As Bastien goes to explain, Azrael listens with all their attention focused on their father. “First steps.” They croon, a chimed response to Bastien’s optimism, picking up on it and letting it guide them as well. “So… I must be good?” They question with a tilt of their head – no running amok, no shenanigans, simply on their best perfect behavior.
It sounds a little less fun, but there’s a hint of excitement that lingers within – at seeing the outside world.
It’s dimmed only by the fact they have to sit still for a fair amount of time in order to get their picture painted, and they idly reach for a toy to turn and twist in their small hands while they focus on it. “Can we? Please?” Comes the quiet question, the optimism glimmering in their gaze, softening with the question.
Their head dramatically drops to the flowers splayed out, lifting hands and toy to their lips while they consider it. “Roses… Like the red.” Like the petals they had just crushed, bright ruby red.
It sounds a little less fun, but there’s a hint of excitement that lingers within – at seeing the outside world.
It’s dimmed only by the fact they have to sit still for a fair amount of time in order to get their picture painted, and they idly reach for a toy to turn and twist in their small hands while they focus on it. “Can we? Please?” Comes the quiet question, the optimism glimmering in their gaze, softening with the question.
Their head dramatically drops to the flowers splayed out, lifting hands and toy to their lips while they consider it. “Roses… Like the red.” Like the petals they had just crushed, bright ruby red.
progress, not perfection
Azrael
