After an extensive night in his own studio, Scott Hoying had nearly finished composing a new song - Which he can't seem to put a title to. It seems well, but his producers keep reiterating that it's lacking something. So he works tirelessly. The nig...
Much like a flashlight, the sun seemed to flicker on, illuminating the dark room which Scott lay within. his tall, lanky body draped across the velvety upholstery of the couch. His lips hung agape, the smallest snores escaping his body as he slept. Once the golden rays of the sun had enveloped his face, stinging through his closed eyelids so gently, Scott awakened, sitting up and looking around his studio. As if on instinct, his cerulean eyes fluttered to the painting, suspended on the wall. As if nothing had happened the previous night, the glistening oil pigment upon the canvas remained stuck in place as it should be. It was a painting, after all.
The blonde, rubbing a hand over the growing scruff along his jawline, rose to his feet and observed the room around him. What a mess it was, from his long night prior. Redbull cans littered the desk, at least three of them. Papers, some crumpled and some left pristine and flat, were scattered on the floor and piled in the little wastebasket beside his computer desk. Scott groaned quietly, beginning to clean up after himself. He stuffed as much of the paper as he could into the wire basket, until it was about to burst at the seams. However - He stopped, grabbing one particular paper in his fingers, gasping in disbelief and holding up the surface of it, about three inches away from his eyes to analyze the name, scrawled in chicken scratch across the staff of the composition paper.
Mitch.
Scott raised both eyebrows, looking immediately up at the face of that ... Beautiful painting. Was last night still a flight of fancy? Could it have been a name that just .. Popped into his mind? There's no way that the painting was communicating with him last night.
Heresy.
Yet ... That curiosity still began to plague the tall blonde's mind. He was one to believe in miracles, of course ... But this was a lot. He wove around his desk, standing about two feet away from the painting and watching it curiously, for a single sign of movement. Of course there was nothing! What on earth was Scott thinking. He groaned loudly to himself, pinching two fingers between his eyebrows.
"All right ... uh, You... Mitch. Don't move." He said to the painted boy, quite sharply, before putting the paper, scribed with the name, on his desk. "I'm going to eat and to shower, so that I wake up and stop talking to a ... A goddamn painting." He laughed to himself, before hustling out of the studio. He created a meal for himself - A fluffy, toasted bagel, coated with a swipe of cream cheese over each half. Like the Salt Bae trend, Scott sprinkled walnuts over the top of each bagel slice, before tucking into his little breakfast.
Curtly after this, he showered, allowing his blonde hair to fall out of the gel and hairspray into a wet mop atop his head. With hesitation in his expression, the blonde went back into his studio, glancing at everything else in his room before those electric eyes moved back to the painting. And - Oh, surely to his surprise, what else happened, but the boy had moved again, into a brand new position - His eyes covered his face, and he let his blush-colored lips hang open so slightly to show just a fragment of the inside of his mouth.
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