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It was raining. Rain meant no matches, and no matches meant that Edgar was currently confined to his room with nothing to do, inspiration washed away like the raindrops currently spattering against his bedroom window. It was funny - the rain. He’d assumed that such an old manor would lead to quite a lot of leaks, but the building was surprisingly structurally sound...
Looking outside at the sound of a commotion, Edgar spots two familiar figures - Robbie, and… Norton? He thinks vaguely. It seemed like the two of them had come up with some sort of game involving the Prospector’s strange magnets. Was he… propelling Robbie over the puddles?
What nonsense.
Briefly, Edgar thinks that the scene might just make for a nice painting. It was a shame that he just couldn’t will himself to do so.
The Painter needed some inspiration, and fast, lest he lose his mind.
Which is why, with great reluctance, the brunette leaves the confines of his safe space, making his way downstairs. There were plenty of… colorful residents here at the manor. He was bound to find someone worthy of being his muse.
-
Making his way down into the main hall, Edgar’s eyes scan over Margaretha, Vera, and Melly. They seemed to be in deep discussion about something. All three of them were lovely and would make fine muses, certainly, but the spark just wasn’t there - well. That, and the fact that Vera kind of intimidated him.
...No - it was certainly just women in general, despite that one time Demi claimed that she was “going to be his new father now,” and embraced him so that his face was nestled snugly into her ample bosom, the pungent scent of liquor making his eyes water.
Edgar shuddered at the memory. Time to move on.
Edgar’s next stop was the parlour, where he came upon Jack, Naib, Mary, Joseph, and Ann engaged in a quite serious-looking game of Blackjack. It was a funny sort of scene before him, the Mercenary seated snugly between some of the more intimidating Hunters… and yet, still nothing. Edgar does not bother to return the wave Naib sends his way, leaving as swiftly as he’d entered.
What a waste of my time.
Well. Norton and Robbie were outside, so perhaps there were others in the courtyard? At this point, Edgar would take anything he could get. Something to get this awful, nervous energy off of his mind.
Thrumming his fingers against the canvas he’d been toting around, Edgar skirts around the edges of the inner courtyard, looking around. This courtyard was a lovely spot - one of Edgar’s favorite places to sit and sketch. On sunny days, that is. There was a beautiful rose bush that Emma tended to, along with a great variety of other flowers, and it made Edgar’s chest tighten up every time he saw it. But it was an addiction - coming back to the rose bush. He’d always been a mother’s boy at heart, after all.
But what catches Edgar’s eyes isn’t the rose bush. It’s a certain Postman; Victor, if his memory wasn’t failing him (which it did more often than not), crouched in front of a familiar, ugly-looking dog with an underbite. There was something about Victor - perhaps the fact that he’d never heard him speak once? - that drew Edgar in.
“Grantz. Pardon me. Are you busy?” The Postman looks up, and Edgar is close enough to see little raindrops clinging to the tips of his eyelashes. It’s a rather pretty scene. If only Victor could stay like that for an hour or two and give him an opportunity to sketch all of the little details…
Edgar flinches at a sudden tap on his shoulder, looking up to see Victor, and - Oh. He’s taller than I realized.
Not that Edgar was tall himself; no… he was shorter than most of the women here, a fact that he didn’t like to dwell on often.
“Ah- hem. Right. I trust you’re not busy, as there are no matches scheduled today. Will you do the honor of being my muse for the time being?” Edgar looks up at Victor, an expectant gleam in his blue, blue eyes, and Victor can’t find it in him to turn the shorter down. Wick would surely be alright for the time being - how long would a little painting take? The Painter could knock out pieces quite quickly during matches.
...Though, Victor supposed that the strange abilities granted to them during games didn’t behave the same way in the manor itself…
Despite Victor’s subtle anxiety at being alone with Edgar, who wasn’t known for having the best attitude, he nods in agreement anyway. Edgar didn’t socialize much, he’d noticed, which had caught Victor’s eye some time ago. As far as he knew, the aristocrat types were all about false niceties and unstable bonds - one wrong move and you’d have an entire house against you.
