Paint it Black {Gryphon}

[Tom]

Writing Thinking Hearing Saying

When they told him that they wanted him to paint something more appropriate that could make money for the future, he threw a bottle of paint towards them. The paintings on the walls were his heart and soul, but their harsh words only created black paint that covers the pieces, covering his heart with a sheet of black paint that abuses him and tears him apart. Word for word his heart sinks into the ground. The weight of the world he's stuck living in upon his shoulders. This was a norm for the artist haunted with dreams of a hell, just another piece of his pathetic life that he faces in everyday. As his mother speaks, his heart shatters.

"We've supported you all this time. We just want you to do something more friendly and not so dark and evil."

The words shatter his soul and the pieces are lost to the void of nothingness that was the mansion that they lived in. His father only stands there smiling like an evil presence with devilish eyes that pull at the chains that bind Muse to the earth below his feet. His mother's hair snakes that hiss at him with venom upon their tongue. Eyes that could never be met or he'd turn to stone, lost to the void that threatened to swallow him whole every day. They tear his heart out and crush it. An evil duo of the devil and a snake woman who pull him into a hell called reality. As he threatens to angrily leave his parents behind in the room, his curiosity gets the better of him. If he was to die, it'd be because of his curiosity for the unknown. The curiosity that eats up his insides begs him to stand still and endure whatever fate his parents would put him through.

His father's evil grin disappears as he stares to some unknown distance. Muse threatens himself to walk away. Muse feels his heart beat faster as his feet threaten to move. The tone of his father is deadly like it always was. Words that he can hear from behind closed doors when they thought he wasn't listening. A waste of air that escapes their lungs when they talk about him. "We asked someone to come over for you to create a portrait of." The words pile onto his chest like a weight that pushes down with every syllable that comes from his father's lips. He feels a shout of disapproval threatening to push from his throat. Silence was deafening. The silence was his friend and enemy. Always there when he needed them, but never there when he wanted him.

Soon enough he can feel his mother's arms pushing him into his room, where he keeps the canvas and the paints that they buy him. State of the art equipment that they had taken so much time and care into getting. As he is locked up in his room, like a princess waiting for her prince, he can feel the words of conscious speak. Run Muse. Run. There was nowhere to run. Windows that existed within the walls of his room were high above, shining light down upon the room. Never able to be opened by the likes of human beings.

The door opens soon enough for the man, whose muscles could crush his head and watch the blood spill out, to walk in. Something about him echoes something deep within the man. As his father and mother wave to him and shut the door behind the man. Muse isn't scared, but terrified of the stranger that his parents had allowed into his room. He looked around the same age as himself, but knowing his parents, they were trying to make Muse have a friend. A del made by two pairs of parents about children needing something more, or some other philosophical bullshit that he's heard from them before. Silence was against him in this moment. Muse's voice cuts the air like a knife.

"Er hello. I guess you're supposed to be my model that I am supposed to paint."

Muse feels his heart beat in his chest. A sense of fear pulling at his chest threatening to pull him to the floor and cower away from the muscular man. This wasn't what he was going to do. All he could do was face this head on like he's done most of his life. His parents letting strangers into the manor. It has happened before and everytime, Muse ignores them. The only catch was that the guy in front of him looked nothing like a person that his parents would typically allow in. Usually, they were richer or snobber than the normal person, but the guy in front of him was rather poorer and possibly some sort of murderer. If he was to be murdered there, at least it'd be by an attractive male. Muse speaks up again.

"I'm Muse. We don't have to do this if you don't want to? My parents are kind of dicks to me and pull stunts like this all the time."

[Gryphon]

mars ramsey
District 9 ♔ 17

Think. Speak. Hear.

Why me.

Seriously. Why.

Why am I here, sitting in the fancy ass living room of a fancy ass mansion owned by these fancy ass parents, fucking twiddling my thumbs together while they explain to their son why they brought me here before making me be face-to-face with the dude, hearing nothing but my quickened heartbeat in the meantime?

I swear to God, I'm gonna kick mom's and dad's asses by the time I'm done here.

...No I won't.

But FUCK, do I want to so badly right now.

I stare up at the numerous pieces of art decorating the walls in front of me as I keep waiting. They're dark and depressing as fuck, but what else am I gonna do here? No way no how am I gonna stand by the sides of these weird snobs as they talk to the guy who makes these pictures. The first one my eyes check out is nothing but angry, roaring waves rolling around in the ocean on a stormy night.

("Mars, we have some great news to tell you!"
"...What?"
"These parents spotted and recognized you in the District Square a couple days ago, and yesterday while you were working approached us and asked if they could borrow you as a model for a portrait their son could paint.")

I grit my teeth and feel my brows arch in anger already, but I manage to compose myself after I switch over to another painting of a destroyed landscape in front an erupting volcano in the distance.

("...WHAT."
"Look, the boy always makes these depressing paintings of all these disasters, like hurricanes and tornadoes apparently. They were talking about how they could make him turn that talent into something profitable when they saw you, and got the idea he could be a portrait painter with you being his first subject."
"No, please don't make me do this, I'll start working for longer and bring home more money, I swear--"
"Mars, you're doing this. This could be great for you. We're not changing our minds and we're definitely not saying no to them now.")

