plot twist twistin' my heart 'til it's hollow
band-aids for all my scraped knees
Flat eyes and empty expression stare down Amun, cold and clearly not laughing at this ridiculous joke. Even more unimpressed with this attempt at needling beneath Clem's skin. "Had to earn my food somehow, didn't I?" he snaps, voice dead. He's not ashamed of having been a hooker. It kept him alive after all. But he wasn't going to let this asshole think he was funny for having a constant erection like every other sick bastard Clem had met or dealt with.
It's easier to depart with Rexanna's blessing, her assurances that she is unbothered. Not surprising considering her strength of character, but Clemente is unapologetic in his defensiveness. He sinks into the painting like a stone beneath still waters, completely taken by this new medium, a way of expressing his emotions that he has never been allowed to try before.
He jumps a little in surprise when Bastien comes to speak to him, and remembering the man's chastening he glances away, suddenly shy without the protective instincts to hide behind. Nonetheless he can't help but gush quietly over the paint. "I think of everything. How the colors make me feel. The way moonlight would turn the wet streets silver," here he traces a hand over the silver and blue paint mixing in broad strokes. "Even living on the streets there was always somethin' pretty. I never got to paint, but it's...really nice." A shy admittance, wary of revealing his emotional weakness to this relative stranger. "I dunno I just uh...paint what I feel. That's probably not right, but whatever," Clem's voice goes gruff and defensive, though it wobbles with insecurity as he returns to his brush strokes.
It's easier to depart with Rexanna's blessing, her assurances that she is unbothered. Not surprising considering her strength of character, but Clemente is unapologetic in his defensiveness. He sinks into the painting like a stone beneath still waters, completely taken by this new medium, a way of expressing his emotions that he has never been allowed to try before.
He jumps a little in surprise when Bastien comes to speak to him, and remembering the man's chastening he glances away, suddenly shy without the protective instincts to hide behind. Nonetheless he can't help but gush quietly over the paint. "I think of everything. How the colors make me feel. The way moonlight would turn the wet streets silver," here he traces a hand over the silver and blue paint mixing in broad strokes. "Even living on the streets there was always somethin' pretty. I never got to paint, but it's...really nice." A shy admittance, wary of revealing his emotional weakness to this relative stranger. "I dunno I just uh...paint what I feel. That's probably not right, but whatever," Clem's voice goes gruff and defensive, though it wobbles with insecurity as he returns to his brush strokes.
blankets when i had bad dreams
felt like nothin' could hurt me
CLEMENTE
