Those tiredness buried under the smile, those clear yet lingering melancholy, those emotions that are so heavy that the artist feels a slight soreness in his heart just by looking at them.

"Kitahara..."

Wilde sighed and stretched out his hand upwards, as if he wanted to touch something unknown. His emerald eyes looked into a void that did not exist in this world, as if he was talking softly to something: "Are you lonely?

?”

No one answered him.

But Wilde sighed, as if he had gotten an answer, and smiled: "Yes, I know, of course you won't feel lonely. You just stay in the memories a little bit."

"But this is very troublesome. Should I draw you as you are at this moment, or as you are in my memories?"

He started over, straightened his clothes, neatly smoothed the wrinkles on them, and smiled to himself.

"What? You want to come out and talk to me? That's not possible, my dear. Although I also call you Beiyuan, you are not him. Even if you come out - you should be more perfect."

Wilde walked to the easel in his bedroom, touched the painting covered with cloth with his fingers, and said with a chuckle.

He had already begun to write this painting, but he had never shown it to Kitahara and Kaede, and Kitahara and Kaede had never asked to see the painting, which made Wilde feel very relieved.

The painter tilted his head, as if he was listening carefully to what the painting was saying. Finally, he smiled, reached out and took off the pale canvas, and looked at it tenderly.

There is soft affection in those green eyes.

Above the painting are Kitahara and Kaede.

But it’s not Kitahara and Kaede either.

The person in the portrait has the same black hair as Kitahara and Kaede, but his eyes are also pure black, which makes his face look a little pale. His face is not as delicate as that of his friend, but it has a bubble-like illusion.

He was wearing a hospital gown. The bright sunshine outside was shining on his face, adding a bit of soft color and a little vitality to his eyebrows.

If a traveler were to stand here, he would be surprised to find that the person in the painting is 90% similar to his appearance in his previous life.

The pair of melancholy black eyes, like glass beads soaked in ice wine, stared at Wilde silently and quietly, as if they were sighing as lightly as a butterfly.

"Shh, Beiyuan, stop talking."

Wilde reached out and touched the eyes of the portrait. His voice sounded very soft, with a bit of connivance for his own artwork, but his words were frivolous and cruel:

"I just call you that because I haven't given you a name yet. Don't think that you can really come out of the picture and replace his identity in this world. You are just a picture: a picture that is not even as beautiful as him.

Painting, do you understand?”

"You are just a poor imitation, my dear. You cannot even restore the contradictory and complex beauty in him. If he is the exquisite and ingenious nine-link chain in the East, then you are a chain that is at least a little delicate."

The painter looked at the painting and suddenly laughed: "Oh, are you sad? I'm really sorry. I will never learn to lie or be tactful in front of beauty."

He turned around happily in the bedroom, followed brisk steps to the place where the painting tools were placed, reached out and picked up a paintbrush, and lifted it lightly, just like a professor lifting their pointer, smiling broadly.

The ground opened his mouth:

“First of all, you need to know Mr. Oscar Wilde’s first principle of aesthetics: Beauty is supreme!”

"Nothing mediocre in the world can compare with beauty. She is so powerful in purifying our souls and guiding us to higher places. She is also so longed for by humans. Even nature! It also obeys

The principles of beauty.”

"So, you!"

Wilde held the brush, suddenly calmed down his expression, and pointed seriously at the portrait: "I think even if you are painting, you should have enough self-awareness, right?"

"Wilde?"

Beihara and Feng's voices sounded outside the door, even a little confused: "What did you say? The food is ready, pack it up and come over. Don't let it get cold and you don't plan to eat it."

"...Oh, I know, Kitahara!"

Wilde was silent for a few seconds, feeling that the atmosphere was interrupted, but he still smiled and answered.

He threw the brush into the room, looked up at the painting, and covered the canvas again, but at this moment, he heard the last words spoken by the painting.

"...Ah, you mean Verlaine."

The painter kept his movements unchanged and put the canvas on it with a relaxed posture: "There is nothing to worry about."

Naturally, he also knew the "Verlaine" in Beiyuan's mouth:

After all, the year before last, the Bell Tower Attendant had stormed into the British Royal Palace because of Verlaine and almost had a fight with the Paris Commune. He also got a taste of it in London.

According to common sense, he should be a little more vigilant: after all, he doesn't want Kitahara and Feng to know his identity, nor does he want him to know the things he has done. He just wants to communicate with each other as the simplest painter.

"But I believe him."

Wilde tilted his head and said with a smile.

Even though he didn't know what he believed, he believed it.
Chapter completed!