Take a photograph,
It'll be the last,
Not a dollar or a crowd could ever keep me here
It'll be the last,
Not a dollar or a crowd could ever keep me here
Phoebe reached up to his own hair, adjusting the bandanna self-consciously. "Tomorrow," he repeated, still blown away by everything. His hand moved to hold itself up in a still wave, and when he was alone once more, Phoebe stood up straight and went over to the painting. He looked the woman over, then, hauling the stool back up and sitting on it, reached for his sketchbook and a piece of charcoal, starting to draw the young man who'd brought light once again to his eyes. He didn't know how else to repay him but by his art.
Hours into the night, Phoebe was seated on the hard ground, back to a wall and surrounded by crumpled up pieces of paper. He was half-asleep, but determined not to give up. "I have to ask him to pose for me," he murmured to himself, holding a glass of whiskey to his lips and sipping. He didn't want to get drunk, just have a bit of a buzz for his break in sketching. The thought of asking Dragon to pose for him was nerve-racking. How would he even be able to suggest it, much less ask? Phoebe looked over to the window, the thick glass just thick enough that he didn't have to board up the window. The storm was still going strong, and it was then that Phoebe got an idea. He stood, kicking away the paper. A maid would come and clean it up after he went to bed, anyway. The man walked over to a hidden door, touching it and opening it. He then went into his bedroom, sat on his favorite chair in front of the fireplace, and fell into a strangely dream-free sleep.
The next morning, Phoebe awoke in his bed, washed and changed. He didn't think on it, knowing that his favorite maid, an older woman named Lenina with gray hair and vibrant blue eyes, had probably done it. She wasn't much more comfortable in touching the rough skin than Benson, but was a grandmother of 15 children and her maternal instinct wouldn't let her young master get sick from sleeping out in the cold. He stood out of the bed, rubbing his head as he walked into his own bathroom, much more modest than the guest. It was marble, with a large bath and shower, more for his great wings than his plain desire to have a grand bathroom. There was a small station to clean his wings, as well as an area dedicated purely for his transition from male to female monster once a month. He started the bath, walking over to his large walk-in closet to collect something to wear. Grabbing light blue boxers, blue jeans, and a loose cotton long-sleeve just a shade light than his eyes, the man carried his clothes into the bathroom and set them on the counter. He then stepped into the hot water, carefully keeping his large wings from the water and not bothering to relax as he washed himself.
After about forty-five minutes, Phoebe had successfully cleaned off all the sleep on his body, and stood from the bath as it drained smelling of his usual mint, jasmine and lavender. He toweled himself off, walking over to the wing station. He stood completely still as wind shot at him, only grunting in response. The wind worked to blow out all the sediments deposited in the feathers over the past few days, leaving them with a scent of spice on the black feathers. He stepped away from the station, wincing as he tugged on his clothes and gingerly stuck his wings through the gaps in the shirt's back. Once fully dressed, the barefoot monster padded from his bedroom to the cleaner studio, waiting for not only news that Dragon was awake, but also staring at a painting he'd been trying to finish and wondering how to make it whole.
Hours into the night, Phoebe was seated on the hard ground, back to a wall and surrounded by crumpled up pieces of paper. He was half-asleep, but determined not to give up. "I have to ask him to pose for me," he murmured to himself, holding a glass of whiskey to his lips and sipping. He didn't want to get drunk, just have a bit of a buzz for his break in sketching. The thought of asking Dragon to pose for him was nerve-racking. How would he even be able to suggest it, much less ask? Phoebe looked over to the window, the thick glass just thick enough that he didn't have to board up the window. The storm was still going strong, and it was then that Phoebe got an idea. He stood, kicking away the paper. A maid would come and clean it up after he went to bed, anyway. The man walked over to a hidden door, touching it and opening it. He then went into his bedroom, sat on his favorite chair in front of the fireplace, and fell into a strangely dream-free sleep.
The next morning, Phoebe awoke in his bed, washed and changed. He didn't think on it, knowing that his favorite maid, an older woman named Lenina with gray hair and vibrant blue eyes, had probably done it. She wasn't much more comfortable in touching the rough skin than Benson, but was a grandmother of 15 children and her maternal instinct wouldn't let her young master get sick from sleeping out in the cold. He stood out of the bed, rubbing his head as he walked into his own bathroom, much more modest than the guest. It was marble, with a large bath and shower, more for his great wings than his plain desire to have a grand bathroom. There was a small station to clean his wings, as well as an area dedicated purely for his transition from male to female monster once a month. He started the bath, walking over to his large walk-in closet to collect something to wear. Grabbing light blue boxers, blue jeans, and a loose cotton long-sleeve just a shade light than his eyes, the man carried his clothes into the bathroom and set them on the counter. He then stepped into the hot water, carefully keeping his large wings from the water and not bothering to relax as he washed himself.
After about forty-five minutes, Phoebe had successfully cleaned off all the sleep on his body, and stood from the bath as it drained smelling of his usual mint, jasmine and lavender. He toweled himself off, walking over to the wing station. He stood completely still as wind shot at him, only grunting in response. The wind worked to blow out all the sediments deposited in the feathers over the past few days, leaving them with a scent of spice on the black feathers. He stepped away from the station, wincing as he tugged on his clothes and gingerly stuck his wings through the gaps in the shirt's back. Once fully dressed, the barefoot monster padded from his bedroom to the cleaner studio, waiting for not only news that Dragon was awake, but also staring at a painting he'd been trying to finish and wondering how to make it whole.
Rain, rain go away,
Come again another day,
All the world is waiting for the sun.
Come again another day,
All the world is waiting for the sun.
Awesome nerd
