a small walk from here, and you wouldn’t mind having just one more drink.

“Vincent, would you mind making me a Negroni? It’ll be my last drink for tonight.”

A hum was heard from the man behind the counter, and you sighed deeply before rubbing your temples with your thumb and forefinger. It was going to be a long night, but that was alright. It wasn’t too often that you went out and drank like this, so there was no real harm in it.

“I see you have a marvelous taste in alcohol, my friend.”

You inhaled deeply— as much as you had tried to avoid speaking to anyone other than Vincent tonight, it would seem as though attention had been drawn to you. Once you had exhaled your breath through your nose, you turned your head and parted your lips in preparation to answer the man. However, you immediately stopped upon laying eyes upon him; your words caught in your throat, and you sat up straight as you ran your eyes along his figure. He was donned in a navy suit, a red scarf curled elegantly around his neck, and his forefinger, which was encased in a maroon leather glove, tapped gently upon the countertop. You then turned your attention to his face, where soft, raven-colored hair draped neatly over his right eye; your gaze then met with his left eye, which was a beautiful shade of electric blue, and you swallowed nervously. There, sitting right beside you, was Stefano Valentini—the man you had worked so tirelessly to defend in your column.

“I-I… um…”

You felt your cheeks redden as you inwardly cursed yourself for being unable to find your words. You inhaled deeply, your gaze dropping to the countertop for a moment as you forced your mind to work overtime in order to find the correct words to speak to your artistic idol. Your embarrassment seemed to amuse the man, seeing as a quiet chuckle passed his lips whilst he continued to watch you struggle to find your words.

“Allow me to help you, mia amica. My name is Stefano Valentini—however, you already know this, don’t you? After all, you were ever so kind in that column you wrote about my artwork.”

As if you weren’t embarrassed enough already, you now wanted to bury your head in the sand if you could—he must have recognized you from the self-portrait the paper had used alongside your column. He had read your article; Stefano Valentini had read your article. You glanced over at Vincent, who had placed both your drink and Stefano’s upon the counter, and you eagerly wrapped your fingers around the glass. You brought it to your lips, tilting your head back to take a rather large swig from it—it was the only thing you could think of doing at the moment… at least until you found your still missing words. Yet another chuckle resounded from within Stefano’s throat, and he took a small sip from his glass. Finally, your mind managed to find a few words to spew out, much to your relief.

“You read that, huh? I… must admit I’m a bit embarrassed about it. Quite frankly, I wasn’t sure if you’d ever see it. Honestly, I’m still wondering if I’m just hallucinating—I never expected to meet the Stefano Valentini at a bar of all places.”

“Did you expect to meet me at an art gallery, perhaps? Certain people seem to be under the impression that artists, like myself, only reside within museums or galleries.”

You caught a slight hint of bitterness within his tone of voice, and you immediately felt as though you had caused it yourself. Your mind began beating itself up, and you shoved your glass against your lips once more as you downed what remained within it. You finally had your chance to talk to the man you looked up to for years, and here you were making him upset within the first three minutes of speaking to him. How lovely.

“No, no… I didn’t mean anything like that. If people really think artists never leave museums or galleries, they should rethink such an idea. You’re a person, just like everyone else here.”

This earned a soft hum from him, and you could feel the heat in your cheeks grow a bit hotter—you knew you weren’t quite tipsy yet, so it was most likely the embarrassment talking through your flesh at this point. You sighed deeply before turning your attention to Vincent, who was now making what looked like an Aunt Roberta, and it was honestly quite enticing—perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to have just one more drink.

“Vincent, would you mind making one of those for me, too?”

“(Name)… are you sure that’s what you want? You’ve already had two relatively strong drinks. You know the reputation of this cocktail, right?”

“I know, I know… but that Aunt Roberta looks really good.”

Vincent shot you a worried glance, but gave a reluctant nod of his head—after all, this was his job. He couldn’t refuse to serve you. Besides, you weren’t noticeably intoxicated, so he had no legal grounds to refuse. He might end up regretting this, but he would take the heat if he absolutely had to.

You sighed softly as you brought your cheek to rest upon the palm of your hand once more, and then turned your attention back to the artist sitting beside you. He was sipping at his drink once more, and eventually caught your gaze.

“I apologize if what I said a few minutes ago upset you. I didn’t mean to tweak a nerve or anything.”

“No need to apologize—I wasn’t expressing animosity towards you, if that’s what you thought, mia cara.”

You felt a small smile creep across your lips as you listened to the man speak. His voice was soft like velvet, and it was soothing to listen to; not to mention his usage of Italian within his English, which was something that you found rather interesting. You watched as he took yet another sip from his glass, and then set it down gently upon the countertop.

