Author: green_amber
Theme/kink: AU
Warnings: painfully vanilla
Rating: R
Word Count: 2851
Compliant to: Nothing at all!



Title: Il Ravanello's Apprentice
Pairing: Dean Thomas/Luna Lovegood
Summary: Exiled from England, Dean travels to Florence and seeks the tutelage of an eccentric artist.
Notes: Sorry, this fic should have been better than this, but RL ate my soul this month, and so this was more rushed that I meant it to be.

I took a few liberties with history. Even some of the stuff that looks right might actually be bullshit. If you have any questions about what's historically accurate and what's bollocks, just ask. :)

---

1485


With the strange sort of clarity that often comes at the bottom of one's third cup of wine, Dean finally realized what was wrong with the painting that adorned the taverna's back wall.

There were two things, actually. The first was the apple in Paris's hand. The room was dark and smoky, yet even through the murk Dean could almost swear the man was holding some sort of large radish, not an apple. The second was that, due to some peculiarity of the way the artist had painted the arms of the three goddesses, it almost looked like Paris was offering the prize to Athena rather than to Aphrodite.

Still, mistakes aside, there was something arresting about the piece, some alchemy of color and composition that drew his eyes back again and again, as if the faces painted on the canvas hinted at secrets more interesting than anything the taverna's flesh and blood patrons had to offer.

The bartender set another drink in front of Dean. He thanked the man, then realized he probably owned the taverna and would likely know the name of the artist. "Signor, if I might trouble you...I've a few questions about the painting on the wall."

The man smiled. "Certainly, signor."

"First, who painted it, and second...is that a radish?"

The bartender laughed. "Sí, that is a radish. He puts one in everything he does. That's why we call him Il Ravanello."

Now it was Dean's turn to laugh. "So it's some sort of in-joke then..."

"Ah, who knows why he does it? He's a little odd, if you ask me."

Dean began to wonder whether this Il Ravanello person might be just the sort of artist he was looking for. Skilled, to be sure, but if his work hung in taverns rather than in cathedrals, he might not be so well-known as to dismiss Dean with no more than a laugh and a rude gesture. A sense of humor, too. "Where might I find him?"

"Real name's Buonamore. Lives down by the Ponte Vecchio--here." The bartender traced his finger through the condensation on the bar and drew Dean a crude map.

"Thank you," said Dean, who for the first time since the beginning of his journey had some idea of where he was going.

---

"Please, Dean. You can't stay here. It's not safe. Not now."

"I can't leave you, Mother..."

"Yes, you can. And you will. Please. If anyone finds out your father was..."

"I'll worry about that if it happens."

"It's already happening. Anyone who might be kin to the old guard, anyone who might have a claim, even if it's only a rumor--Dean, you've got to go. You can come back when things calm down here."

"But where would I go?"

"Anywhere. Anywhere he can't reach you. Go to Italy if you like. Study art. You loved it, when we had that tutor..."

Dean sighed. "But will you be safe?"

"Yes. I'm not the one who's a threat to him."

"Very well. I'll go. But only to keep you safe."

---

Buonamore's house was easier to find than the bartender's hasty map had made it seem. The artist had painted the facade in a riot of color: twining ivy, climbing roses, jewel-bright serpents winding through orange trees heavy with fruit. Above the door, the name Buonamore was emblazoned against a huge red heart (or was it a radish?). Dean's instinct was to think the work garish, but somehow it fit, here in this city where the sky was a blinding blue even now, in October. There was something about it that cheered him.

He rapped at the door.

"Come in," called a voice.

Dean walked into the parlor and blinked, both because the room was dim to one who'd been bathed in the Tuscan sunlight all morning, and because the room was an astounding mess. Signor Buonamore was seated at a table, quill flying furiously over parchment as he flipped through the pages of a heavy tome; the table was so covered in books and documents that Dean could not see its surface. The floor, too, was littered with crumpled parchment and splayed books. The bookshelves that lined the walls bowed and listed, seemingly held up by nothing more than the whim of a benevolent God.

From the far wall, a sinuous Eve smiled, holding out the now-ubiquitous radish as though to offer it to him. Dean smiled back, though of course the painting couldn't see him. Amid this chaos, the art was his lodestar; he could tolerate the squalor if it meant learning to create such beauty.

"Signor," Dean began. He hadn't the slightest inkling of how such relationships were negotiated. "I'm...er, I'm Dean Thomas. Just arrived from England."

"England, you say?" The old man looked up from his writing and swept back a mass of white hair from his eyes. "Sit down, by all means. I've been starved for news from England for months."

