pollux x pickman snippet
(Was a bit inspired by your ship thoughts, here. @hallowed-nebulae)
"A little more red there-!"
Pollux has sat for many paintings in his time, as one of a honored Divus. But none of those sitting have been an experience like this one.
"Hm, which shade of green? Lighter? Darker? Oooo, I'll do a mix with a touch of ochre..."
For one thing, the painters didn't chatter as much as Pickman does. Every stroke, every color the half-ghoul adds, he's sure to let Pollux know about it. Which, while strange, isn't too bad.
It's pleasant, Pollux supposes, to know Pickman puts so much heart into his work. Is invested more in it than his subject, really. Which might be bothersome if not for the way some of those past painters had looked at Pollux...
He shifts his head, forcibly relaxing his shoulders. Minutely, as not to mess up the pose he's taken for the portrait.
"You know, you're really quite good at this! Only my usual subjects are better staying still, and they're corpses, see?" Red eyes peer curiously at him from around the canvas.
Pollux scoffs. "I would be a poor apostle indeed, if I couldn't manage to keep still for any decent amount of time, as to tend the lanterns."
Nevermind the difficulties he had with the skill when he was younger...
His shoulders ache. Right where his wings used to be, now ugly disgusting scars flecked with feathers here and there.
Pickman nods once. Dabs at his canvas one last time with a thicker brush. "There! Come take a look!"
"Very well, I shall." Pollux has to admit, he is a bit curious to what he'll see. Pickman's pieces tend to be wild looking things, fierce and bright and heavy in the paint strokes.
So he rises to his feet and silently pads over to see. And sees...
Himself. But not the marble statue version he's used to seeing in paintings of himself, no, this is something with substance. A grimace of determination about the face, a sturdiness to the back, everything pinned down in layers and layers of paint.
But most notable...where painters of the Lightbearers would paint over some kind of cover, a light, as so no one can see in the picture, are the scars. His back scars, where his wings were tore from. Vivid, marked, feathers sprouting from them like mold from overly ripe cheese.
Pollux speaks past the lump in his throat. "Why...would you paint that?" He points, as not to be mistaken.
Pickman tilts his head, eyes wide in owlish confusion. "Why would I not? They're beautiful, these scars! Unique!" He gestures, flicking a little paint off of his clawed hands and the still held brush. "They add form to you! Make you more real, and handsome in the contrast!"
Did he-?
"Are you saying that despite the scars, I'm...handsome to you?"
Pickman shakes his head and then nods vigorously with his next words. "No I'm saying the scars make you handsome! A wonderful model at that, would you like to come back in the future?"
That...Pollux nibbles at his lip.
He'd have to let Castor know, of course, like he did for this appointment. But for another...
"Maybe I will."
He definitely wouldn't mind more compliments from Pickman.