“You know, I’ve been eager to meet you ever since I happened upon your column. I’d like to express my thanks for being the first critic to positively praise my work. After years of nothing but negative criticism from both critics and the general people, it was a welcomed relief.”

“That’s part of the reason I became an art critic, believe it or not. I’ve followed your artwork for several years— ever since you published the war photo that caused so much controversy back in 2010. You took that during the Iraq War, right?”

“You’re quite insightful. That photo was indeed taken during the Iraq War, when I was twenty-five years old. It is by far my most meaningful piece to date, and nothing will ever surpass it in my heart.”

You turned your attention away from the artist only for a moment as Vincent placed your last drink down in front of you, and you situated yourself so that you could absentmindedly stir it whilst continuing to speak to the man beside you. Stefano took this moment to finish off the liquid that was left within his glass, and you noticed that a thoughtful look appeared upon his face. What on earth could be going on in that imaginative mind of his?

“You know, I believe I know a proper way to express my thanks—would you care to see my next piece?”

If it were possible, you would have sworn your heart stopped beating for a solid minute after hearing Stefano’s words. He was offering to show you his newest piece of artwork before anyone else got to see it. How on earth could you ever say no? You gave an eager nod of your head, the smile upon your lips growing as you turned your body entirely upon the stool to face him. Your excitement made the photographer give a slight smile of his own, and he reached into the pocket of his suit to pull something from within—upon further inspection, it was a small, square photograph that held his newest piece of artwork within it. He held it out to you, and with a gentle hand, you carefully took it and began to inspect it.

Within the photograph was a close-up shot of a forearm and hand, which obviously belonged to that of a woman. Crimson blood formed lighting-like streaks across her pale skin, and several thin vines were wrapped around her wrist—within the digits of the woman’s hand was clasped a beautiful rose, from which large droplets of blood were captured falling from the petals. Within the dark background you could see several red petals, which you assumed were either more rose petals or perhaps blossoms of some sort, drifting through the air. Though it certainly was dark and macabre, it was absolutely stunning to look at; the composition was perfect, and the clear focus on the arm combined with the gentle blur of the background made it stand out even more to your eyes. The colors were beautiful as well, the crimson of the rose and blood contrasting well with the pale skin the woman possessed.

“Beautiful, is it not? Such wonderous elegance captured in a single photograph...”

You could only give a nod of your head, your (color) eyes still staring in wonder at the marvelous photograph you held between your fingers. How on earth this man managed to take such mesmerizing pictures of implications of death was unknown to you, but it was incredibly pleasing to your eyes. Though you would never admit such a thing vocally out of respect for Stefano, this certainly was one of his best works yet. How he made such realistic details was something that you hoped to uncover someday, but for now, all you could do was bring yourself to compliment his photographic skills.

“It really is beautiful, Mr. Valentini. I truly don’t understand how people can’t see the beauty of your artwork. The lighting, the composition, and just… everything about this photograph truly is stunning.”

You gave the man a smile, and it was quite obvious you had stroked his ego with your compliments. He had a rather boastful smirk upon his lips, and his fingers messed with the scarf around his neck. However, you couldn’t blame him for this response—after all, this was, quite literally, the first time his work had ever received such praise from someone in person. You held out the photograph in front of you, which earned you a rather quizzical look from the artist.

“No, no. I’ll allow you to keep this for yourself, mia amica. My only request is that you share it with no one—at least until its official debut, of course.”

“Of course! I won’t show a soul. Perhaps I can ask what title you’re going to give this particular piece, though?”

“Ah, what is a piece of perfection without an equally perfect title, hmm? However, I won’t reveal this to you quite yet. Perhaps if you were to attend my second solo show at the Krimson City Gallery, you would be able to see such a thing for yourself.”

You cocked your eyebrow; had he just personally invited you to his solo show? You finally got around to picking up your glass and taking a sip of your cocktail, an immediate shiver zipping down your spine as the alcohol entered your body; there was a reason it was considered one of the most highly alcoholic drinks in the world, and you loved it. You placed the glass back down, a tiny laugh escaping your lips as you did so—the alcohol was finally beginning to settle within your bloodstream, and it was beginning to show.

“I-I would love to come to your solo show, Mr. Valentini. I was planning on going either way, but now I have an even bigger incentive to attend.”

“Meraviglioso! I look forward to your attendance. It will be nice to see an experienced, accepting critic amongst a crowd of artist-damning neophytes.”