Dean sat, swallowing to banish a sick feeling that threatened to rise into his throat. The last thing he wanted to talk about was England and its news. Its politics. "I'm not sure if I can help you, Signor; I'm not privy to all of the complexities of--"

"But do you know if anyone has sighted a Barghest there recently?"

A wave of relief washed through Dean's body. Mythical creatures were a safer subject than the one he'd thought Buonamore was asking about. "Can't say as I do, sir."

"A pity. Magnificent creatures."

There was a rustling of skirts then, as a young woman glided into the room. She was small, no more than chest-high to Dean, but her form curved gracefully beneath a loose, simple gown of palest blue. Her hair was gold, ripples upon ripples cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and bespoke curiosity and good humor. She was also, without a doubt, the model for Eve.

The artist's mistress, then. Dean averted his eyes. He doubted Buonamore would be disposed favorably toward him if he knew Dean was admiring his lady love.

"Ah, Signor Thomas, meet the light of my life." Buonamore rose to his feet and clasped one arm around the woman. "This is my daughter, Luna. Luna, this is Signor Thomas. From England."

Daughter?

Dean looked at the woman again, then at the painting. Buonamore's daughter. And he made her pose for him in the nude? "Signor..."

"Yes?"

Dean clenched and unclenched his fists. Striking the man would do no good, he knew; his plan was to give the man a piece of his mind and leave, though the thought of leaving the girl here with Buonamore made him uneasy. "Sir, she's your daughter, it's wrong. I'm very sorry, but I simply must--"

Luna's laughter rang through the room. "Signor Thomas, I think I know what troubles you. Please, let it trouble you no longer." She stepped forward, toward him, and he saw that she had a dab of lapis-blue pigment on her nose.

She...

"It was I who painted it," said Luna.

---

"Tell me about the radish."

Luna tapped Dean on the wrist with her brush and smiled. "Didn't I specifically tell you to paint that bowl of fruit? Lazy, lazy."

"Very well. I'll get back to work. But only if you tell me about the radish while I'm doing it."

He'd discovered, during his first few days in the Buonamore house, that the radishes were everywhere, not just in her work. They grew in the tiny garden behind the house and appeared in most of the dishes Luna prepared. At that moment Luna was wearing two of them suspended from her ears as though they were the loveliest of gems. She twirled one between her fingers as she spoke.

"They're not radishes. They're called Dirigible Plums, and they confer the ability to believe the impossible."

Dean pondered this, particularly in the context of Luna's work. "You painted Eve with one, instead of the apple. May I ask why? I've always been under the impression that this movement, this way of life here in Italy was about seeking knowledge, not about blind faith, and the apple is the fruit of knowledge. You paint like a humanist, Luna, but you've put the fruit of belief in Eve's hand."

"Knowledge is a beautiful thing," said Luna, "but how would we ever find it, if we hadn't the ability to first believe?"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Before Eve could eat the apple, it had to occur to her that maybe God was fibbing, that maybe she wouldn't die if she ate it. God lying? Impossible. Yet she believed it, and so won knowledge."

"I think I begin to see..."

"Look out the window, Dean."

He went to the window and looked out over the sea of red-tiled roofs. His eyes were drawn inexorably to the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, rising majestically above the city.

"They told him it was impossible to build that, you know," Luna said, leaning her head against his shoulder. "He proved them wrong."

---

In February, Dean heard shouting in the streets and followed the sound to the Piazza San Croce. It took him a moment to make sense of what he saw there, but eventually he concluded he was witnessing some sort of game. Brawls, as a rule, didn't involve a ball.

He watched, taking it in, and from the cheering of the crowd surmised that the players scored by throwing or kicking the ball into a particular area on the opposing team's side of the square. One team wore blue, the other green, and factions of the crowd had dressed to support their side. The game was rough and led to a few bloody noses, but Dean couldn't take his eyes from the fast-paced action, and wished he could join the game.

He got his wish when one of the blue players stumbled and cried out, clutching his ankle. One of the fallen man's teammates looked Dean up and down as though appraising him; his smile of approval, Dean thought, was probably attributable to Dean's unusual height.

"How would you like to give it a try?" the man asked.

"I'd love to. Except I haven't got a blue shirt on."

In a trice, Dean was outfitted in the injured player's shirt, and play resumed. He found the exertion exhilarating, the thrill of scoring even better, and when his side won, that was the best of all.

