( mattyandrews ) ; matthew & haesoo !
Matthew had expected his return to Gilchrist to be overwhelming, to test him in ways that it always had even when he was happy to be there. But it hadn’t even been a week yet and already he had found himself in tears - his pillows stained with the salty droplets of his misery. Despite the message he’d received from his father earlier that day, thanking him for the money and expressing just how important it was to the bakery that he’d sent it when he had, Matty still felt a deep seated unease.
Having had the day to ruminate on the newest bombshell, Matthew felt it was time to turn to the only way he knew how to deal with things - art. He’d seen others doing the same already but for him it had always been a solitary act, one that he used as the final expression of his feeling instead of the first reaction to emotions. This was how he would finally come to terms with the news and find the presence within himself to continue with whatever was to come next.
Into a small backpack he slid a sketchbook, his trusted pencil-case and set off to find the spot he thought best. Matthew walked the halls of the manor as if he were lost, letting his mind wander to the memories he held of Mr Gilchrist. Finally he settled in the grand entrance hall with it’s sculptures and exhibitions - recalling a memory from his first year with the Gravediggers. He had been in awe of the splendor of the manor, it was nothing like anything he had access to before and like an excited child in a sweet shop he had been taking in all the wonderful pieces of work when he heard the light cough from the balcony above. Mr Gilchrist himself stood, looking down at him with a look that to this day Matthew still never understood.
Now, he sat himself down in a quiet spot looking up at that balcony once again and began sketching. Drawing upon the memory that was now tinged with the greying of the manor for which the care seemed to have slipped. Working in his own bubble, as he always did once he started on a new piece, Matty had no concept of how long it had been when the person stepped into his light. “Excuse me sorry, you’re blocking me light.” He spoke before looking up, his eyes trying to hide the overwhelming emotions he was feeling inside. “I don’t need you to leave just, take a step to the side or something please. I need to see that spot specifically.” He gestured up towards the section he had been sketching in immaculate detail - showing the person who now stood above him the sketchbook quickly. “I’m not in the way down here am I?” Matty asked, unsure if the person had stopped because him being sat on the floor had been a problem.
it is likely the echoing clack of her heels against marble tile , that disguised the sound of a writing utensil scribbling , with purpose , against the page. she’s startled from her own thoughts when the man speaks from the floor. admittedly haesoo isn’t thinking of much. it’s the perfect time of day , a quiet transition period she can spend mindfully , instead of ruminating. instead of worrying. “oh , my apologies.” she turns to see the scene behind her she’d blocked , and then back to where he held up the sketchbook.
art was among the most telling aspects of a person. a transparent expression far easier to read than the words that fall past trembling lips. she uses art to interpret many of the thoughts and emotions , even trauma , in many of her clients back in london. what is it about the artist ?
haesoo regards his work , a gentle smile on the corners of her lips ; she shakes her head. “no. carry on.” and she steps to the side , her hands wringing together in front of her.
it’s a sketch , hard to read. all she really gathers from such a candid image is that he is talented. it’s reminiscent of the work that surround the pair , sculptures carved intricately to capture every detail ( they are so literal , after all ) , and it’s his expression that says more. several beats pass as she eyes neighboring sculptures , gaze skimming the same plaques she remembers still , from years and years ago.
her fingers trace the grooves of a particular engraving , one that hadn’t been there when she’d lived in this manor the first time. that’s when she speaks again. “did you know him well ?” her eyes remain focused on the name in front of her as she clarifies , “junior?”












