#bellamy.

Though Cleo considered music her primary artistic field, she was plenty fond of fine arts as well. She did not practice it much besides the scribbles she made in her notebook, but she was an enthusiastic visitor of museums, galleries and exhibition. There was an itch within her, after all, to see what artists were up to these days or had been up to before — without a supply of some art to consume at the daily, she became a restless creature. More restless than usual, anyhow. 

And so she had ventured into a small exhibition in town, where a local artist’s graphic work lined the walls. It was not very inspiring, altogether, Cleo found. It was dull, if she could be frank, but she was yet to find another visitor or even a host to share her opinions with. Humans and their need to make art were the very thing that gave her life (and she returned it), but sometimes she figured it was better if some humans just put down the brush, pencil or Adobe software. Because really, what was new about these mixed media pieces? 

She stared at one of the pieces hanging on the wall, which was another poor imitation of Basquiat’s art style with some Lichtenstein and Warhol mixed into it. She saw so much of this, these days. She grimaced, face contorting with physical pain. A pair of footsteps made her turn around, eyes falling on a stranger. “Are you the artist?” She tried to keep her tone light. Though Cleo wasn’t able to lie, she certainly could play with the human rules of politeness as most humans did. “Or just … a witness, like me?” Witness sounded right. This was a crime.

—

Frowning, Bellamy glanced around the area he had just entered. It wasn't that he intentionally wanted to be here. These kinds of things gave him a discomforting feeling. He supposed it was just his own mind, though. Not everyone was that vapid as he sometimes imagined them to be. Everyone also had to eat. But he didn't want to be here right now. He was not looking to be here, right now. But here he was, still, in this small exhibition happening in town, looking at the local works of the people about town.

Some, he imagined, were pleasantly out of their minds. Others, not so pleasantly. He wouldn't say which camp he stayed in mostly, just that he was feeling out of his mind, in general, either way. Bellamy twisted his nose up a bit as he observed the works in front of him, trying to figure out what works were driven by what kind of mind. Many of which were just copies of beach views or such. The typical 'I'm getting into painting as a hobby' sort. Not as a passion hobby though. Just someone who's just entered retirement and has nothing to do.

Clearing his throat a little. Bellamy lifts his head a little as he moves along to another work. When the woman he was nearing suddenly asked if he was an artist, Bellamy thought for a moment, “In a way.” He was. As she continued, he raised his eyebrows at that, “But I witness more, yeah.” Turning his head to look more at what she was observing, he could see why she sounded a bit…irritated, “Ah. I see why- who wants to witness something like this?” He asked with a grimace.

—

Oh, sweet relief. The other person did not seem to be disillusioned about what constituted as great art and she took his grimace as a confirmation that he shared her thoughts on how good the art was. Though she would have welcomed a debate about how all this art was uninspiring (there was some potential in one sketch, hidden in a corner) and overdone. Pop art had been revolutionary for its time, but by now it felt like grasping at straws, didn’t it?

“What do you mean, in a way? Is your work on display here?” Cleo figured it best to establish whether the other was responsible for any of the pieces before she started a potential tirade. She wasn’t entirely fond of insulting artists, even if she did it aplenty. Giving constructive criticism was her duty, as a muse — but sometimes her constructive criticism did tend to border on a negative pile-on. She really tried to reign it in, but sometimes people just squandered their potential so badly that it was fully offensive.

Before, she would have taken that offense and used it to find a charge. She would make the art better by feeding off the artist. These days, she usually abstained and found release in attempting to verbally inspire those that were misdirecting their potential. Or, worse, she just didn’t bother. Cleo eyed one of the pieces behind her conversation partner. “Certainly not I. There’s something very … pedestrian about this. Crafty, but then done by a man who’s never actually done arts and crafts and thinks he can practice dadaism and pop art because it ‘looks easy’.”

—

Looking over the art still, he supposed, some efforts could still be rewarded, regardless of how it all turned out. No one was born naturally good at everything they touched, he wasn't one to grade anyone on that, either. Bellamy did, however, have reasonable expectations, personal, perhaps, to great fault. But that was perhaps, he might imagine, the reason one was meant to be an individual, to have personal interests. Not everyone was meant to like everything, just because someone put effort into it. Just because someone else expected. Perhaps, it might have to do with his being, as well, a judgmental kind of person. He let out a breath, still certain that all effort mattered, but not all end results of that effort needed to be held up to standards it did not deserve, just for existing. Though he knew this was just the same conversation he had been having with Baz, not that long ago.

