INTERIOR - A room on the 3rd floor of the Ruttford branch of the Silvo's Inn and Suites, a reasonably nice-leaning inn business in the Windnds. Appeals mostly to travelling merchants and other businessmen. Offers reasonably sized, well-furnished rooms, with spacious and comfortable bathroom appliances. And miniature iceboxes. How nifty!Presently, the room has been reorganized- The chairs and desks have been moved to one side, and the bed has been pushed as close to the wall as possible. Mouse does not intend to move anything back to where it was before checking out in the morning, and will instead leave his mess for the help to clean up. An easel and a set of paints, as well as a multitude of brushes, ys near the center, facing the window, from which the early evening sun shines through.
PRESENT - THE BOY (wearing his usual threadbare, peasant clothes. Currently standing outside the door of the room, having just knocked on the door.) MOUSE (Same as before. A tall, lithe, elegant young man, with flowing blonde hair and emerald-gold robes. Currently excitedly walking towards the door, in response to the previously mentioned knocking.)
TIME - Early evening. A nice, early-evening sun streams its gentle light through the window.
"Ah! At st, you've arrived!" Mouse excimed with a-little-too-eager smile as he pulled the door open, his eyes practically gleaming with anticipation. "No sense standing on ceremony, come, come!" He quickly stepped back, waving the boy in as he approached his favorite art stool.
"okay." The boy nodded, and less quickly followed him.
This meeting has been a long time coming. After a week of careful negotiation, bribery, the girl has begrudgingly allowed Mouse to possess the boy's time, unsupervised, for the duration of a single evening, where the girl cannot interrupt or interfere with in any way.
And with this precious, fleeting moment of ownership Mouse had been awarded, he had only one desire: To flex his creative muscles, and capture the boy's most pathetic guise on the canvas, to be appreciated for years and decades to come.
Or, more accurately, remain in a half-finished state collecting dust in one of his secret stashes scattered about the Windnds until he dies or it gets coincidentally incinerated by a stray fireball or something.
"Okay, yes, just stand there." Mouse, leaning around the easel in front of him, pointed at a spot where the sunlight shone just so. "Just... Yes, no, a little to the- Ah. Yes. Perfect. You're shining, you're golden, you're perfect."
"that is good."
"Don't talk. You mustn't distract my artistic genius." Mouse swiftly states, retreating behind his canvas once more, lifting a brush and dipping it in a dollop of off-white paint. "Don't move a muscle. Just... Be."
The boy be'd.
. . .
"I confess, I preferred your previous outfit." Mouse's brow furled a few minutes into some rough line-work, a simple frame to get things started. "A sweater truly becomes you, I'm afraid. The rgeness and apparent softness, it obscures your muscuture, all your more masculine features, and leaves you looking like the wide-eyed, pathetic little worm of a creature that the people crave."
Mouse doesn't know much about the people.
"But, no matter." Mouse's line-drawing became more feverish and intense. "I am a visionary. A conduit through which the purest essence of art flows through like rainwater drips off the branches of the tall and noble oak."
"i s-"
"DO NOT!" Mouse shouted, his eyelids flying as he leans away from the easel so the boy can see his wrathful but ultimately pretty intimidating face.
"oh i-"
"AH! ZIP!" Mouse excims, before closing his eyes for a moment and taking a breath. "... Apologies. To respond to speech is only natural. But I am speaking to the muse, a function of the divine process of creation. You are not to respond to anything you hear from this point on. Understood?"
The boy was unsure whether or not to respond to that. The thought perplexed and confused him, and he briefly took on a look of panic.
"Perfect! Hold that pose."
He did.
He also wondered who this 'muse' person was, and why he couldn't see them. He'd have to ask ter.
Mouse recomposed himself, and lifted his brush once more. "At any rate, I shall persevere, just as the old masters did. Calmly, gracefully, my brush dances upon the canvas, delivering unto me, unto the world, nothing but the truest essence of beauty."
The man continued painting thin, preliminary lines on the canvas.
. . .
The furl of Mouse's brow strengthened with each passing moment.
Well over half an hour had passed, and Mouse had done little more than put some off-white lines on the canvas. At this point, it vaguely looked like a boy's skeleton standing in front of a window.
"Mmmmmgmmm..." He lets out a low grumble, retracing the upper lines for the umpteenth time. "No, no, this isn't right... That's not how it was supposed to... In my head it was more... Uughhgmgmh..."
Mouse grips his brush hard with quiet intensity. But it doesn't crack or anything. It's a pretty well built paintbrush.
"... Boy." Mouse begins, his voice a little lower than usual. "Tell me something. What makes a boy like you tick? What do you do? What is it you crave? Why do you wake up every morning?"
The boy continued be's'ing
"Hey. I'm talking to you." Mouse harshly spits. "Respond to that, you oaf!"
The boy was again wrought with confusion, and his miniscule look of panic intensified.
"SPEAK, YOU FOOL!"
"but were you not talking t-"
"OBVIOUSLY NOT!"
