#finally drew them in a warm color palette. forced it to be true

[nicomoru]

I miss them forever and always

[madeofflint]

[ pay ] your muse paying for mine at a store , bar , restaurant , etc . ( you can specify where or for what . )

Scrooge was usually inclined to roll his eyes when Jacob invited him out drinking. He didn’t see the point in wasting money to sit in the company of loud strangers. He couldn’t imagine that he was the target patron for the sorts of places that Jacob liked to visit anyway, based on the stories that he told.

He couldn’t say what quite had persuaded him to join this time. It could have been the slight pleading tone in Jacob’s voice or the soft look in his eyes, or perhaps it was the way that his house always felt a bit emptier when they’d recently parted. But he agreed and the utter glee that lit up Jacob’s face was a reward in and of itself.

As they walked down the street, Scrooge tried to keep pace with his friend, who was chatting animately about the experience they were about to have. Scrooge’s typical inclination was to stride through this part of London as quickly as possible but, as he had already admitted to himself, this was not a day for the usual.

He reminded himself to acknowledge Jacob’s words and nodded as he spoke, though he didn’t quite catch all the names being rattled off. The summer evening glow lit his face perfectly, and Scrooge hoped that his friend didn’t notice the way that he must have been gaping at him.

When they came upon the pub, Jacob opened the door for him and Scrooge found the gesture, small as it was, to be oddly touching. He inclined slightly in a teasing bow but proceeded through, indeed meeting a wall of noise and odor beyond even what he’d expected.

Feeling entirely out of place, he proceeded to the bar and took a seat, cautious of any sticky residue that his hands might encounter. The air was thick and tasted of smoke and sweat and old beer.

“God, Ben, you act like this place will infect you.” Jacob cuffed his shoulder lightly and Scrooge’s chest fluttered.

“It very well might. I’m holding you accountable if I wind up ill.”

“Of course you will. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to hold your hair back if you end up retching.” Scrooge was unfortunately endeared to the thought of him doing just that, minus the retching and he hoped his face didn’t give too much away. The noise level was merciful in that it allowed them to talk freely and that was one clear positive.

“I suppose I’ll trust you to order for me,” he said, noticing that the barkeep was approaching. “Though I hope my trust isn’t misplaced.”

“Has it ever been?” Jacob winked. “Relax.”

“I’ll do my best.” Scrooge leaned back against his chair, against his better judgement.

Jacob plunked down two coins and made the order. Scrooge supposed it only made sense for Jacob to pay, since he’d invited him, but some buried knowledge suggested that Scrooge was meant to get the next round.

“I know it’s a little rowdy in here,” Jacob offered, “but it can be good for clearing your head.”

“I’d imagine you’re right. The din does seem to die off, the more you get used to it.”

Their pints arrived and following a polite clink of steins against each other, Scrooge took a tentative sip. It was rather bitter for his palette, but it went down easy all the same.

“It’s nothing fancy, to be sure,” Jacob, “But it gets the job done.”

Scrooge nodded. That it certainly did, as the warmth flooding his body could attest. Nearly as warm was the hand that suddenly occupied his thigh.

“Are you alright, Ben?” Jacob asked softly. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“Perfectly fine, just taking it all in.” He was telling the truth, for once.

“I know this isn’t really your scene, I didn’t really mean to drag you out. Well, I did, but not if you didn’t want to come.”

“No, no, I did—I do! I suppose I’m just a bit unused to the setting. I do tend to hole up in my cave, as you know.” He rather urgently hated the idea that he’d offended or disappointed Jacob somehow.

“You do, which is why you need to leave it every now and again.” Jacob was still frowning, but seemed more satisfied with that answer.

The crowd at the other end of the bar was starting up a drinking song, and Jacob squeezed his thigh in anticipation. “Do you know this one? I think I remember the words.”

“Yes, it sounds familiar.” Something about sea and ships and love lost. Scrooge had a decent enough voice, and muddled through most of the words, but found himself grinning as their voices met in harmony. He could hardly hear them amongst anyone else, of course, but somehow that didn’t matter. Before long, he found himself raising his mug in cheer along with everyone else, Jacob’s arm resting comfortably across his shoulders.

They burst into comfortable laughter as the song drew to a close, Scrooge lowering his mug to the counter with slightly more force than he intended.

“Careful,” Jacob teased, looking at him fondly. “I don’t want to have to replace it because you don’t know your own strength.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it certain that my true power is a mystery to everyone including me,” Scrooge grinned, feeling terribly foolish but it the best possible way.