At Cleo's asking what he meant by what he said, he adjusted his head a little, “Oh. I just mean, I am a hobby collector. I guess. You could call it. Though, some of my favorite hobbies have some artistic value. Like, metalworking. Or better, singing! I even make candy, which can be kind of artistic, right, and a snack!” He nodded with that, giving an adorable, brief smile, “No. I actually don't have anything on display here.” Feeling far too anxious to do anything like that, due to how his caretakers treated his other endeavors while he was growing up. Bellamy absently brought his hands together, toying with his fingers nervously for a moment as he looked half despondently toward some more art, distracting himself.

Looking again back to Cleo, he smiled, once more as she spoke, shifting his head a bit as she said that, looking to the piece, “Very.” Bellamy agreed. His eyebrows rose slightly, “A man? You can tell by looking at it?” Maybe there was a name he just hadn't seen, though? Bellamy looked for it briefly, but wasn't stuck on finding it, “We…” Swallowing thickly, dramatically, “Love. Guys, like that, right?” His minor disgust was visible on his face, which had scrunched a bit. “Just getting into the hobby and already, they think they've mastered it. Mostly, a lot seemed to just be copied, rather than innovative.” He postured, “Which is easier, when getting into hobbies. To copy, while learning, of course. Though I like when others branch out from that stage, and start making original works.” Bellamy held his hands together, confirming this with himself, and a head nod.

—

Hobbies were such a sweet thing, she found. Cleo tried to have some of her own, at times, though they often did end up being artistic in nature. She had read in a self help book that hobbies were good for coping with loss, but she found all the suggestions hard to deal with. Hiking just made her think too much. Going to a gym made her feel depressed. Playing chess was frustrating. Things like fabric art, though, or doodling? Those were more tolerable and kept her hands busy. They yielded a result, too, something to hold or perceive.

“I understand,” she said, “I love to collect things myself. Records, mostly, and some rare books. Oh, and instruments! It is good to occupy oneself with artistic pursuits. I’m mostly into making music, but I dabble. Candy making, though? I’ve never thought of that … perhaps it’s worth exploring.” She was both disappointed and relieved that the other had no work on display in the gallery, because she was in the mood to give some good feedback. If it had been these works that he was the creative mind behind, though, she would have been at least a tinge embarrassed.

She chuckled, “No, no, I’m just assuming. A bit … backwards of me, I suppose.” Cleo moved to the little sign posted next to one of the artworks and read the artist’s name. “Robin … guess we’ll never know.” She looked back up to the fellow patron, shrugging. “Women know how to go about it quite well, too. There’s no shame in some copying, in being inspired, but I do think it needs to bring something new. What does this tell us, besides that this person studied some artists well? What is universal about this besides recognition of what we’ve seen already?” She clicked her tongue. “It reads to me like someone who said ‘a three-year-old can do this’ and then decided to try. Which, I admit, is more than most do. For that, I salute them. I hope their future holds more inspiring work.”

—

There were so many hobbies out there. Yet, some seemed quite content in not having any, unless they counted doom-scrolling and complaining all the time as a hobby. Bellamy didn't. He liked to collect things, observe bugs, and make friends when possible. He liked to be active. To distract from the racket that would otherwise fill his mind, and often did when alone at home. Not so much lately, though, he supposed. But that was because of his little invader, not because he had stopped thinking about things, alone, at home.

“Oh?” Looking up at Cleo, he grinned briefly, listening to her, then nodded as he looked back away, looking over toward the walls of art, “Records are nice. Good for physical media collecting.” He blinked, looking back at her, “What kind of rare books? I have quite a collection going myself. Though some I- uh. Got with my house. So I kind of cheated.” He laughs weakly, “And instruments, got some of those with my house, too. Don't know how to play them, though. But I guess if I spruce them up, I could try to learn.” Resting his head in his right hand, looking at some of the art on display thoughtfully, “It is, you're right. Artistic pursuits are some of my favorite ones. Though I enjoy some sports every now and again.” Not by much, though, just a few, and often one's he could do on his own, even if it wasn't meant to be sport one did on their own, “What's your music genre?”

“It's nice. You get a treat at the end, too. Treats for friends, too! It's often well received.” He nodded his head, grinning as he mused about a few memories of giving candy to some of his friends, “Isn't anything worth trying once? Well, at least many things.” Bellamy nodded his head at that. He stared at the piece she moved to, reading the name of the artist, “Robin's a nice name. But, yeah, a bit ambiguous. Probably for the better.” Bellamy clicked his tongue softly, “Suppose not, it's still being made by hand. I'd hope. But you're right. Eventually, it should inspire the creation of something new. I don't know how many more Bob Ross trees I can take, with some of these.” Laughing a bit, he waved toward a row of them, “But, I'll chalk it up to practice.” Bellamy nodded his head, acknowledging what Cleo was saying next, “Mhm. Mhm. I could be, in part, a fear of branching out. The fear of something different, being received less positively. So a lot of them get stuck in a loop.” Twirling his index finger on his left hand up into a circular motion at this.