The man who'd recruited him slapped him on the back and grinned. "Not bad, for your first game. Not bad at all. Say, you wouldn't happen to be looking for a job, would you? I could use a big, strong man like you."

The word bodyguard hung in the air unsaid, and Dean turned the idea over in his mind. Money, to be sure, but at what cost? He'd just met this man; was he a good man or a bad one, and perhaps more importantly, what labyrinth of politics would Dean be entering? What friends would he make by this, and what enemies? He hadn't come here to become embroiled in the games of the aristocracy yet again. He felt a longing, suddenly, to be at home, painting with Luna, discussing unicorns over dinner with Signor Buonamore.

"I can't, Signor. I'm apprenticed to someone."

The man shrugged. "Ah, well, it didn't hurt to ask. But you're still welcome to play with us anytime."

"I just might," said Dean.

He was halfway back to the Ponte Vecchio before he realized he'd thought of the Buonamore house as home.

---

"It's very good," said Luna, examining the drawing Dean had just done of his mother's house back in London. "Do you think you'll go back?"

"Not yet," he said. "Maybe someday."

"Papa and I traveled quite a bit, after Mama died. It's hard, being away from home. They say when you're from Florence, you don't get homesick, you get dome-sick, but really it's the same thing, isn't it?"

Dean nodded. "I would imagine so, yes."

Luna bit her lip as though considering saying something, which surprised Dean as he'd never known her to hold back when words rose to her lips. He saw her chest rise and fall in two deep breaths, then, "When you leave and go back to England, I'll be very...Dean-sick."

The words, and the blush that painted her cheeks with carmine suddenly, could mean only one thing, and it turned Dean's legs to jelly and his voice to a hoarse whisper. "You mean that..."

"There's no point in ignoring it, is there? I'm beginning to think I've fallen in love with you. Please, do try not to laugh..."

He didn't laugh. Instead, he pulled her close and kissed her until he couldn't breathe> He pulled away then and held her at arm's length, and said, "I think I've fallen in love with you as well, Luna Buonamore."

"You see?" Her wide silvery eyes seemed to hold stars as she looked up at him. "One simply must believe in the impossible."

She rose on tiptoe to meet his lips again and tugged him toward the door, down the corridor, to the room he knew was hers, the threshold of which he'd never before crossed.

"Your father will be angry," he said.

"Papa has gone to Rome." Luna closed the door behind them. "There's a rumor of Folletto activity there. I thought about going with him, but then I had a better idea."

Dean stood back from the bed as though it might bite, afraid of hurting her, afraid she would hate him come morning and he'd lose one of the best friendships of his life. Luna must have sensed his hesitation; she climbed in amid the embroidered covers and tugged at his hand. "Please," she said.

She turned her back to him so that he could reach the laces of her gown. It was a simple knot and Dean could be quite adept with his fingers at times, yet somehow tonight he seemed to have ten thumbs, and he managed to tie the laces even tighter and then break one before he finally managed to loosen them and slip the gown over Luna's head. It fell in a heavy heap to the floor, and Dean swallowed when he saw Luna nude and waiting. He thought of Venuses and scallops, and of forbidden fruits promising knowledge, and then, that he needed to lose himself in this moment, think about art in the morning, because this was Luna, flesh and blood, not a metaphor or a symbol or a goddess he didn't believe in.

The only one he did believe in.

He stripped quickly, sending his clothes to lie with Luna's gown on the bedroom floor, and after that he never knew which of them reached for the other first. Her body was pressed tight to his, her skin hot to the touch. He'd always imagined it would be cool, her face impassive, gentle and distant as the moon. Instead she was eager, her breath ragged against his flesh, soft moans escaping her throat as Dean caressed her breasts, as he nibbled at the shell-curve of her ear.

He cupped the curve of her arse, pulled her closer until his cock nudged at her sex. "Are you certain?" he asked.

"Sí."

---

Dean lay curled around Luna as the night fell, as the moon rose to bathe them in its pale luminance. Somehow, though he couldn't see her face, he knew she wasn't sleeping.

"Luna?"

"Mmmm?"

"I just realized I never asked you about Paris."

"Paris? The city? I'm sure it's lovely, but why..."

"No, Paris from your painting. Why does it look like he's choosing Athena?"

"Oh, that? I did it on purpose. I used to think it was the silliest thing I'd ever heard, that someone would choose love over wisdom." She snuggled closer, her hair tickling his chin as she leaned into his chest. "Now...I can at least see why it might have been hard to choose."

In the silvery light, Dean could see that Luna was smiling.