The Sculptor's Muse at Loose Id
A gay erotic romance between a blind artist and a jaded muse.
"Karl, a young painter, is struck blind almost over night by a merciless virus. Clarius, a jaded muse, is sent to watch over him. Muses are meant to remain an invisible, divine presence--but from the very beginning Clarius knows that this case will be different. Karl does not need abstract inspiration; he needs to be loved, and touched. But a vindictive female muse and Karl’s insane ex-boyfriend are hunting Clarius down--and the penalty for any muse revealing themselves to a mortal man is death! Clarius must leave the man he loves and the loss may tear them both apart."
The room was full of twisted lumps of clay, grotesques with misshapen limbs, and lopsided shapes with no side straight or deliberate and pleasing in its curves.
Karl was beginning to find his way about his own house without depending on vision, though it wasn't an easy process. His feet were bruised from kicking into the furniture, but he was learning, and his steps were starting to reach out in front of him again rather than crowd together like an old man always in fear of his balance. He was also progressing with the touch-typing software and was starting to find his way around the web again. Tara was even pushing him to go out of the house a bit more, but he still baulked at that.
At least she was leaving him alone during the day now, confident he wouldn't burn down the house or fall down the stairs in her absence. Clarius liked it better when they were alone. Karl settled back inside himself and found somewhere he could stand steadily and look around -- even if it was still at the bottom of a hole.
Karl reached out for the grimy towel, missing by half a foot. Clarius reached forward and made himself flesh enough to push the damp cloth close to Karl's hand. Karl felt the edge of it and reached over.
Clarius stayed in flesh a while, gliding with absolute silence over the traitorous floorboards of the old house. He looked back to Karl, who sat oblivious to the darkening dusk, toiling over another lump of clay, but rendering it little more than a shapeless mass of sodden slime.
With a sigh, Clarius turned back to the window. His own reflection regarded him with mournful eyes, a long face with deep-set eyes beneath a straight and serious brow line. His hair was ragged and short, in defiance of the usual way of muses with their glorious tresses. With hair, skin, and eyes all a moderate shade of brown, Clarius didn't imagine he met any artist's image of inspiration incarnate. The only obvious sign he was not an ordinary man was the traditional dress -- a scarlet-trimmed toga with a hem that brushed the floor.
A clank made him turn. Karl had dropped the blunt wooden tool Benji had lent him. It flipped and rolled halfway across the room. Karl was trying in his exhaustingly thorough way to create basic forms from the clay, trying to render geometric shapes with this simple wooden edge.
It was rather bending the rules, but Clarius gave in to temptation again. He walked over cautiously, bent, and nudged the tool across the floor. He pushed it within a few inches of Karl's sweeping fingertips.