—

She wanted to tell him that she had known a time when physical media was almost all they had. That the only media that was not physical was that of live music or oral narratives. The internet had changed all of it in the span of a few decades and Cleo often still felt she was playing catch up. At least the iPod era had been tolerable, but the subscription models that ruled everything now (even fridges!) was too much for her to grasp.

“It is wonderful to own things. Some disagree, and want us to only rent digital copies — but it is good to own things. I run a record store. I am glad it’s still running.” Cleo had seen people rise through the internet, but had seen businesses like hers fall, too. It was a double edged sword. “Some Tolkien … some Austen, Brontë …” She cut herself off. Her collection was rare because she’d lived through some historic publications, as had her kin before her. “It sounds like you bought quite the interesting house … or was this an inheritance? What instruments interest you most? String, percussion, brass or woodwind? Or something more electronic? I have an omnichord that I’m fond of at present.” She considered the question on her genre for a moment. “That is a tough question. I am classically trained originally, on violin. But these days I lean more towards indie and rock. Some folk, some country… I am versatile.”

Cleo chuckled. Human food did little for her, as did putting in work for treats or friends, but the other made it almost sound nice. “So what kind of candy? Hard candy?” She nodded. “We must be open to trying new things. Otherwise I see no point at all. Though there are some things we should skip, ha.” At the mention of Bob Ross her face twisted a little. For all the charm that man had held, she found his art motel-wall worthy at best. Still, getting people to paint was not something she could fault him for. “It’s such a tricky discussion, isn’t it? When something is art and when something is … hobby, for lack of a better word. There’s no black, no white, but for art’s sake, those Bob Ross trees are done. He had a wonderful voice, though.” She could not understand the fear that Bellamy described, but she had seen it aplenty. That was where muses often wormed themselves in and offered inspiration to get the juices flowing. “It can be scary I suppose, to be daring and honest in ones art.” She moved onto a different peace. Though she tried to ignore the glass-panneling in front of the sketch, it was hard. And not for no reason — she was glowing. She did not need to look longer at her reflection mixing with the sketch to know she was also showing off pointy ears and iridescent eyes now. Dread settled in her stomach. Was this her? Or was something larger amiss in this forsaken town? 

—

He smiled toward Cleo, he could not agree more. Owning things, especially physical things, was absolutely a wonderful thing to do. Even more so in this day and age, with everything going digital, if it could be. Or minimalist. Ugh. A word he had hated hearing by now. Downsizing this, downsizing that. It was certainly maddening after a while. Listening to some people talking, in general. But talk about their boring lives of minimalism. Where was the character? The part of themselves to show to the world without having to describe it? Clutter. They would say. As if having a personality on display was a sin. Bellamy nodded at Cleo's pride in the record store still running, “Definitely a fine accomplishment for these times. Right? But the records are coming back in style!”

The world went a little funny to him for a moment. Like a shiver and a ripple had ripped through it. Bellamy blinked as things brightened, pulling away, then blurring in his vision. Though he watches Cleo as she's talking about books then cuts herself off. Then, at the question of his house, he shook his head, “Oh. No. I bought it. It was abandoned out there for some time…and so, perfect for buying with what savings I had at the time.” He let out an amused huff, “My parents don't really have an inheritance.” He finished with.

Thinking about his caretakers putting him through many instruments over the years of his life before he could finally get away from them, Bellamy frowns a little bit. His breathing picked up slightly for a moment, looking as if he were thinking hard at that moment, “Did a bit of dabbling through things. Finally decided on piano.” Smiling at that answer, he nodded. Bringing up his hands then, he made an easy motion with them, as though tapping the keys of a piano. Pushing down the dread that was in his chest to the memories and emotions that threatened to burst right up to the surface, from the time he had learned these motions.

“It was always so fun, distracting.” Lowering his hands, he continued to feel weird. Making a face as Cleo explained to him what she had played, her training there, “Ah. Omnichord. I should probably try other instruments again. But with remodeling the house, and tending to my other hobbies, there's not much time.” Nodding as she continued to tell him her interests at the moment, he grinned, “Yeah, I'd say I'm about the same! I just like what sounds good. Not any specific genres. I like to venture through all.”

