This late into the night, the streets are mostly emptied and the moon sits up high in the sky, a pearl in an ocean of deep, dirtied denim. The snow has mostly melted away and the streets are bare, save for the occasional mound of dusty gray slush. They're not the only people out tonight but the streets are notably empty of the familiar crowds Sharon is used to in the day, even as they move from one district into the next. Mayerling receives a few long stares and how could they not? His pale hair practically glows in the moonlight, an ethereal halo. Sharon makes certain to memorize every detail, shameless.
The fact he's wanted to visit the gallery for months doesn't escape her and she feels a certain sense of pride in the knowledge that her choice for the night was solid; special. She would show him everything it had to offer but, more than that, she would show him her work. Every painting is a part of her; a reflection of the state she was in when she put brush to canvas. He would see that, she has no doubt; can have no doubt because every time he speaks, he proves that to her.
It's in the way he compliments her. The apples of her cheeks darken further and grow fat by her grin, impossible to pinch back no matter how she tries, heart thump-thump-thumping in that anxious drumbeat he's no doubt long since grown accustomed to. She urges it to slow as she leads him through the district to their first destination. Her heart feels swollen and up in her throat, a knot he's tied there by simply speaking.
"Thank you," she tells him, voice thick and tight, full of emotion she doesn't know the word for quite yet. There may not be a word in the world that would fit how he makes her feel, "I'll show you everything I've done."
She unwraps herself from him, hand sliding down his arm to take him by the hand as she walks backward, "Tell me, what is it you like to do? How do you spend your time?"
He is so long-lived that he must have dabbled in a little bit of everything. Her thumb runs along one of his slender fingers. A musician, perhaps? She could see him playing a stringed instrument. Or maybe he the flute. If he paints, she would paint with him. She would watch him as he works. If he sings, she will listen. She feels such a rush to know him and yet she moves slowly through the city, all the better to take him in.
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The fact he's wanted to visit the gallery for months doesn't escape her and she feels a certain sense of pride in the knowledge that her choice for the night was solid; special. She would show him everything it had to offer but, more than that, she would show him her work. Every painting is a part of her; a reflection of the state she was in when she put brush to canvas. He would see that, she has no doubt; can have no doubt because every time he speaks, he proves that to her.
It's in the way he compliments her. The apples of her cheeks darken further and grow fat by her grin, impossible to pinch back no matter how she tries, heart thump-thump-thumping in that anxious drumbeat he's no doubt long since grown accustomed to. She urges it to slow as she leads him through the district to their first destination. Her heart feels swollen and up in her throat, a knot he's tied there by simply speaking.
"Thank you," she tells him, voice thick and tight, full of emotion she doesn't know the word for quite yet. There may not be a word in the world that would fit how he makes her feel, "I'll show you everything I've done."
She unwraps herself from him, hand sliding down his arm to take him by the hand as she walks backward, "Tell me, what is it you like to do? How do you spend your time?"
He is so long-lived that he must have dabbled in a little bit of everything. Her thumb runs along one of his slender fingers. A musician, perhaps? She could see him playing a stringed instrument. Or maybe he the flute. If he paints, she would paint with him. She would watch him as he works. If he sings, she will listen. She feels such a rush to know him and yet she moves slowly through the city, all the better to take him in.