But the Painter wasn’t like that. One had to wonder about his upbringing…
And with some hesitance, Victor follows Edgar along to an unoccupied chamber.
-
This painting was taking Edgar much, much longer than he would have preferred. It seemed that he just couldn’t shake off the cloud of demotivation that clung to him on rainy days. Try as he might, the brunette simply couldn’t even get a base sketch down, and soon enough, the once-white canvas was now smudged gray with lead markings.
Even worse, Victor had been fidgeting about for some time now, making the strangest hand gestures. It was infuriating!
Gripping the pencil tight, Edgar peeks out from behind the canvas, glowering at the other. “We are not playing charades here, Grantz. What on Earth are you doing?”
There was something in the expression on Victor’s face that brought a sense of understanding to him. Not once had Edgar heard Victor speak to the other survivors; only ever in the barest whispers to his dog. Maybe the issue wasn’t that Victor didn’t want to speak to the others… but rather, that he couldn’t? Perhaps the two of them were more similar than Edgar would like to admit.
There was a disconnect in their abilities to interact with others.
Setting his canvas and pencil down on the seat he’d taken, Edgar rose to his feet, arms behind his back as he took a step in Victor’s direction.
“Is this - are you communicating in some way?” He recognized some of the hand signals that Victor frequently used when they paired up for matches - gestures meant to catch one’s attention, or indicate that they should follow him…
There was a relieved smile on Victor’s face as he nodded, getting up and stepping past Edgar to borrow his pencil, giving the shorter an apologetic look as he wrote directly onto his canvas - I need to take care of Wick. He’s been out in the rain for some time now, but I didn’t want to disturb you while you were focusing so intently. It would bring me great joy to tell you more once I return. May I?
Normally, Edgar would be quite peeved that someone had laid their hands on one of his precious canvases, but Victor had… quite pleasant penmanship, and he had to admit that his curiosity was more than a little piqued. So Edgar simply sighs in resignation and nods, taking a seat once more and watching Victor make his way out.
Would he return? What if that was just an excuse to get out? He knew he had a bad attitude most of the time; knew he was more standoffish than he sometimes intended to be, but..
Edgar takes in an unsteady breath to calm his nerves. No - Victor was one of the most genuine survivors that Edgar had met here thus far, though he still didn’t know the other well. He would return.
In the meantime, Edgar could simply admire the delicate curves in Victor’s handwriting.
-
Sign language , Edgar soon discovers, isn’t that difficult after all. Once Victor had let Wick back inside, he had come back just as he’d promised to, and they’d spent the better half of the day together without even realizing it, discussing Victor’s method of speaking together.
It had taken Edgar a long moment to understand the concept of why the other was unable to speak to others despite technically being able to, but it wasn’t his place to pry into sensitive business like that. So he didn’t.
“..Okay. So this is your - your.. alphabet. Okay.” Edgar mumbles, mostly to himself, looking over the canvas that he’d repurposed into a sort of chart dedicated to the different letters of the alphabet, translated into hand gestures. He’d given the excuse that it was simply practice in drawing hands, but rather, it was a genuine desire to learn something new .
“Alright. I’ve got a hang of it.” He looks up, expectant and eager, which leaves Victor slightly taken aback. The last person who’d been this willing to learn was Andrew. Andrew and Edgar were nothing alike. “Will you teach me some phrases now?”
A thumb tucked between your pinky and ring finger and then circling your hand in a clockwise motion was Monday. Thursday and Sunday were slightly more tricky to get the hang of, but Edgar found himself helplessly chasing after that smile of approval Victor graced him with every time he correctly mimicked a gesture.
Hello. How are you?
I am fine.
Where do you live?
What is your name?
I like you.
-
The rainstorm had long since stopped by the time Victor decided Edgar had learned enough for the day. The shorter was silent, likely absorbing the information he’d been given. Victor taps his shoulder and shows him his hands - a simple test. Just to see if he’d genuinely been paying attention; a burning curiosity to find out if someone had finally been listening to him.
Tomorrow. Would you like to practice more?
A moment of silence, and then a moment of realization.
Yes, please.