The view from the castle windows has always made Elouan feel exceptionally small. Miles of city span out below, it's a sight he couldn't have imagined a year ago, but now it feels incredibly normal, almost boring. A long-hulled airship floats in the distance, a little below eye level.
This is where the boy chooses to eat lunch when he can't find Marcel; atop one of the quieter staircases in a lesser used tower. He's probably going to miss this a little, he thinks, now that his work here is coming to an end. Nothing about the job he's been doing for the Architectural guild has been particularly fun or engaging, just some diagnosis and maintenance, but it was at least a change of pace from the usual, slow, front of shop work.
Up here has always felt like a brief glimpse into a bigger and brighter world, but there's a hollowness to it today. He could speculate the reason for this: it could be the darkening Winter sky, or the simple fact that the magic is wearing off after repeated exposure, but he'd be lying to himself if he attributed it to anything other than Marcel's absence.
It feels utterly empty without him here. He's come to accept that the boy is busy and inconsistent, these occasional unannounced absences are to be expected, but he still can't help but worry a tiny bit every time, wondering if he said or did something to make the boy dislike him. How long has it been since he last saw him? Two days? Three days? It feels like a week.
Eloaun glances over his shoulder at the compact metal clock adorning the wall. Six hours and five minutes, give or take. He'd contemplated buying a little pocket watch like Marcel has and determined it was a poor idea. He's taken to staring at any clock in his vicinity multiple times an hour, hoping every time that by some miracle that the hands had skipped forward by some great leap. He'd never be able to take his eyes off of a watch at this rate.
He sighs in a very mild anguish. Six hours and three minutes.
By the time he reaches the art class it feels like an entire day has passed. He ambles around pointlessly for a further eleven minutes before Marcel, or Myra, emerges from the doorway wearing a beautiful pale green dress with a coat and a pretty beret. Her face lights up the moment she sees him.
"Hi!" She waves at him.
"Hello." He says in a slightly awkward tone. "You look nice."
"Thank you." She gives a small twirl to show off her outfit. "Hey, I gotta go talk to Cyril about something real quick." As she says this she grabs his hands and makes him blush. When she blinks he can see the pretty reddish shade of eye-shadow she's wearing. "I lent him my nice pencil and I kind of need it back."
"Sure, tell me about your day when you're done?"
"Of course." Myra looks like she's about to leave, but she doesn't let go of his hands. She looks away, then back at his face, then down ever so slightly, then back up. Just when Elouan thinks she's about to say - or do - something, she lets go and walks across the room without missing another beat.
Elouan doesn't mean to sigh out loud, but it happens anyway. As he gets to work setting an easel up, a familiar voice calls out to him from across the room.
"Hey El!"
"Amelia, nice to see you." He smiles but his expression quickly shifts into something more serious when he notices her grin. She looks sly, or smug?
"So what's that about?"
"What's what?"
"You two, you've gotten pretty close haven't you?" Her tone isn't teasing, but it is a bit playful, like she's in on a secret.
"Have we?"
"Don't think I haven't noticed. You two are always around each other, being all touchy and everything." The touching had been striking Elouan as a little odd. He wouldn't know how to explain it himself so he tries to divert a bit.
"Right, yeah. I've been teaching him- er, her a bit on the weekends. So we see a lot of each other."
"Oh I'm aware, she won't shut up about it." She says in an almost accusing tone. "It's strange seeing her so lit up about somebody, she usually tries to be so aloof."
This is unusual for her? Elouan had just assumed she had a very lively personality, he's certainly not seen a different side to her other than this one. Even as a boy she's excitable and lacking a proper sense of personal space.
"It's sweet." Amelia says.
"What is?"
"You know, you two."
"What about us?"
"Oh, are you not there yet?"
Not where? Elouan thinks to himself, he thinks he knows what she means, but he's not certain. He wonders if his silence is speaking for him.
"Ah," she leans back. "Ahh I get it. Sorry, I shouldn't be prying."
Elouan feels a pair of arms reach over his shoulders; Myra sticks her head out over from behind him.
"Hey, watcha talking about?" She says playfully.
Amelia gives a weird glare at Elouan. Maybe she's right about something, the two have become a little touchier than most would be comfortable with. He had thought he was imagining it, but there seems to be something different in the air the last couple of weeks, since they shared that bed.
It's not like that though - he would know if it were like that. Myra's closeness is warm and platonic. It feels nearly the same as the kind of intimacy Elouan received from his friends when he was a young child, there's an innocent nature to it that makes it come very naturally. Orange hair brushes against his face as she turns her head to look at his face for a short moment before turning back to Amelia.
"Nothing much." The boy says.
"Amelia?" The redhead asks, "did you tell him about the showcase already?"
"I was getting around to it."
"Showcase?" Elouan says.
"Yeah," Amelia replies, "you know that art museum on the hill this side of the river?" He doesn't know but he sees no point in interrupting. "They're going to be running a little exhibition a couple of months from now, showing off works by local amateur artists. You interested?"
"Sounds like it could be a fun trip, I guess."
"No, silly." Myra says. "Do you want to submit one of your pieces?"
"Ahh." He thinks about the prospect for one awkwardly long moment. "No."
"No?" Amelia asks. "How come?"
"I don't think I'm the kind of person they're looking for."
"You absolutely are." She says in an insistent tone. "You're a very skilled painter for your age."
"I am?" This is the first he's heard of it. Elouan's technique is a mess: his fundamentals weak and his style nonexistent.
"Yeah. Honestly you're probably better than most of us here."
"I don't think that's true."
"He's being humble again." Myra says, still draped over his shoulders.
"Well I have been practicing for a while." He mumbles in response. This sort of flattery isn't something he is used to nor comfortable with.
"Come on, it'd be fun." Amelia says excitedly. "Think about it, you could get some serious recognition. Don't you wanna get some eyes on your work?"
"Not really, no. I don't really like showing my work off to other people." This isn't the full truth. If he actually submitted something he'd get worried sick wondering what everyone thought about it. If a real professional critiqued his work he'd probably keel over and die on the spot. But that would sound pathetic if he said it out loud.
"You should think about it." Myra says seriously, letting her voice slip a little deeper than she usually does around other people. "I really think you'd get something from it."
He's about to refuse again, but something stops him. What does he want out of art anyway? Does he really dislike showing off his work, or does he just fear criticism? For most of his life his art has stayed between him and a couple of close friends; it's personal, something to be shared intimately but not displayed openly. Even his parents have barely seen his output. But now it's changed, whether he meant for it or not, Amelia and the others here have all seen his work, they even like it.
For a moment he seriously considers the prospect of submitting a piece to this gallery. It's small and out of the way: barely anybody will see it. There is the littlest chance that someone of note could see his work, take interest in it. Maybe someone who knows far more about art than he does. Suddenly an enticing prospect arises: since moving here his artistic ability has more or less flatlined. These classes are nice but everyone is here to learn, with nobody to teach. It has refined his sense of proportion and given him an ample supply of artistic subjects, but he can't say it has taught him anything he didn't already know.
Maybe this is it, the reason he moved to this city in the first place, to get more out of life. A chance to meet more people and eventually learn from them. Money and freedom were always nice, but hard to be too passionate about. A greater sense of purpose though? The thought of it itches at the base of his neck, and in that passing moment Elouan grants himself the luxury of dreaming.