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Not similar enough. His smile wasn’t kind enough and his eyes weren’t caring enough and his figure isn’t right and everything is wrong and Lomedy is wrong and Flame is wrong and the world is wrong.
Lomedy deserves to be seen as someone right, his friend’s name should be praised and adored and cherished and everyone should know him as Lomedy, not Flamefrags' accomplice and Flame breathed out. Lomedy is not similar enough.
He can’t draw Lomedy similarly enough. He can’t remember what Lomedy looks like or what sound he let out when he was laughing or what color his eyes are and Flamefrags would kill another thousand players if it means he’d come back.
But he won’t. Because Lomedy told him not to and Flame listened ‘cause why would he not? Why wouldn’t he listen to his dearest, greatest friend, his weakness?
But it feels wrong. His face under Flame’s brush feels wrong and suddenly there are colors flying everywhere. Suddenly the canvas is shredded with claw marks, torn through Lomedy’s features and realization hits him. This is his doing. It’s his fault that Lomedy didn’t want to stay and it’s all his fault that his own mind couldn’t seem to grasp on whatever traits are there on his Lomedy.
Flame is ashamed. He is mortified and humiliated and hideous. He is guilty and sinful and doesn’t deserve Lomedy.
So Flame pressed his clean hand slightly on the painting’s ruined forehead, breathed in the sharp, lingering fragrance of watercolour in the air before carefully took down the canvas from its original spot and put it somewhere safe, a secret place for his weakness and his shame and his everything, whispers out a quiet ‘I love you’ to the empty room.
Flame then picked up the brush, still soaking wet, wiped it against the rim of the water-filled cup where he’d carelessly tossed it moments before. With a steady hand, he resumed his work.
He could do this forever, anchored by the colors and the quiet, waiting for the day Lomedy finally chose to come home.