Your lips curled into a smile at his words, and you took yet another sip of your cocktail. Another rush surged through your body, and you hummed softly as the alcoholic heat embraced your cheeks. You figured it wouldn’t be wise to finish off the entire cocktail, since you were already beginning to feel quite a bit over-the-edge, and you managed to push away the glass with the conscience you had left. You looked down at your watch again, seeing the time was now a quarter until one, and you groaned softly—it was no wonder the alcohol was getting to you now. You took out your wallet from within your bag, grabbing two twenty-dollar bills from within it and folding them in half—you then slid it across the bar, allowing Vincent to take it from you.

“That should cover everything, right? Plus a tip for you.”

“Uh… yeah. Yeah, you’re good. You gonna head home now, (Name)?”

“Mhm… I need to get some rest.”

You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes for a moment as you situated your bag upon your shoulder. You then opened them, looking over at the man still sitting beside you. You held out your hand, which was trembling slightly now, a smile upon your lips as you did so.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Valentini. It truly was quite an experience.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Ms. (Last Name). Again, I look forward to your attendance at my solo show.”

You felt him give your hand a firm shake, and you felt your heart leap within your chest; you had shaken hands with your artistic idol, and you couldn’t feel more joy if you possibly tried. Once you had carefully slid the photograph he had given you within your bag, making sure that it wouldn’t get bent or crinkled in any way, you slid off the stool and gripped the counter so that you wouldn’t lose your balance and topple forward. You most certainly weren’t to the point of stumbling around in a drunken stupor, but your balance was definitely not at its peak at the moment.

As Vincent watched you walk to the front door, he sighed deeply as he took out his rag and ran it across the countertop. He then turned his gaze to the raven-haired man, who was in the middle of pulling out a bill to pay for his drink.

“Hey, would you mind doing me a favor? This might sound odd coming from a bartender, but would you mind walking that girl home? She doesn’t live too far from here, but with everything going on lately with all the abductions, I don’t want her walking home alone. Not to mention she isn’t in the best state right now. I’d go with her myself, but I can’t leave the bar until it closes at three. I wouldn’t mind paying for your tab if you do this favor for me.”

Stefano cocked his eyebrow at the boy’s words, but gave a gentle sigh as he placed the bill back into the breast pocket of his suit. He then dropped down from the stool, his electric-blue eye gazing at the bartender who was still wiping down the counter.

“I suppose I could accept such a task. After all, you’re quite right—the streets are rather dangerous right now. Where does she live?”

“She lives two streets down from here, on Elmwood. You know the Oakridge apartments, right? She stays in room 403.”

With a nod of his head, Stefano made his way across the bar and pressed his gloved hand against the door to open it; a chill ran through his body as the cold night air hit his skin, and a smile crossed his lips as he paced out into the darkness. It would seem the masses were still oblivious to who he truly was.

=2=

“Signorina!”

You stopped for a moment, your body turning so that you could see who was calling out your name. However, there was only person you were acquainted with who spoke Italian, so it came as no surprise to you whenever you saw Stefano pacing towards you. You couldn’t help the smile that came to your lips when he finally came to a halt by your side, and you shifted your shoulder so that your bag sat more comfortably upon it.

“I have been asked to escort you home. Surely you wouldn’t have any quarrels with this?”

“O-oh… Vincent must have asked you to do this, huh? I wouldn’t want to be a bother, Mr. Valentini…”

“Per favore, call me Stefano. Walking you to your home would be a pleasure—besides, the streets are rather unwelcoming at this time of night.”

You gave a nod of your head, happily accepting the company on the walk back to your apartment. Along the way, the two of you made small talk about how much you enjoyed seeing everything that he produced, and how your favorite photograph to date (aside from the one he had shown you that particular evening) was the one he had titled “Afterglow.” He went on to explain that photograph was one that he was fond of, and that he had displayed within his own home in the confines of his study. You noticed that the man was incredibly pleased with everything he produced, and found no faults in any photograph that he had taken previously—and you also noticed that he seemed jubilant to finally have someone to speak about his artwork with, and that was something that you were more than happy to continue to provide. You could honestly go on for years about how dearly you loved his work if you were ever given the chance.

Eventually, the two of you were climbing the long stairwell that led to the fourth floor of your apartment building. You were gripping the railing to steady yourself, since you really didn’t want to trip or stumble and make a fool of yourself in front of the man you looked up to as an artist. You had visions in your head of you stumbling directly into him, which made you grip the railing harder—that was most certainly the last thing you wanted to happen; the embarrassment would surely kill you. Thankfully you made it to your door without much trouble, and you sighed softly as you leaned your shoulder against the wood to dig through your bag for your keycard.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Val- I mean, Stefano. It was very kind of you to walk me back to my apartment. I… I really enjoyed the evening.”

“As did I. Speaking of my work and meeting the one critic who praised it was a welcome change. Again, you have my thanks.”

