"you're capable of sitting still, aren't you? not much of an artist like my parents, but I do wanna make sure this looks half decent." Hey
@peintson
“Good luck with that- you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
In truth, sitting still wasn’t the problem. The man was built to endure the roughest of conditions, a weapon sent on this expedition with intent. If he had to fight, he’d fight- if he was forced to jump, he’d go however high. This though? Was something else completely. Something that should have been as simple as breathing, but then again, he was far from any normal man. Such luxuries back home were not something he often dabbled in- where most would find passions in their practiced portraits- he was one that usually fell as a backdrop, a shadow within the paintings of day to day life. Never had he seen himself as something worth painting, not a muse, or a subject to find interesting at all. Yet here he was, determined to leave some mark that he existed on this canvas at all. When he was long gone, maybe this tiny piece of him would remain. And to be made by him? To be loved by his hands was a far greater gift than he could ever put into words.
It was why, despite his comment, he’d make no effort to move. Doing as he’d say, any request of his often met, even if he had to downplay his pleasure in doing so. Vulnerable for him and him alone- weapons and gear set aside- the loose ruffled collar giving way to painted scarred flesh beneath. Impurities for something like a canvas, a painter's worst nightmare, he’d imagine. Why his gaze would remain downcast, locks half shrouding his face as he was uncertain of the pose he desired. Warmth began to spread through him, feeling the gaze of the other upon him. Why he’d adjust his chin slightly, raising his downcast hues just enough to look his way for approval.
“You sure you want this? Plenty of others in the group to ask... It's not too late to change your mind, you know.”
