His eyes follow Huaisang's slim fingers as they move to tuck that lock of black hair behind his ear, admiring the elegance and grace of the gesture (sure), only to startle at the sudden bright splash of colour on Huaisang's shoulder that is caomeimei. Obligingly, Fitz holds out his hand for her to alight upon when she flits over to him, laughing a little at the complimentary birdsong she favours him with. He's never had quite the right mindset for understanding birds through his Wit sense, their minds too quick and sharp in a way he can't put into a man's words. But maybe it's easier with caomeimei because she is in essence an extension of Huaisang himself, and her obvious delight can only mean one thing.
"They're beautiful," Huaisang tells him, touching the little jars admiringly and murmuring, "my colours," in a way that, listen, it does things to Fitz that he's not yet prepared to examine too closely, and so he does not dwell overmuch on the flush of colour he feels in his cheeks. He drops his eyes instead, abashed, and rubs the side of his neck with his free hand.
Then comes that request--to paint him, using the very inks that he'd made himself for this gift. Fitz looks up in surprise, but there's an uncertain, hesitant smile at the corners of his mouth barely hidden by his beard. "Of course," he replies, quiet but earnest, because how is he supposed to say 'no' to a request like that, even if he wanted to? And he doesn't want to say no, he realizes, which, through process of elimination, means he must want to say yes, mustn't he? (Yes, that's how these things usually work, Fitz, when one isn't turning one's thoughts inside-out trying to make them more complicated than they need to be.) He gestures again with the hand not still supporting caomeimei, not wishing to dislodge her from her perch before she is ready. "Whenever you like, I'd--I'd like that. To sit for a portrait, for you."
He pauses, then laughs a little and admits, "Though, I don't know about Nighteyes. Unless you paint him while he's sleeping, I suppose."
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"They're beautiful," Huaisang tells him, touching the little jars admiringly and murmuring, "my colours," in a way that, listen, it does things to Fitz that he's not yet prepared to examine too closely, and so he does not dwell overmuch on the flush of colour he feels in his cheeks. He drops his eyes instead, abashed, and rubs the side of his neck with his free hand.
Then comes that request--to paint him, using the very inks that he'd made himself for this gift. Fitz looks up in surprise, but there's an uncertain, hesitant smile at the corners of his mouth barely hidden by his beard. "Of course," he replies, quiet but earnest, because how is he supposed to say 'no' to a request like that, even if he wanted to? And he doesn't want to say no, he realizes, which, through process of elimination, means he must want to say yes, mustn't he? (Yes, that's how these things usually work, Fitz, when one isn't turning one's thoughts inside-out trying to make them more complicated than they need to be.) He gestures again with the hand not still supporting caomeimei, not wishing to dislodge her from her perch before she is ready. "Whenever you like, I'd--I'd like that. To sit for a portrait, for you."
He pauses, then laughs a little and admits, "Though, I don't know about Nighteyes. Unless you paint him while he's sleeping, I suppose."