your last | klaroline

unfriendly

your last
chapter thirty
unfriendly

I've spent the past three days enjoying my newfound relationship with Klaus.

Two words I never thought I'd use in the same sentence, but this is where life has taken me, and I'm managing fairly well. From stolen glances at dinner to hushed conversations in his temporary bedroom, it's nothing I expected and so much more. We haven't spoken much about our status as a relationship, but I assume that he agrees with me that it's safe to call him my boyfriend.

Not that I'd ever call him that. The word certainly does not suit him. Proper terminology might be in a relationship, together, or in his words, courting. Either way, it's relatively the same. We're dating, plain and simple. And I love it.

"That's most certainly not how I would do it," Klaus chuckles, watching my fingers tremble as I attempt to paint a star on the canvas in front of me.

"I told you that you shouldn't have let me paint! Now I'm going to ruin it."

He advances from behind me, his fingers intertwining with mine as he guides the paintbrush over the canvas with skilled expertise.

"Nothing you touch could ever be anything but beautiful, love."

I roll my eyes. His undeniable charisma is flattering, but intense. Does he ever turn it off?

His hand wraps around my wrist, guiding my fingers across the canvas. I stand there awkwardly, watching as the attempted star I drew flourishes into a flaming sun. I've always known he's talented, but to see him paint with ease is a subject entirely for itself.

"There," he whispers as his hand draws away from the canvas a few minutes later. It's breathtaking what he can do in such a short period of time. I let out a disbelieving laugh.

I whirl around, struggling to wiggle out of his grasp, but the paintbrush that I had been previously holding flies out of my hand, brushing against his cheek before splattering on the floor. I can't help the laugh that escapes my lips.

Half of his face is now stained purple; and I expect that it won't come out of his skin for at least three more showers. He closes his eyes, and I wait, anticipating his reaction. Will he be mad?

But, unexpectedly, he picks up the paintbrush, raising his eyebrows as if saying, did you really think? And proceeds to wipe the remaining paint off his cheek and onto my nose. My jaw drops.

"Oh, you did not just do that."

In a split second, purple paint is flying everywhere. On our clothes, on our faces, in our hair. But the thought doesn't even cross my mind that it won't come out for a while. Instead, I take interest in pouring an entire bucket of pale yellow paint on top of his head. He lets out a playful growl and smears some onto my cheek. Moments later, we're standing in his art studio, soaked head to toe in multicoloured paints. I let out a laugh.

We exchange glances before he takes my arm, an impish grin still plastered on his lips.

"Let's get us cleaned up, shall we?"

It amazes me that he has the talent to somehow still appear dignified even soaked in paint. I suppose it's part of the Mikaelson charm, as every member of the family so bluntly names it. I've become well acquainted with the charm of the family within my stay with them, but I would definitely not say it's a familial trait. Maybe it's just a sibling thing.