milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Kitty's gone.

It is, therefore, perhaps not entirely surprising that Edmund is bored, and furthermore is actually out and about in Milliways this evening.

The fact that the Junior Extremely Allegorical Messianic Kitten has taken to demolishing wrapping paper may possibly have something to do with this. Perhaps.

The scraps of wrapping paper still sticking to the ankle of one leg of his trousers is almost certainly the only way to tell that, however.

Meanwhile, Edmund finds a pot of tea and his sketchbook, taking them to a seat in the middle of the room. It's been quite some time since he's drawn anything other than Kitty, after all.

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Well, champagne's for celebrating.

And it's always more fun to draw another artist.

This champagne is medicinal. And don't let anybody tell you otherwise.

It is rather amusing to draw someone sketch someone, who's sketching one, and so forth. She makes the pieces of paper on Edmund's leg a bit more prominent, and goes back to the tilt of his cheekbones.

That would obviously have been any right-thinking person's second guess.

It's unfortunate, perhaps, that he's unaware that she's working on his face, as at the moment he's started to grin a little, quietly, reaching for his tea. A quick sip, fortunately not burning his tongue, and he's back at work on the drape of her sleeve.

Duh.

It is unfortunate, a bit, but it does make the planes of his face less harsh and melancholy. Which Liz doesn't mind at all.

It's probably more unfortunate that in getting rid of a shadow that isn't there anymore since Edmund's cheek curved, she brushes the eraser bits off with the hand that comes out of the sleeve Edmund's sketching.

Somewhat distressing, that much is true, but as his smile fades away again as he concentrates, he can at least shift to the shadows angling away from her sketchpad.

And they're close enough to the fire that the shadows are warm and have soft edges.

Liz bites her lip a little and starts in on the faint lines around his eyes. Not crow's-feet, not exactly, just lines.

At age nineteen-physically-and-perhaps-for-always, he'd better not have crow's feet.

The bitten lip, meanwhile, is a more interesting expression than the faint smile, and he quickly starts to sketch it in.

Not quite. There's just something -- something that's not nineteen about his eyes, and yet, the lines aren't doing it. She smudges them carefully, with the tip of her finger, and then looks at him, and draws without glancing again at her paper.

Sometimes that works.

Well, no, if we're judging by the eyes it's more like thirty-five, or perhaps even forty, as nobody ever really said how long it took to get to the Eastern Edge of the ocean.

He's managed, at least, to get the shape of her mouth right. Now to fill in everything else...

That isn't quite it, either. Liz is good -- better than good -- but she isn't that good. She takes a breath, and lightens her touch, and starts shading at his temples, where his hair lies in soft strands.

It's everything else that's always the trouble, isn't it? You can get one thing right, and nothing else quite fits.

Well, it is a little bit tricky, to be certain.

Unconsciously, Edmund resettles more comfortably in his seat, pencil flashing across the page to catch the upsweep of her hair.

But it's worth getting right.

She starts adding crosshatching to his shoulders as Edmund relaxes into his seat, and leans forward a little to catch the way the tendons in his throat lie.

He's smiling, again.

It's something of a challenge: not merely the art itself, but to get it right, and to get it done quickly, and perhaps to be the first to finish.

Perhaps. But men are sometimes absurdly competitive.

She doesn't bother with details on his shirt, simply suggesting the folds and the way his body moves in them.

Well, yes.

Especially when, after being a king, they find a home where their fiancée regularly outshines them.

Not that he particularly minds, really. He loves her.

Edmund chews on the end of his pencil, studying his sketch, studying her, because there's something missing still and he hasn't quite managed to figure out what it is, yet.

It doesn't matter if they mind or not. They simply are that way, and Liz has accepted that.

She has tried, anyway.

She looks up briefly, and smiles, a tiny twitch of lips, before bending back down to the collar of his shirt and the softness at the base of his throat.

He could ask. That might make it easier.

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