Jacob squeezed his shoulder gently and before Scrooge knew it, his mug was full again.

“I didn’t realize you could sing like that,” Jacob nudged him. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“I’m alright.” Scrooge grinned, flush with the compliment. “Sang in the choir for a few years at school.”

“No kidding? Why’d you stop?”

“Lost interest.” Scrooge replied tacitly, as if he’d practiced it. He’d long ago learned how to shut down those memories, lest he risk revealing them—revealing any weakness. “You’re not bad yourself. A benefit of your genteel upbringing?”

“Maybe.” Jacob laughed. “I’m just good like that.”

They enjoyed a comfortable silence as they sipped their pints.

“Thank you for, as you said, dragging me out tonight,” Scrooge offered softly. “Especially since I’ve turned down so many of your invitations before now.”

“I’m glad you came,” Jacob grinned. “I figured I’d crack your shell open eventually.”

“Does that make you an otter?” Scrooge teased, realizing as the words left his lips that they were not as clever as intended. “Prying open my shell?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Jacob laughed, eyes sparkling. “Finish that up,” he tapped the side of the mug, “the night’s still young.”

Scrooge drained his glass obediently, finding himself much more pliant than usually.

“Sounds like you’ve got plans for me.” The corners of his mouth twitched, teasing another grin.

“Oh yes, devious, devious plans. Come on.”

In the same way he had done all night, Scrooge followed.

“It’s a lovely night, don’t you think?” Jacob asked as they emerged back into the night air, the smell of summer a pleasant shift.

“It is. Perhaps we should enjoy it awhile longer. A nice walk perhaps?”

“You read my mind. Anywhere in particular you’d like to go?”

“I’d be willing to explore. Your selections have been sound so far.”

They had a rather lovely walk through backstreets of London and Saint James’ park, even someone as blase as Scrooge couldn’t deny that the dusk was perfectly suited to it. Cooler, but still light enough to see easily. The sun was setting, painting the sky in all sorts of love purples and oranges, a rather lovely canvas if he was to be honest.

They chatted idly, comfortably; Scrooge remarking on gorgeous carriage horses and stubborn birds near under his feet, Jacob pointing out places he liked to frequent and new businesses in the area. Scrooge found himself paying surprisingly little attention to the particulars of their route, not counting his steps nor the streets.

He found himself doubly surprised, than, that they had stopped in front of a confectionery.

“What are we doing here, Jacob?” He asked, not feeling particularly motivated to combine two different vices today.

“I know you’re categorically opposed to enjoying yourself, but it’s perfect weather for ice cream. Come on, it’ll be my treat.”

Against his increasingly weak objections, Scrooge allowed himself to be led into the shop.

His eyes raked across small mountains of sugar, colorful and lacy like fine dresses. All so excessive and unnecessary and worst of all, expensive. But they did smell wonderful, if a bit overpowering.

“Gosh, Ben, you look like you’re about to start drooling. What looks good to you?” Jacob asked, the shop owner also looking at him inquisitively

“I’ll take the orange blossom, thanks,” he replied, feeling somewhat caught out. Jacob placed his own order and paid before making some commentary on the shop’s other offerings. “I’ve been wanting to come here with you,” he added, as he handed Scrooge the dessert, “and what day could possibly be better?”

“I certainly can’t argue,” Scrooge replied as he took a seat at the mercifully clean-looking table, “I’m glad you thought of it.”

And he was. The ice cream was unfortunately rather delicious and Jacob’s company was always superb.

“Want to try some of mine?” Jacob asked, holding the spoon up to Scrooge’s lips. It was honestly troubling how willing he was to be lead today, but he supposed it was just the way of things. Jacob hadn’t steered him wrong yet. Without hesitation, Scrooge swallowed obediently

“Mmmmm.” If his defenses weren’t already lowered, he’d have been ashamed to make such an undeniable sound of please

“Yes, that’s about what I’d hope to hear,” Jacob replied and Scrooge pinked faintly before offering his friend some of his own.

When they finally emerged from their decadence, the sky had grown much darker, just past dusky. They watched a flight of bats take off as they weaved their way back through the park, Scrooge chancing at holding Jacob’s hand in the inky dark. An effort, he found, that was returned enthusiastically.