I sigh loudly with frustration and shove my face into my unresting hands, both to make them stop and to wonder what the fuck kind of sins I committed in another life to be the guy that I am and to have the parents that I have.



As soon as they open the doors to his room for me, I stroll on in with hand rubbing the back of my neck and eyes glued to the floor. Hope the guy doesn't care that I didn't dress nicely for this 'cause I could give much less than two shits. Nothing but a black tank, red jeans, and brown sneakers--hope that works just fine for him.

Fuck, I really don't wanna be here.

All I hear is the door shut closed then nothing for a little while until the guy decides to be the one who breaks the ice.

"Er hello. I guess you're supposed to be my model that I am supposed to paint."

I visibly flinch when he calls me model.

Urgh, as if. Don't need to make this more formal and awkward than it already is.

"I'm Muse. We don't have to do this if you don't want to? My parents are kind of dicks to me and pull stunts like this all the time."

I slowly look up to meet my eyes with his, taking a few seconds to realize I'm already probably boring daggers into the guy and that's not a cool first impression so I soften my gaze.

God, I have no business here. This is surreal as shit. Sure, the dude's kinda cute and the freaky shit he paints is actually kinda calming but I'm way out of my element here. If I don't stay though, my parents--and probably Muse's too--are likely gonna be pissed as fuck, so I better try to make this worthwhile.

Another sigh escapes me as I stand up straighter, but move the hand on my neck to rub the back of my head. I can feel my stupid fucking face heat up already as I find my voice.

"...Yeah, you don't have to call me a m-model, it's fine. I'm Mars." I look away for a moment, my sight meeting a painting of a hurricane as I redden a little more and my voice becomes just a bit less audible but still able to heard by Muse. "Glad I'm not the only one who has shit parents, they'd be pissed if I didn't do this so I guess I'm stayin'."

Returning to his face, I raise a brow.

"...So what now?"

[Tom]

Writing Thinking Hearing Saying

If looks could kill, he would have been impaled by the look of the redheaded muscular guy. The guy was probably imagining thousands of ways to end Muse's pathetic and rich life of luxury. A paintbrush to the eye, arms strangled around his throat, or hell, the guy could probably just shove his head into a bucket of paint until he drowned within his own artistic tragedy. His throat swallows as the gaze softens slightly. Confusion twisting in his stomach as he stares back at the muscular guy. Death was imminent in the presence of a guy who could kill him in nothing flat. The silence was killing him already, what would to conversation do to him.

Silently he curses his parents. It was their idea to have Muse create something more than stormy, sorrow-filled paintings. If only Muse could have been born normal. If only Muse could have been born as the perfect son that his parents wanted. The world would be a happier place if he just didn't exist. Some sort of pain and suffering he has to endure all because of the luck of a birth. Born to a world of darkness and no light can be seen within the glass container. They were all apart of some sadistic artist's canvas created to torture the souls in Panem.

As their faces redden, Muse can feel a tension of awkwardness hit the room. Memories of dinners stuck with rich kids who hated him come forward. Their snobby attitudes always seemed to make him want to bust their noses. If his memory was good enough, there was a bratty one who used to put a black line from a marker on his drawings. The redhead didn't look to be rich like his own family, but looks were deceiving. He would prefer if the guy wasn't rich as most ordinary people had the decency to hold a conversation and not throw money and pride in the face of the lower rich class. He's seen too many dinners to know that the guy in front of him wasn't rich. He was strong and rough on the edges like the people who did daily work outside of their homes. Then there was himself, a man who hasn't laid a finger of work into anything, but painting. Smooth skin that barely has any scars or roughness to them. His skin was soft like himself. No rough skin to protect him from the world and people around him.

"...Yeah, you don't have to call me a m-model, it's fine. I'm Mars."

Mars speaks out loud. His eyes shift away from Muse to the hurricane on the wall. A smile upon Muse's lips as he remembers when he made that painting. A beautiful morning when he woke up and decided to go outside and paint for once. A rare sight for him and anyone passing by. It had been a fantastic day, even if he caught a cold the next day. "Glad I'm not the only one who has shit parents, they'd be pissed if I didn't do this so I guess I'm stayin'." His words ring out in the air. A chuckle escapes from Muse's throat. A friendly smile pulls at his lips as he grabs his canvas and the paints that he had laying around. Silence eats away at him, until he hears Mars again.

"...So what now?"

Brow raised in question. Muse can feel his devious plan coming to mind as a rebellious act to his parents. If they wanted a painting, he was going to give them one. It was going to be glorious and an act of aggression towards them. It was going to be his masterpiece and he was going to hang it where everyone could see the beauty. First he had to make sure Mars was comfortable with being painted. He may have been hired to be the muse to his work, but there wasn't any except for his own emotions. A smirk pops on his face as he speaks.

"Now we get revenge on the parents. I got an idea, but I'm gonna have to paint you. If you're alright with that Mars? Trust me. They are going to love it."

The devious smile on his face grows. The paints of red, orange, yellow, and other colors that he would need prepared and ready to go. All he needed was the approval of Mars. The redheaded muscular man who could kill him. Or screw him into oblivion. He wouldn't mind the latter. It's been awhile since he's last had a fun night. As he shakes the thoughts away, he focuses back to Mars. The smirk still there. His parents were going to kill him. And he loved the idea of that.

They were going to kill him.