Bellamy shifted in his stance, thinking about all the candy he had made, then shrugged his shoulders up to his ears for a moment, “Oh, just anything, actually. I like candy, and you can make anything with candy, right?” Listening intently as Cleo continued, he nodded his head along with what she was saying, in complete agreement with it, “Yeah. Probably didn't help a lot that now he's got a lot of copies out there, especially since the challenge culture has been building substantially. I meaaaan…. Painting with Bob Ross while blindfolded?” His eyebrows rose at this, and he shook his head, “People are very bored, if not artistic.”

Though, after another moment or so, something seemed even more odd, she seemed more odd, actually. His eyes narrowed a bit on her as he thought she might be glowing, “Aahh…” He figured it as just him, and his probably being overheated in this sun, his allergy messing with him. Bellamy looked up toward the sky, squinting under the sun's light. Then looked back at Cleo, noticing even more. Were her ears now pointed? Were her eyes different? Was he hallucinating this after being in the sunlight too long? “I think… the sun's a bit bright today!”

—

“So they are. Even cassettes are having their moment,” she said, smiling vaguely. A part of her was pessimistic about the developments. It felt like another trend that would die out, all the physical media that was created now lost to landfills. But Cleo wanted to have hope and trust in humanity too, and figured many of them would turn against the subscription models that were overwhelming them all. “Honestly, it sounds quite nice. Buying a house abandoned with so much. Do you wonder about the stories left there?” At the mention of his parents having no inheritance for him, she said nothing. Cleo wasn’t entirely sure how likely and normal such things were among humans. Her parents were still alive, after all, and monetary possessions were few and far between among her aos sí. 

“Piano!” She beamed at him, watching the other play an air piano with amusement. “A classic and so very versatile. What did you like to play? Classical, or pop? Jazz? Or something else?” She hoped her questions didn’t come on too strong. Cleo just liked hearing humans (and others) speak of their artistic pursuits. Especially when surrounded by such mediocre paintings, she craved proper creativity. Her face turned a little more sad, then. “Ah, that’s a pity. I hope you get more time to play soon. The accordion is a nice forray away from guitar that feels somewhat similar, I always think. If I can give a suggestion.” 

This was a good conversation to engage in, she thought. At least a gallery was still a place where she could meet like minded people, rather than frown at art she didn’t enjoy. “Ha, that is true,” she said, even if she wasn’t all too knowledgeable on the subject. Human food was no necessity for her, and she didn’t indulge in much of it despite what was needed for appearances and some favored meals. Olives were among her favorite food, though that might be because they often came with martinis. (She hated those maraschino cherries, though.) “Oh wow, I have never seen those kinds of challenges. Boredom can lead to quite interesting things … and that one doesn’t seem to be very interesting, but definitely entertaining. Better than what the youth was doing with cinnamon, a few years ago.” That almost one and a half decade wasn’t ‘a few years’ didn’t register to her.

Cleo turned her head away swiftly, looking down at her arms. A glow was emitted from them and she rolled down her sleeves, moving to try and cover as much skin as she could. Though there had been days where she had envied other fae for having wings, she was glad that she did not have them today. Those were even harder to hide. “Yes,” she said, “The sun! Very bright. I think … yes, I think it’s best I go.” She should start wearing clothing with hoods, so she could cover her ears better. Cleo started to fiddle with her hair to hide her ears, but due to the frantic movements that came with the panic of her glamour faltering, it wasn’t going as well. “The bathroom … I must go. It’s urgent!” She let out a sound of pain at the lie. Though urgency was certainly needed, it wasn’t as if she had need for a toilet break. She started looking around for the nearest exit, iridescent eyes catching Bellamy. Then, in the far distance, she heard something howl. “Really urgent!” Her mind went to Oliver and Isidore, breath catching in her throat. “Pardon me!”

__

Bellamy grinned, looking at more of the art, before looking down, “Should be a fun moment for now. It might even lower the prices for a bit, for that type of thing. So people can finally finish their nostalgia rooms for that time.” He murmured, smiling a little. He really didn't remember much from that time, of course. Perhaps mostly due to the trauma he had lived through, or maybe even just because he was so young then. At the question of his house, he lifted his head up again, then nodded, “Oh. Yeah! Absolutely. It seems to me, from what I have gone through, is that one family owned it for the longest time. Then, one day, or a year, actually. All the memories just stopped.” Bellamy made a thoughtful face, “From what I have found so far, the latest thing that was ever brought into that house was something from the early 2000s.” He grinned uneasily, “It was a tv!”

