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HE ATTACKED THE CANVAS with strokes of dark brown, paintbrush tinted a potent shade of mahogany. The morning sun was bright, the weather warm and happy as Klaus was painting another portrait of Rosalie. He had taken the brunette to her house after a night of admiring his landscapes. (He still couldn't believe the amount of praise and admiration she had showed him when she saw the paintings. Sure, she had done it so many times before, but still, the warmth blossoming in his chest was hard to stop.) The hybrid had hidden all his paintings and sketches of her before she had entered the room, not wanting to scare the unknowing Monet. She probably would have ran for the hills if she knew that he had all those illustrations of her. He was, technically, still a stranger to her.
His cherry lips were pulled back in a gentle smile, brush moving to imitate how her hair shone under the sun. Klaus knew no one could do justice to her beauty; the curves and crevices of her body could probably be copied, but the color of her hair and expression of her golden orbs was simply too indescribable to replicate.
Submerged in his blissful recollection of the previous night, he failed to notice his sister walking in the room. The hearth crackled softly in the background, disturbed by the sound of Rebekah's boots.
"Another painting of her?" the blonde questioned, strangely emotionless at the mention of Rosalie.
Klaus glanced at her, paintbrush still within his grip. He grinned before continuing his work. "What took you so long?"
"Alaric didn't want to hand over the stake," Rebekah smirked, raising a length of pale wood. "Luckily, I'm quite the charmer," she looked at the stake, as though she was admiring the fruit of her efforts. He turned around with a palette in one hand, asking, "That's it?"
"The last of the white oak stakes that can kill us. Do you want to do the honors or shall I?"
Klaus placed his art materials on the table, taking the White Oak stake and throwing it in the fire, where it burned. He returned to the task at hand, trying to finish the portrait of his beloved.
"Well, that's that, then," Rebekah moved to leave, but his voice stopped her from doing so. "Pack your bags. We're leaving." he suggested.
"Today?"
Klaus remembered Rosalie telling him from the previous night that she'd be leaving town the next day, "Why not? There's nothing keeping us here."
"But tonight's the Decade Dance," Rebekah pouted.
"So?" Klaus couldn't comprehend why that was relevant to their move. "So, I'm the Head of the Committee. We have to go." she reasoned.