You watched as the man pressed his gloved hand to his chest, then stooped down at his waist to give you a gentlemanly bow. You gave him a tired smile, then tugged your keycard out from within your bag; you slid it through the reader, and the sound of the door unlocking reached your ears. You turned the knob, opening the door a bit in preparation to go inside, and then gave one final look in Stefano’s direction.

“Have a good rest of the night, Stefano. I’ll see you again at the solo show.”

“Indeed, mia cara. I await that day.”

With that, the man turned on his heel and began to make his way back down the stairs towards the ground level. You hummed softly to yourself before walking into your apartment and tossing your keycard onto the table that rested right beside the entry door—it felt good to be home again after such a wonderful evening. You glanced over at the wall-phone, seeing the red light blinking rhythmically to alert you that you had unheard messages; you already knew what type of messages these were, so you chose to ignore them entirely as you passed by the phone on route to your bedroom. You weren’t about to soil such a splendid night with more negativity, so you simply made your way into your bedroom and flopped down upon your plush blanket. Your heart was aflutter, and your head felt as light as a feather. You weren’t entirely sure if it was an effect of the alcohol, or, the more plausible option, which was meeting your biggest inspiration and spending a rather relaxing evening with him.

You inhaled deeply, the scent of flowery detergent filling your nose as you pressed your head further into your pillow. You weren’t going to bother changing into something other than your current attire, mostly due to how tired you were and how eager you were to get to sleep. You reached into your pocket, taking out your phone and plugging it into the charger. The light illuminated your dark room, and at the top of the screen, you could see the little icon that informed you that you had emails waiting to be read; again, it was another reminder of the current negativity you were facing, and you simply closed your eyes and pretended they didn’t exist. They weren’t going to get to you tonight. You stayed still upon your bed, allowing the darkness and silence of the room to take you in—the sounds of the city outside your window brought you a certain kind of comfort, and soon enough, helped lead you into a decent sleep.

=2=

“You obtained your first compliment tonight… I promised you that you would be loved when I photographed you, even if it was by only one person. And I have upheld that promise.”

Stefano placed his camera down upon the desk, a soft hum now passing his lips as he paced over to the record player within his study. He moved the tone arm over the record, gently pressing the stylus down upon it so that beautiful music began to flow forth from it. He exhaled deeply, once more strolling over to the desk where his beloved camera now sat. He hummed along to the tune of Serenade for Strings, which was still emanating from the record player, and eventually came to rest his gaze upon the now-framed piece of artwork that hung above his desk between the other photographs that had been there. It was a much larger image than the one he had given to you earlier that evening, and was the one that he planned on showcasing at his upcoming solo show later in the month.

“Such wonderous beauty… it’s a shame I haven’t had a name for you until now, but I have had a new bout of inspiration flood my mind after some events that took place this evening. I now have the perfect name for you… a perfect name for a perfect work of art.”

The artist stopped, his fingers dipping into the pocket of his suit in order to remove a small, golden plaque from within. He brought it upwards and held it out in front of him—it was positioned in such a way that it provided a preview of what it would look like when placed underneath the frame of the photograph, and a smile spread across the artist’s lips as he read over the two words that were written upon the plaque itself.

“She displayed such innocence tonight… and gave me the gift of pleasure that I have not known in many years. She gave me the gift of jubilation—something I have not felt for quite a long time. For that, mia cara, you were the inspiration for the name I was unable to speak to you.”

Written upon the plaque, carefully engraved into the metal by the artist himself, were the two words “Innocent Gift.”

=2=

Author’s Note (1): First and foremost, I know nothing about the Italian language. If words aren’t correct, and/or in the improper order, I swear it wasn’t intentional.

Author’s Note (2): A quick list of translations here for your convenience:

    -        Mia cara: my dear/my darling

    -        Mia amica: my friend

    -        Buon uomo: good sir/good man

    -        Meraviglioso: wonderful

Author’s Note (3): I am inexperienced with alcohol consumption, and spent (quite literally) hours researching various drinks/alcohol content and the various effects it has on people. That being said, each person is unique in the amount of alcohol they can handle, so Reader is a generalization of everyone. Not too much, and not too little. Also, I attempted to take into account how much alcohol is within each drink she ordered, and the amount of time she spent at the bar when writing her overall state of mind when she leaves the building.

Author’s Note (4): Just so no one is confused, my personal timeline for Stefano is as follows—in 2003, when Stefano was 18, he went overseas to photograph incidents of the Iraq War. He stayed for several years, until, in 2010, he took the photograph that cost him his right eye. He was sent home, and after successful rehabilitation, went on to begin his artistic career in all things dark and macabre. Since there are only so many dates to go by within documents in the games, I’m piecing together whatever I can using deep analysis.