[ He nods, sipping his juice again before getting to his feet. He's been still for long enough - the stillness around them, after all, is chronic and the restlessness within him equally so, it evens out in this place, in Michel's little haven for two. Stretching, he runs one hand through his shaggy hair, long on one side and indescribable on the other - something about garden shears late at night, something about feeling frozen on at least two very different tracks in time, past and present fused together, something, something, there's a name for all of that somewhere and he, blissfully, doesn't have to care - in either case, his hair always looks like shit.
It fits the rest of him to a T.
Heading over to the window, he looks over the contents of the paint bucket critically, pursing his lips. ]
You have eyes in your own pretty head, darling. Maybe this time around, you should tell me what you see.
[ Without further ado, he slaps his right hand into the paint, splashing blue all over his sleeve and forearm. He gives it a couple of good twirls before stretching back to his full height, pulling his arm with him. Paint dripping onto the floor and his naked feet, Timm tilts his head sideways, eyes narrowed, and flicks his fingers at the window. Specks of blue scatter across the glass. ]
[ Watching Timm leave anything, let alone the table, is always like watching a lion abandon its half-eaten kill. You can assume, safely, that it'll be back for more later, but it will no doubt not be when you're anywhere in the vicinity to watch and it is definitely going to be a mess it leaves behind. That is how his lodger is, nothing to be done about it. That is the definition of conditions, that they are like that, inescapable, for everyone, poor and rich, young and old. He eats the rest of his croissant. Drinks the rest of his coffee. There's more left, but he'll leave it for the lion that is going to get ravenous eventually.
Always hungry, aren't they, people? For food and other things. Closure. Intimacy. Always hungry. ]
Yes, but you don't want to hear yet another long-winded story about that time I was a child. [ Michel huffs as he gets to his feet, too, abandoning the table like a man who owns it, rather than as anyone who has anything to lose. It won't be any less his, simply because he isn't actively sitting at it, on it.
Timm's the same. Whether he's wrapped around Michel's back, all long heavy limbs or not, he belongs. Think, to still belong to this place that he used to hate so much.
And to not hate it quite so much anymore... ] It's all very long ago now, isn't it?
[ Turning towards Timm and the window, getting splattered from flicking blue fingers, he folds his arms over his chest and watches. The lion at work. The artist. One and the same. He could waste a lot of time wishing he'd met Timm when he was younger and had a life to give, but he won't, because then he'll simply have even less to give now.
And one thing is certain, Michel is giving all he's got left. ]
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It fits the rest of him to a T.
Heading over to the window, he looks over the contents of the paint bucket critically, pursing his lips. ]
You have eyes in your own pretty head, darling. Maybe this time around, you should tell me what you see.
[ Without further ado, he slaps his right hand into the paint, splashing blue all over his sleeve and forearm. He gives it a couple of good twirls before stretching back to his full height, pulling his arm with him. Paint dripping onto the floor and his naked feet, Timm tilts his head sideways, eyes narrowed, and flicks his fingers at the window. Specks of blue scatter across the glass. ]
no subject
Always hungry, aren't they, people? For food and other things. Closure. Intimacy. Always hungry. ]
Yes, but you don't want to hear yet another long-winded story about that time I was a child. [ Michel huffs as he gets to his feet, too, abandoning the table like a man who owns it, rather than as anyone who has anything to lose. It won't be any less his, simply because he isn't actively sitting at it, on it.
Timm's the same. Whether he's wrapped around Michel's back, all long heavy limbs or not, he belongs. Think, to still belong to this place that he used to hate so much.
And to not hate it quite so much anymore... ] It's all very long ago now, isn't it?
[ Turning towards Timm and the window, getting splattered from flicking blue fingers, he folds his arms over his chest and watches. The lion at work. The artist. One and the same. He could waste a lot of time wishing he'd met Timm when he was younger and had a life to give, but he won't, because then he'll simply have even less to give now.
And one thing is certain, Michel is giving all he's got left. ]