But there were certainly stories, photo albums of families. Maybe just one. Maybe more. It seemed to him that there could have been several. The house was old enough to carry those things. But why would different families have kept all that the other families had left? Or, well, perhaps not all. It didn't seem like the home had many moves out of it. Though he could be wrong, “I did find a photo almost all boxed up in the attic. But I haven't gotten around to looking through them.” Bellamy exhaled, laughing a bit at himself. For all his talk of curiosity, his curiosity about his home was lacking. As he had mostly moved to put things in storage. The house was in such disrepair when he had moved in that he put that in the main focus of what he needed to work on.

In eleven years, he had managed to repair many of the rooms to their finest. At least, the important rooms that he needed immediately. Other rooms around the house were still needed work. At Cleo's excitement about the piano playing, a crooked smile formed on Bellamy's lips as she asked him questions quickly, following that, “Mostly classical. Sometimes I would play a blend of modern intertwined with the classics.” Which sometimes would earn him a pop to the back of the head by whichever caretaker was around monitoring him, “I need to finish the music room first.” He then said. Though, considering her suggestion of an accordion, “Could be a nice addition!” Though he could imagine one was probably hidden in the place. Itself. A new one certainly wouldn't have hurt, though.

Smiling still, he adjusted his body, shifting in his stance as he tried to not feel nervous. It was easy, Cleo seemed like someone easy for him to get along with. Though he could also imagine, like with many. This being the only time they spoke. Many people had busy lives, and he understood that. So he never tried to encroach. Believing that if someone wanted to meet up more with him, that it would happen. Not that he had been thinking of that so much now. They were still perfect strangers. He swallowed, feeling a little silly that the thought had even come up. Listening to Cleo, he nodded his head, “Yeah. Some of them are getting way out of hand! I don't participate. But it's very disheartening to see that people my age, or younger, even. Would do these challenges, but not read a book!”

He grimaced a bit at the mention of the cinnamon challenge, “Ugh. I've never been so disgusted by cinnamon, seeing some of those videos.” Sticking out his tongue a bit, his features moved to a more disgusted expression for a brief moment.

However, when she started to shine, he thought he might have said something weird and acted a little oddly. Being in a rush to leave made sense. He thought he might have just said or done something, and it wasn't that she was shiny, and her shape was changing before his eyes. Not at all. Because that wasn't something that happened to normal people! Of course. Bellamy nods, “Ah. Well, alright. Maybe I'll see you around sometime?” He nodded, not sure she was just going to be going to the bathroom. People always said such things when they left you with the bill on a bad date, or something. Not that he had experienced this kind of thing personally. But he had heard the stories. Lifting his hand up awkwardly, he gave a short few waves as she dismissed herself, “Byyye.” He mumbled airily, confused before looking back at the art wall again, trying to figure out what he must have done this time to chase someone off.

__

It was really quite frustrating, all of this. Cleo was keen to continue the conversation with this fellow patron of the arts, as he had interesting observations and was easy to keep the conversation flowing with. She loved moments like this, spontaneous in nature and not too marked by potential consequence. Perhaps she would see this stranger again and engage in dialogue once more, and perhaps she wouldn’t. Not a lot depended on it, not a lot was marred by the usual clouds that fell over her life. 

At least, that was until her glamour had fallen and had taken away the casual nature of the conversation. An unglamoured muse could move among humans – she often had – but not in the way she was now. She was not feasting, was not taking Bellamy along in her nature to give him something in return. There was no revelry, no ecstasy, no art being made that warranted her true nature to shine in all its glory. This was a moment where Cleo was pretending to be as human as she could, engaging in inconsequential conversation and now it was gone, taken from her. She wanted to know more about Bellamy’s house and the strange things he had found, or the hobbies he partook in. She wanted to speak more about her passion for music and exchange what they had both played. A mix of modern and classic, he’d said — she wished to know more. She wanted to recommend more. She wanted to complain about the challenges the youth kept coming up with as if there wasn’t enough that made life interesting.

But alas, there was an urgency coursing through her body. Bellamy was reacting calmly, not jumping to pull out some kind of weapon, which was a good thing. He was also not asking her about her changed appearance, prodding her with questions. He was not dying at the sight of her unglamoured form either, which was proving Siobhan right — a very frustrating thing. Cleo was mostly glad that Bellamy was not some kind of shapeshifter or ravenous undead creature, succumbing to a feral nature that wanted to see her dead. All in all, she was getting very lucky, even though she certainly didn’t feel like it.