Before long—far too soon, in fact—they were outside Scrooge’s door and he felt a sudden ache of disappointment. Childish for sure, the stubborn urge to not let the fun end.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Scrooge began, and in the safety of his dark street not yet lit by gas-lamps, he felt Jacob’s lips pushing urgently against his own. Full and soft and heavenly as they had been every time before, but now somehow more tender. More gentle. Perhaps that was simply Scrooge’s own fancy. He fumbled to return the kiss, feeling an unpleasant surge of neediness when Jacob finally pulled away.

“Goodnight, Ebenezer,” He nodded with a smirk in his voice, leaving Scrooge with one hand loosely on his doorknob and the taste of sweetness on his lips.

[humanoid-whowouldveknown]

The Tales of Old Vilnius

Ašmenos gatvė

- ...and also acrylics in those large jars, - says insatiable Tony, - yeah, all the colors, except maroon. And brushes. No, not these, the ones in the corner. One, two, three, and zero. And maybe... yeah, this palette knife. And that one, too. Wait, what's on that shelf?...

While we are packing everything into our backpacks, a tiny, gray-haired saleslady restlessly rummages the cashbox, like a bird in a feeder, searching for the change from Tony's 200-litai bill.

- I have no change at all, - finally, she sighs. - Maybe you can take this?

She puts a box of colorful chalks on the counter. Not pastel, not even oil crayons, just simple chalk, like the ones we used to write on a blackboard with. And, of course, on asphalt.

Chalks don't interest me, I'm trying to zip the bag, and Tony automatically puts the box in his pocket. The saleslady, assured that the problem is fixed, smiles freely.

- Good, good, - she says as we walk away, - Present it to your kids, they should be happy.

Neither Tony nor I have any children. But we leave this knowledge to ourselves, not to disappoint the tiny gray bird.

Outside the doors, two suns are shining - the sky one, and its reflection in a silver puddle that fills the entire roadside. And wind is blowing, spring-warm and so strong that we promptly give up our right to choose the path and turn, so it hits our backs.

- Sunny wind, - says Tony, and squints, like a pleased cat.

We turn around the corner, to Ašmenos gatvė, and there - who would've known?! - Wind stops. And we instantly remember that we wanted to stop for smoking a long time ago. Even before we stopped by the shop. And now we want it so much, no words could describe the feeling.

While Tony is busy with the cigarette rolling machine and empty tubes, I loiter around, pretending to be in any way helpful. And, naturally, rubberneck at the surroundings, automatically framing all I see - click, click, click.

- Look, - I say, taking a cigarette from Tony, - someone couldn't finish a hopscotch game.

- Not even the game - they couldn't finish the drawing, - he nods in agreement.

The sidewalk is, indeed, divided into squares, but the artist never got a chance to write the numbers. Maybe they were called for lunch, or just got clipped by the ears for damaging public asphalt.

On the other hand, we, two overgrown fools, don't care about the rules. No one will call us for lunch. And it's pretty hard to smack our ears.

Drunk with a sudden (like thirty years ago) and still captivating permissiveness, sunny wind, tobacco smoke and the weight of paints in our bags, I pull the box of chalks from Tony's pocket and squat next to the first square, confident in my intention to write a tremendous number 1. Bright-blue, like the sky in the puddles under our feet, or yellow, like the joyful spring sun, or green, like the future, not yet visible, foliage, or red, like Tony's old coat. However, as I pick up the chalk, all ideas disappear, and, for an unknown reason, I cover the entire square in blue. Not satisfied with the result, I shake out the leftover chalks and begin drawing fishes. Because the blue square is quite indeed the sea. Based on the bright colors of my fishes - the Red Sea. Exampli gratia. Though, in a matter of minutes, the fishes take such weird forms that the sea is clearly gifted to aliens. Let them communicate with these fishes themselves, cause human race, presented by me, gives up.

- Wow! - says Tony.

He already finished his cigarette, and now wants to enter the fight.

The second square Tony confidently shades with green and blue, and I already know that it will be Venice, the one he is so crazy about. Quickly, the colorful houses rise from the water; however, instead of gondolas and motor boats, the landscape suddenly fills with winged creatures, looking both like humans and foxes.

- Mother of God, who are they? - I ask dazedly.

Tony laughs:

- No idea. They came here themselves and decided to be. It's not my place to judge.  

- Well, then let my fishes live in their waters, - I say, - They perfectly match to your foxes, I think.

- True, - agrees with me Tony, moving the box so I could also take chalks.

The third and fourth square we paint simultaneously, almost racing. Tony, of course, is the champion on this competition - he is a professional. He gets up, stretches, and observes the results with pleasure.

- Oh wow! What is it? - he asks me.

