littlebit-foxy—
Finger painting was a hobby generally reserved for children, yet there dripped on a formerly white tarp an off shade of lavender from slender fingers that hovered shyly over the canvas that looked potentially more expensive even blank than some of the things in his apartment.
Tod was no painter, his artistry could be found in his tongue with persuasion to be weld like a weapon and points to a conversation harsh as the scorpion’s sting. Irony was a cruel mistress as it would seem with company, his words halted cognitive melodies only to produce something infected by shyness. With Toulouse, he felt as if stupid questions were abundant on his side, as if he had no idea how finger painting went.
I’ve been to kindergarten,the older boy laughed only a few moments ago.
“I just really can’t draw, I promise I can maybe doodle a stick figure.”
His hands were easily covered in just as much paint as the canvas laid out on the floor before him, fingertips stained in vibrant shades of goldenrod and vermilion as he swiped them across the stretched cloth. Every so often Toulouse would steal a glance over at the redhead’s painting, curiosity causing his eyes to wander as Tod insisted to him yet again that he was not artistically inclined. Of course, the younger boy hardly believed him. “But everybody can draw, Tod. It is as simple as putting pencil to paper.” He sat back on his heels, using the back of his hand to brush a few stray curls from his eyes. Even so, he still ended up with a streak of paint across his forehead, one of many he’d gathered as they worked. It was the only downside to using his hands as tools, and in spite of that, they were still some of his favorites.
“And besides, that is why we are painting, not drawing,” Toulouse added, flashing Tod a grin almost as if he’d anticipated that he might say that. “It is very different, you know. You — you ‘ave a lot more creative freedom, I think. You do not see as many abstract drawings, no?” He paused what he was doing for a moment, wiping his hands on the already–stained jeans he reserved just for painting, and pushed himself up off the floor to wander over to where Tod was set up with his own canvas. “See? You are not as bad as you try to make me believe — I like what you ‘ave done already.”
