Chapter Text
Tomorrow is Sunday. Or, if he’s being pedantic, it’s been Sunday for an hour now and Scar has to be at the temple in eight hours, meaning he’s going to get less sleep than he ought to. He’s not sure where the cause of his anxiety lies… He’s certainly unafraid of attending mass, although getting out of bed might be hard, but no. As much as he’s tried not to overthink it, he’s much more concerned about this whole portrait situation.
He’s spent the week fervently getting ready to paint Grian, sketching out compositions and picking the right canvas, preparing it. He’s also been cleaning up his home studio, which really isn’t big enough, but he doesn’t want to bring Grian into Thomkins, either. He can’t help but think, with how obsessed with propriety Grian is, that the priest would prefer the formality provided by an office building. He keeps remembering the red flush that overtook Grian’s cheeks as he chewed Scar out in that supply closet, the sour way his eyebrows pulled together in distaste. Hopefully, they won’t have a repeat of that kind of reaction when he lets Grian know that the studio in question is inside of Scar’s home. Honestly, after that conversation with the man, Scar isn’t sure how he feels about Grian.
It can’t be me, Scar, he had said with wide brown eyes, stressed and desperate.
Frankly, Scar doesn’t know how to deal with that right now.
He has a goal, a masterpiece to make, and he still feels unsure of what it’s meant to be. All he knew was that seeing Grian continued to make his hands itch, that he loved studying the shapes of his face and his form, idly doodling. Grian’s face was softer, more delicate than those of the handsome young men who usually modeled for him, and yet he held so much more emotion than many of them did, all trained to look so perfectly handsome and strong.
It’s late, and Scar should be asleep. By all means, he’s usually wiped out by ten o’clock, but tonight he’s sitting on the floor of his recently-cleaned up studio, staring out the window at the new electric lights that have been put into a lot of buildings and streets, golden and lively even in the early hours of the morning. There’s just so much to think about, how can he sleep?
He’s only lived in this high-rise for three years. It’s only been standing for a few longer than that. In that time, he’s seen electricity quickly eat up the darkness of the late night, changing the cityscape incredibly. The Watchers have been operating here for hundreds of years, entangled in the founding of the city as the capitol of faith, art, and money after the revolution that formed the nation.
Financial and religious interests have been clashing in the legislation, but other than some of the businesspeople working for Thomkins, most of Scar’s friends are artists with little involvement in either faction. He feels like they’re all just being carried along, helpless to the current of life, of progress, of humanity.
He thinks about the inside of the Temple, of its breathtaking dome and monumental scale, rivaled in Gevein only by the presidential palace. Surely, the first devotees to enter the temple when it was first finished were awed by the building. It took his own breath away when he first entered it, and he’s seen so many more man-made wonders than just the temple. Is it just that difference, of what he has to compare the church to, that kept him from falling to his knees and believing that The Watcher created him? A part of him hurts at the thought, that he would disgrace the artist’s genius by calling the temple a sleight of hand meant to convert the ignorant masses of the past. It’s a masterpiece in there, ornate stained glass that you can follow with your eyes for hours, recounting stories and symbols that Scar doesn’t know, so he just made up whatever he thought they meant. A smile pulls up one corner of his lip at the memory.
Mrrow?
Scar turns his head, finding Jellie padding over to him.
He sprawls back on the floor, letting the pencil he had been tapping against his lips and flipping between his fingers roll away. Rehearsed and familiar, Jellie hops onto Scar’s chest and lies down, tucking her sweet face between her paws and staring up Scar’s nose expectantly. He reaches up and scratches below her chin, at the base of her ears, appreciating the softness of her fur and comforting warmth over his heart.
“I probably should go to bed, huh?” he asks her, not expecting an answer. She came by to check in on him and her message is clear enough. Bedtime.
She just starts to purr like an engine, kneading her paws against Scar’s collarbone. His rumpled shirt is no protection against her claws digging in, punching holes through the linen.
“Ow, Jellie,” he whines, reaching under her paws and pulling her nails out of his flesh. She stops briefly but doesn’t relent in her demand for pets. “If you really wanted me to go to bed, you wouldn’t have sat down on me like this, you know.” She doesn’t reply, so he keeps petting her, switching occasionally to running his palm down her back. The process is soothing, grounding, and makes him feel less alone in this big, big world.
A yawn balloons in his chest and escapes him. “Looks like I’m finally all tired out,” he hums, eyes drooping. He’s lying on the paint-stained floor of his studio, bound to make his body ache if he stays too long, and promising an awful sleep. It takes him a few minutes to find the strength to get up, not eager to disturb the now-cozy cat on his chest or to really pull himself to his feet at all. The promise of his soft, warm bed is all that propels him, exhausted as he is.
At least he has Jellie, he thinks, grateful for his companion’s ability to make sure he takes care of himself when he needs it. Still, as he slides under the sheets of his bed, he cannot help but feel that it’s too large for just himself. He curls up into the soft blankets with Jellie nearby, just hoping to feel well-rested tomorrow despite the late night.