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[𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬]
Angst
[𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭]
1969
______________________
The small gallery buzzed with quiet conversation as visitors milled about, sipping wine and admiring the local artwork. It was the kind of place where dreams were displayed and sold for a modest price, where artists poured their souls into their creations, hoping someone would care enough to take them home. Which wasn't always the case but one could dream-
And Y/n was one of those dreamers.
Their latest piece hung near the back of the gallery, a swirl of vibrant colors that seemed to dance across the canvas. It wasn't their most ambitious work, but it was theirs, and the positive feedback they'd received that evening had lifted their spirits.
"Such movement." A voice remarked from behind them. Soft, lilting, and ever so warm. "This painting captured something... alive."
Y/n turned to see him: a man—or rather, a puppet—standing just a step too close.
His blue curls framed a face that was charmingly odd, with red eyes that seemed to drink in every detail of their work. He was dressed in a comfortable old fashioned cardigan, and his hands were clasped behind his back in a disarming posture.
"Oh, thank you." Y/n replied, smiling nervously.
Something about his gaze was so piercing, so focused, that it felt like he was studying them more than the painting.
"You're the artist?" He asked, tilting his head. "How delightful. I'm Mr. Darling. I teach art abroad, though I'm quite new to this city."
"Y/n." They introduced themselves, shaking his small but firm hand.
"Well, Y/n, your work is... how shall I say? Inspiring." Mobs smile stretched, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Would you indulge me with the story behind it?"
And so, the conversation began.
Mob listened intently as Y/n explained their creative process, their passion for capturing emotions on canvas. His questions were thoughtful, his compliments abundant yet never overdone. He even shared insights about his own art classes, describing his students' enthusiasm with a fondness that seemed genuine.
For a moment, Y/n forgot about the unease they'd felt earlier. Mobs warmth was infectious, and his laughter was soft and melodious, putting them at ease.
They even offered the painting to him as a gift, a gift to celebrate a new friendship.
Mob was an expert at playing roles. Right now he was an art professor, charming and approachable. But beneath the surface, his sharp mind was cataloging every detail about the gallery he infiltrated, it's patrons, and especially Y/n.
