Please DO NOT review and tell me this is grammatically incorrect. I wrote it that way. This takes place during the Renaissance and is a TiedollKanda fic with Tiedoll as an artist and Kanda as his model. The fic is from Kanda's POV and is written as though he, a native of Japan found and cared for by Tiedoll, is attempting to speak in English, his second and self-thought language. For those brave enough to continue, please enjoy! :D


Model

I wait.

Alone waiting so scary because alone I am not safe, I am "foreign" but with waiting I am safe, I am his. But now alone waiting and I see without looking the eyes that call me bad and want me gone away. So I sit still and straight and try not to be.

I hate wait alone.

He come through gate over sad crushed leaves so dry in spring sun and wait is no more. But still so scary for his face is face that make pain in my heart, beat heavy and hard, his hands want my hands but too scary with hiding eyes.

"No good?" So soft eyes hold my eyes because so soft hands can't hold my hands.

"No good…" He went with men who buy his time and smile their teeth at me with smile eyes that want me gone.

My badness, I make no good, I know. I hold his sleeve because no hands and tug my sorry, my no good, sorry. If hands could touch it would be okay, he could say okay or no okay, but he always say okay on my cheek so lips touch. Not with hiding eyes, too scary. So hand under chin say okay, tired hand hold up my face and say okay. Old hand and that what make hiding eyes so angry because hiding minds say we hide bad things.

But we don't hide, everything is for seeing because no bad is in love.

We are in love.

And everyday he show it because old hands are busy with a brush, always show it because I am sitting or laying in the light through the window and on the paper that is rough like old skin I love. With colors I love. And so soft brushes I love. And picture he love and all the world love, all the ladies in the skirts so big with the tight folded hair, all the men in the stupid flop hats with the stuffy lace collar.

I speak bad English but I see their talking from behind my danna painting.

My hair too long.

My eyes too small at corner and too big for his eyes.

My skin not pink-pale, too saffron-pale.

My face too thin.

My years too small.

My too bad, bad, bad.

I trick my danna at night they speak. At night they don't see, I only rest my head on his shoulder for because he love me and there he can hold me so happy. He love me, he tell me always when old skin brush saffron-pale or so soft brush pale on rough paper.

So happy can no have so bad. I love him for loving to me.

"Come with me, Kanda," so soft words he tells me.

"To room?"

"Yes, I'd like to paint. Good?"

"Yes, good." Now he will take me with the window where the so soft brushes wear the colors I love, where the hiding eyes don't watch me gone and away with their hearts.

It is cold in court in England but it was warm when I was away long time away where "foreign" is. And all the time it is warm with the window where I sit for my danna who I loving to and where he paint away empty white rough paper that hold tight his eyes that make pain in my heart.

He tell me all the men and all the ladies think art is for eye looking.

We know art is for heart looking.

I with wait for hiding eyes to let us be our art.