- A city map, I guess, - I reply uncertainly, setting aside purple chalk, - Right, the map. You know, the one with tour paths for tourists. Every day it is drawn on the city wall. And at night, the rain washes the picture away. Which is why in the morning comes a duty artist and paints a new one. He, of course, doesn't really remember what was on the wall yesterday. To tell you the truth, he doesn't even try to remember, drawing whatever streets he wants. But tourists can still use this map: while the artist draws his lines, the city changes to match them.

- Well, then there should be two artists, - Tony says, - Firstly, the man can't work every day. Secondly, then there is even more changes and chaos. And everyone is happy.

His drawing in the fourth square perfectly matches this statement. On the surface two very pleased winged fox-humans, a bit - as much as it's possible with their fox faces - similar to us, levitate over the city-lake, with large red mugs in their hands.

- They are drinking coffee, no doubt, - I say.

- Naturally. Whatever you look and wherever you live, it can't happen without coffee.

We might as well just go for coffee now - we wanted to, anyway, - but instead Tony begins to roll another cigarette, and I paint the fifth square. Its impossible to stop.

- What is it? - asks Tony, - It's beautiful, but I understand nothing.

- Probably, it's a book. Or rather their version of books. When you continuously fly above water, it's great to have some fun things reflect in it. For example, books with illustrations. It's also better to prepare the texts on the clouds, in the mirrored way, so that they reflect as needed.

- Alright, - Tony nods. He gives me a cigarette, grabs the chalks, and, while I relax, quickly draws flying writers in the sixth square. They carefully cover the clouds in reflected letters.

- Yep, that's exactly how they work, - I nod and begin the seventh square. Toni takes the eighth.

I draw streams of colorful wind above a rich blackness of coastal fruit gardens, and Tony works on the main square of the city, where underwater trees grow - so tall that tired creatures can relax on their branches, expanding high above the waters.

In the ninth square, I draw a bridge, but not between two riversides - between the earth and the sky. Precisely like the Old London Bridge, it is covered in buildings, at least on the visible part. What happens above the clouds? I don't know. It's not my business.

Tony is still drawing, so I roll the cigarettes. After finishing the last, tenth square, he takes the rolling machine and, stunned, freezes looking at the skies. I observe his picture, and, finally, ask:

- So... what is it?

- A map, probably, - Tony smiles, - But not the city map like yours, but how to get there. From here, I mean. In case of an emergency.

- Wow, - I say, peering at the drawing, - wow.

What else can you say?

We sit on the edge of the road and smoke. Honestly, it is a bit cold outside, since our friend wind has returned. While we were drawing, he relaxed, and now he is entirely ready to blow again.

Honestly, we should get our butts off the edge of the cold road and go to the coffeehouse or home. But we are so tired that for now, we can only smoke in the icy sunny wind and blissfully smile, looking at our work.

A girl, about ten years of age, exits the apartment house. A ginger girl in an old red coat, chubby enough to earn a nickname "bomb" or something like that. She has a waist-long ginger braid, round green eyes, straight forehead and such a forceful chin that no one would've wanted to be her hypothetic enemy. In the left hand, she holds a gray knitted hat; she probably took it off just a minute ago. In the right hand, she holds a flat round box, that one could surely use like a bat. Her face almost screams her uncompromising intention to play hopscotch in the squares she, herself, diligently drew before lunch; so they belong to her only; so no one disturbs jumping or laughs at the mistakes.

When she sees my and Tony's pictures, the girl freezes in amazement. For like five seconds, not more. Then she lands her bat on the first square, straight on the head of one of my fishes. And begins to jump.

The girl jumps very delicately. Stands for a long time in each square, preparing and calculating the next move. She tries hard - maybe to save the pictures, or to get perfectly precise movements. She seems to succeed at both.

Reaching the ninth square, the girl freezes and observes the tenth. Finally, instead of jumping, she carefully pushes the bat with her colorful boot towards the edge between the squares.

There, the bat slowly crawls on the edge, and slowly moves farther. There... hell, where is it?

The curvy girl in a red coat stands in the ninth square, on my bridge between the earth and the sky. She confusedly examines the tenth, on which nothing lies, except for Tony's picture. A flat white box couldn't possibly mix with the image. And yet, it's not there.

The girl drops her gray hat on the ground. Automatically puts the end of the braid in her mouth. Thinks. Squats down and observes the picture. Carefully, touches it with her hand. Finally, she stands up and makes a step.

We look at her as if we were enchanted.