Speaking: Gold | Thinking: Red
In a room dappled in sunlight, a boy was painting.
Dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans that were rumpled as if he hadn't bothered changing since he got out of bed (he hadn't), the boy looked almost faded in the light, the sunlight from the windows casting a shadow across his face, adding a glow to his already yellow hair. He looked faded the way a photograph does, sepia and faded backgrounds, body picturesque as leant forward on his stool and picked up a brush, a look of absolute concentration on his face, as if he had forgotten everything around him.
Of course, the faded tones merely made the colors decorating Claude and the canvas he was painting on all the more brighter. Reds, browns, yellows, blues, greens... his clothes, face, even his legs were decorated with smears of paint, and his hands were an undefinable mix of color. As he reached up with one hand, absently pushing his hair back from his face, he left a long streak of forest green paint on the top of his forehead in the process. Ignoring it - Claude didn't even seem to notice that it existed - he turned back to the painting with a face of absolute concentration.
It was almost complete. A dash of storm cloud grey there, mix in a little more white under that dark green patch... Ah, but he had to be careful, so that the green wouldn't be too light. It had to be just right, to accentuate the painting. Hands moving elegantly like a pianist playing a sonata, Claude was the picture of concentration as the brush moved, playing the song out to its finale.
A small stroke of black... lifting the brush up towards the sky, Claude brought it down like the hand of God - and gently dabbed at the center of the painting. Satisfied, he placed the brush down and leant back with a frown, looking critically the completed painting.
Done.
The picture was a mishmash of colors and shapes. At the edges, it was bright like the glare of the sun; blinding the people who saw it and searing into their brains. It was all mismatched whirls and edges at first sight, but a closer look revealed a deep downwards spiral leading to the center of the painting. As it went downwards, people would gradually notice that the colors grew softer and less defined, sharp edges and curls blending into each other until it was hard to tell which was which. The process was like a high definition photograph that was slowly fading into black and white- blinding hues that had resembled the glare of the sun was now softening like ice cream melting in the heat, turning from harsh to the gentler shine of a multicolored lightbulb until finally, at the center of the painting, a small dark starry circle appeared.
It was an empty pitch black. It was the kind of black that you'd get if you tried to think of the darkness of an enclosed tomb, the kind of darkness that didn't know about anything that wasn't a deep, dark black. It was a darkness that generated light thanks to the sheer lack of white inside it, and that emphasized the colors that made up the painting and made it shine brighter, almost like a dark star that was generating a whirlwind rainbow of colors that grew brighter every second it spiraled outwards into its surroundings.
It would do. With a proud curve to his lips, Claude stretched his arms and spine out with a series of pops and made to stand up - only to promptly discover that sitting still on a stool for nearly half a day best numb legs. Wobbling like a newborn foal and wincing at the aching cramp in his legs, Claude waited until the pain had died down before attempting to pack up his gear.
He was done within a few minutes. Closing the paintbox with a snap, Claude looked out of the window and blinked in surprise as he noticed, for the first time, that the sun was about to set instead of being high in the sky like he had expected it to be.
What happened to the afternoon? And the sun looks nice...
His stomach growled. Claude blinked and noticed for the first time that he was ravenously hungry and actually pretty tired. It was to be expected, seeing as he only slept for four hours before waking up and had hardly eaten since breakfast (or the day before, now that he thought about it), but it still surprised him no matter how many times it happened. Reaching out a hand, Claude tentatively petted his stomach as if hoping that it would stop growling.
No such luck. His stomach continued to grumble 'FEED ME YOU FORGETFUL BASTARD WHO DO YOU THINK GIVES YOU ENERGY TO PAINT', and with a sigh Claude decided to appease it. Placing the painting in a dry corner of the room so that it wouldn't be disturbed by anyone, Claude took one last look at it before drifting out of the room, heading towards the dining room.
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He drifted into the dining room like a paint covered ghost. It seemed that almost everyone had finished their meal. Seeing that there was no food to be found, Claude yawned widely and quietly made his way to the kitchen. Ghost-like effect spoiled by the herald of his rumbling stomach, Claude yawned again and drifted tiredly towards the fridge and pulled it open, grabbing the first thing he saw - cake.
Food!
It was only after he was halfway through demolishing the piece of cake that he turned and noticed the plates filled with food seated on the table for anyone who had missed dinner for one reason or another. Stuffing the rest of the cake into his mouth and smearing cream and icing on his nose and cheeks, Claude took the plate and made it to the kitchen table at top speed. Pulling up a stool to sit on, Claude grabbed a knife and fork before falling into the food with gusto, a look of neutral concentration on his face as he focused on not choking and on eating as much as he could.