In another part of the city, not too far away, Kreig had just finished retelling in soft tones how he’d met Erica and how Darius seemed awfully interested in asking odd questions about him. This little run-through occurred at the dinner table, where a fine meal had already been served and eaten. The day was concluding, and happily so. Both George and Sam seemed glad that Kreig was taking so well to his everyday matters, and he agreed fully himself.

The only other thing that made that evening special was that Kreig had finally gotten his hands on more painting supplies. Nothing too grand, just a few canvases, a sketchbook, plenty of pencils, a small palette of oil colours… Simple stuff, really.

For some odd reason, Kreig got to work with an almost feverish passion. It wasn’t just that he’d been given something so delightful from his siblings, it was also just the reeling of finally being able to do something productive again. Away from people, lost in himself, merely painting. Moving as if possessed. And he knew just the sketch to transform into art. He’d already painted Peter once, so the only part he had to really put his all into was portraying Mrs Willowgrove right. Her eyes were no longer frozen lakes.

He got right to it. As George settled down on the couch with a cup of tea and a book and Sam sat next to him, back at it with the television, Kreig painted. He had a song in his heart that he had to put to the canvas.

In his fervour, he lost the time, moving at a brisk pace to complete the painting, to give form to a love he hoped he wasn’t imagining. Placing Peter’s personality, as he became and as he was by the end of his life, and not as she remembered it. Maybe it was a hopeless thought, but Kreig believed that if Peter had lived, if he had met his ageing and withered mother, he would have changed his mind. He wouldn’t be frowning like a sulking teen, no, as Kreig so delicately painted it, he’d be smiling. Carefully, gently. A hand on his mother’s shoulder where she sat just in front of him, on an old wooden chair, wearing a ballgown that might have been older than even her.

Warmth. Emotion. Longing for someone already gone.

Maybe it was conceited of him, but he placed his own emotions in there like a little bird’s egg. He missed Peter, too. In a way, in a strange, wicked way, he’d known Peter and missed him far longer than she had. Of course he missed his best friend. But did he miss him as much as his mother did?

That was not a question he could answer, and, like many, many other questions, he shuffled it to the side. Big questions weren’t for him to answer. He wasn’t that kind of artist.

He wasn’t the kind of artist that reimagined the real as the unreal, he didn’t exaggerate features or create anything fully new and original. He saw what there was and that was what he drew. A face, a human. A moment from his life. He could put these people in new positions and situations all he wanted, but it remained simple. Unremarkable. Though, he didn’t expect much. After all, had he not gained this skill through the power of the system?

Could he really say that he created this art on his own when he had so much help from the system? Practically speaking, it was entirely unremarkable. Dishonest, even. A fraud.

It was the same with his cooking and fighting and everything in between. All thanks to the system, thanks to the white roots within them.

Without them, he would be nothing.

Kreig could feel his grip on his pencil tightening, and upon remembering what damage that could bring, he instantly released his grip on it fully, letting it clatter to the floor. Sam was fully lost in her game, but George noticed it the moment it happened, giving a small jolt before perking up. “Everything alright, Kreig?” he asked, folding his book slightly shut to focus more on Kreig.

Kreig waited a moment before answering. “I’m not sure.” Not anymore, at least. Maybe he’s never been alright, and maybe he never will be. But wasn’t he right? Hadn’t his thinking from all these years, this immense gratitude to those that had given him everything he is, hadn’t it been correct? Somehow, it didn’t feel alright though. Not since George asked about it.

For some reason, it almost seemed like George could tell certain things about Kreig that not even Kreig could. Like when he was alright and when he wasn’t. And maybe, just maybe, Kreig should trust this more than himself.

George slipped an old receipt between the pages of his book, stood up, and wandered over to where Kreig was. He looked up, his bespeckled eyes dimmed with uncertainty and doubt. But he didn’t say anything. Not a word. No, where Kreig stood there, tense and mute, George bowed down and picked the brush off of the floor. Then, he arched his back again and handed it to Kreig without speaking a word. As a final gesture, he gave a nervous smile. “I won’t ask, it’s okay. You needn’t tell me, and I needn’t hear. Just stay right there, and I’ll go get some tissues to clean it up.”

And he did. All the while Kreig stood there like a doofus, watching his brother clean up his own mess before excusing himself back to the couch. As if nothing had happened. As if nothing was-,

No, not like that. George wouldn’t ask anymore. And Kreig wouldn’t tell.

And maybe that was better for all of them.

At around 22:00, the painting was finished. It was everything he had thought of when he sketched it. Peter in his extravagant cardinal’s gown, and his mother in white. As if nothing changed.

Sand Emperor's Touch (X)

There. Now it was dry. Kreig removed it from the stand he’d been given. What to do now? He could watch whatever Sam was doing. That was always an option.

Kreig leaned a bit to the side to catch a glimpse at what she was so into, only to find her seemingly driving a car around a city. But she wasn’t driving like George did yesterday, no, she was recklessly driving straight through the streetlights and-, and right into people. She just ran someone over. And cackled about it. Should he be worried? Being happy about the death of another (when they didn’t even hold any horrible hedonistic beliefs) seemed almost sadistic. Not to even speak about the flashing lights and loud, irritating noises.

Kreig wrinkled his nose. Yeah, no. He went and grabbed another canvas. What now? Someone. Paint someone. Someone new.

How about Erica? He’d met her only that day, drawing her surely wouldn’t be odd. Ah, though… For some reason, the thought of her seeing his painting of her when they had only met two brief times felt a bit embarrassing. For some reason. Darius, then? Now that he’d gotten a fully proper view of him (his first portrait was just a little off), he could surely paint him accurately.

So, he got to it. And two hours later, he had a fully fleshed-out painting, with Darius sitting in his armchair beneath that green-filled window and the little blooming flower pots. A little painting that would hang well on Kreig’s wall.

The time was 00:00. Sam excused herself to go to bed while George sunk further into the couch, seemingly joining with it as he gluttonously indulged in the book.

George. Of course!

But just painting him again felt a little odd. No, now that Kreig thought about it, he’d been doing all these portraits very strangely. Right from his head. Nobody to look at. Didn’t most reputable painters require a model of some sort, especially for the one they were painting? Of course, of course. His paintings weren’t lacking, but Kreig was sure that if he were to have George pose for him, only sitting on a chair, doing as he pleased, Kreig would be able to extract much more of George than before.

“Brother,” Kreig said. “Would you sit in front of me as I paint your portrait?”

George flinched so hard Kreig was afraid he might fly off of the couch. “Huh? I-, where-? What?... Oh, Kreig! I-, I’m dreadfully sorry, could you repeat that?” This he said while his head whipped around erratically, his eyes glancing desperately back to the pages he’d been ripped away from.

“...I’d like to paint your portrait. Will you pose in front of me as I do?”

It took George a full minute to process the request, during which Kreig was allowed to witness him both escape from within his own imagination as well as retreat back into it. Very fascinating. And, at the end of it, George’s brows shot up. “Um, sure! What should I-, I have a suit. In my wardrobe. Should I wear it? Or?”

“...If you’d like to?”