Daedalus

paint me like one of your french memes

Although Parisian weather is absolutely abominable to an American, I decided that it would be nothing less than pleasant to venture outside of the apartment with my notebook under my arm, to enjoy a few minutes glimpsing the scenery and then writing about it.

The purpose of my travels in Europe are to supplement me with the proper inspiration for writing whatever I please, and I already feel that Europe has done part of its job, and is on the track to completing what I came for. However, it's easier to start with smaller writing projects while I am not at my full potential, like describing the city of Paris or how my time here has gone so far, tasks that should be simple enough to fulfill, and they were.

For the first three minutes or so, I adhered to the guidelines I set for myself; I described my surroundings in the twentieth arrondissement, and my surroundings in the broader city called Paris, France, most of which I had seen when Lent and I were navigating the place to find our apartment. For the rest of the time, I unwittingly dropped that subject to instead focus on the two friends spicing up my European experience, the two friends doing something inside together while I enjoy the crisp air of Parisian summers, and I didn't realize that I was practically writing an essay about them until I looked over my work, and began to question where the assigned topics were, but I suppose it's nice to have such a detailed analysis of people, especially Loire because she's so new to me, so I keep it.

Now my time is up — there was no real time limit, but I'm such a hedonist that my whims are often definite in my mind — and I'm strolling back to the apartment with a smile pinned to my face because of how stupid I was to devote almost all of my writing excursion to rambling about friends I'll see afterwards (that is, if Lent doesn't die, and if Loire keeps in contact with us abroad), absolutely merry over nothing. It's an odd sort of sensation, but I'm not shooing it away. Paris has already changed me, it seems.

I bounce up the stairs to the apartment, offering a quick bonjour to one of the other residents, and burst through the door to our flat, only to find the place shifted from where it was when I left it, which is atypical for Lent, as he doesn't often disturb the natural order of belongings unless he needs something from that natural order, but I soon understand why.

"Hello, Basil," Loire greets from her position on the floor once detecting my presence, nude and curled into a tight ball on nothing but the hardwood ground, causing me to be utterly confused as to what the hell is happening right now, but do I honestly want to know?

The sight has stunned me, so I'm still paralyzed in the doorway as I exclaim, "Lent, what the fuck?"

"I sure do love your acknowledgements," Loire adds with a hushed laugh.

"Calm down, Basil. It's a painting," Lent reassures me, not once peeling his vision away from his work, just dabbing color onto the canvas like he's scared of it. His art has always been so important to him, but I doubted he would leave me to wonder about what this is like he's doing now. Maybe Loire is more faithful.

And she is more faithful, that beautiful saint who admittedly is playing a part in my shock but is actually invested in digging me out of it. "Lent, mon ange, would you care to explain what this painting signifies to you? I haven't heard the reasoning yet, and I'm sure Basil would love to hear it as well."

What would we do without Loire Babinot? Yes, her purpose is to guide us through life in Paris, as dictated by Fleming, but I feel that she's doing so much more, and she's enjoying doing so much more. No one said that she had to invite us to dinner, or that she had to model for one of Lent's paintings, or that she had to accept us so warmly into her heart, calling us things like her angels or her wretches (the latter is out of good humor, I hope), but she does it anyway, and I am incredibly thankful for this heavenly woman. She continues to serve in the subtlest of ways that actually amount to more than she knows — although she probably does know, as she's perceptive enough to find ways to interact with the slight things — and this is an example. It's obvious that I am confounded by what my best friend is doing, why there's a naked woman on the floor of the apartment, but Lent doesn't give a shit, for he's both in his prime and in the faith that I can figure things out on my own, though Loire, on the other hand, likes me enough to help, and she's still able to benefit herself by asking this question, too.

Lent seems taken aback by this, but not by offense, rather by astonishment with himself that he did not elucidate his motives beforehand so that the model could display the correct emotion for it, but he hastily revises his faults. "Oh, well of course. Forgive me." Lent beholds his painting before answering immediately, as if to communicate with it to understand how the work defines itself. "As you can see, Loire is nude and curled into the tightest ball she can form — I thank you for your endurance, Loire — and her eyes are squeezed shut. This represents fear, how it can shrink you to nothing, how it can strip you of identity (and, in this case, clothes), how it can make you wish for death, perhaps." Lent is silent for a few moments, but he soon begins to abhor silence, so he moves on to another topic before we can question the gravity of the painting. "Now, art is different to everyone, so I'm sure you could put your own spin on it, or conclude something else entirely, in which case feel free to do so. Art is about emotion, after all."

Loire hums in satisfaction, and compresses herself even more, which doesn't even seem possible, but Loire is a woman of many talents that reach beyond what other humans find plausible, and Lent continues with his work.

I've calmed down a bit, enough so to escape my position by the threshold, closing the door behind me before making my way through the apartment to snatch a chair that I position about five feet away from Lent's easel where he works with unwavering determination, and all I do is watch, and that's enough for me.

Lent Rosella is not a grave soul. He revels in the spunk life has to offer, not the tragedies, as I do. He is always seen with a flashlight beam stuck to his lips, with that familiar glow in his cobalt eyes. Now he's in a state of concentration, brows knotted together, gaze heavy with ambition against the paper, soul leaving no space for deviation. I've never really observed him working on a painting, so I wouldn't be accustomed to his process or his facial expressions within that process, but I assume that he's like this when he cares enough about what he's doing. I can't say he looks poorly like this, not at all. He looks rather enchanting, and I think I like it. It's interesting, actually, how the things we care about can change us entirely, even if it's a temporary shift.

"You look wonderful when you paint," I spectate with the mellow tone of a child, but I soon understand what I've said, and I immediately regret sharing those words, almost smacking my forehead with my hand.

God, how fucking idiotic I am! Lent didn't need to know that, and neither did Loire! I am fully aware that pointing things out to people can make them self-conscious about it, and Lent is already somewhat fragile in that terrain, which is probably why his arm looks so damn skinny when he goes to tap the canvas with color, so that impulsive comment was tangential and even detrimental to him, but now that I look at it, it's probably more detrimental to me, because I'm the damn fool worrying about it, but I guess I still care too much.

When I uttered my moronic comment, Lent was on his way to brushing the canvas with a blackish hue, but he stopped upon its release, and now he's lowering his brush while somewhat ambivalently murmuring, "Thank you, Basil."

Damn, I really fucked things up, didn't I? What kind of person tells their best friend that they look wonderful while they paint? Yeah, it was intended to be a compliment, but odd compliments are often discouraged in society, and while Lent, as an artist, is a heathen to society, he still retains basic human psychological functions that probably warn him against this kind of creepy speech. Maybe I'm once again overanalyzing everything, and maybe his tone was so mild because of his surprise or appreciation for it. Maybe I'm also becoming less pessimistic about everything, too, and can actually see multiple sides of the coin, but the positive conclusion could be wrong. Maybe I'm just a mess!

Meanwhile, Loire has finally opened her eyes to the world, and is staring at me with those aforementioned eyes expanding more and more by the second. Is she appalled? Is she just shocked that I could ever say such a thing in my shy state? She's disconcerting me nevertheless, especially because I have no idea what she seeks from me, and both of them are pushing me into a crate as if I'm a puppy who has inadvertently screwed up.

"Yeah, no problem," I mutter.

Loire adds a smirk to her expression, and tucks herself again.

~~~~~

A/N: Loire ships them so hard and so do I

okay but basil needs to chilll...,,,like..,,I'm sorry but I keep making him overreact but I really have no idea how human expressions work because I stay out of impulsive shit so maybe his panic is justified??? idk

~Dakotoe