She's barefoot, her hair tangled, a streak of blue paint in it.
A look of intense concentration is on her face. Her red skirt falls to her knees; the top above it is no longer white because she wipes her brush absentmindedly on it.
The room is bare, the floors wooden and the walls dirty white. There is only her, behind the easel, and him, reclining on the chair. The sun shines in through the curtainless window behind her. Shines through her fuzz of honey-coloured hair, catching the tiny, fine hairs along her cheek and giving her face a silver-gold edge.
It is silent. The world outside has slowed or stopped, and they are ghosts, caught here, and out of time and place. The only things to live and breathe in a world of silence.
"What are you painting?" he tries not to move as he speaks, because he knows that if he moves the wrong body part, he is likely to have the paint-covered brush thrown at him.
Paint fights can be fun – especially what usually happens at the end of them – but it would ruin the mood, and just now, he likes being a ghost. It's peaceful.
She looks up and smiles, that mischievous smile that banishes the dreams from her eyes.
"You," she replies.
His lips twitch, but if he laughs, he'll spoil the pose.
"Oh, really? You amaze me. What are you actually painting now?"
"Don't move," she warns him automatically, as his head shifts slightly. Then she takes a step back from the canvas and gazes at it, eyes narrowed.
"Circles," she says eventually, smiling dreamily.
"Circles?" he repeats incredulously, "How do you look at me and see circles?"
"It's very difficult to paint perfect circles freehand," she says reprovingly, "Artists used to put them in their pictures, just to show off their technical skills. Like Rembrandt's self-portrait."
He grins.
"So you're just showing off your technical skills? What happened to artistic expression? What happened to 'Scorpius, I have to paint you. It's in me and I can't sit down until I get it out. Take your shirt off.'?"
"Shut up. I'm painting circles, okay? You'll understand when you see it. And don't move."
There is silence again. Slowly, the sun sinks down behind her. He squints against it, unable to see her properly any more. He can't turn his head away from it because he's not allowed to move. He's still not sure if she's actually painting him, or only circles.
The sun in his eyes is dazzling and painful. He closes one eye, and the other starts to water. He screws them both shut.
"Scorpius," her exasperated voice says, "I'm trying to paint your face. Open your eyes."
"I can't," he replies, "Just paint my head as a circle. That requires more technical skill, after all, doesn't it?"
Her frustration bubbles fast when she's painting.
She throws the paintbrush at him. He picks it up and throws it back.
The silence is over for today.
Unedited, first-thing-that-came-into-my-head Experiment Number One. For Bethhhhhh's challenge, with the pairing Lucy/Scorpius, and the prompts silence, ghost, paint and circles.
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