Michael couldn't help but smile a rather light, continuous smile. It was like something had changed. When he'd been younger, trapped, he'd begun praying to anyone for something to break other than his bones. It had happened when the police finally found him, but after that, he'd felt that was the end. But now something else had broken---a kindness had found him again. Even if Sasha couldn't do quite as much as he might promise or feel, it was more than enough already. More than what he could have anticipated after the first month of being here.

He glanced sideways. "I... usually just eat whatever they bring me. One of my doctors told me that they'd put together a specific meal plan for me to get back strength and get back into foods that are harder to eat and digest. Er, I... don't need help regarding that, by the way... I just behave as if I'm paralyzed..." Touching his legs did put pressure on the metal hugging his bones, but it didn't force his nerves to process the desire for his muscles to contract and release, sending even worse pain into reacting. As long as his wheelchair was right there he could manually pull his legs to the side and then transfer himself into his chair by his arms. They, at least, had grown very strong in his time kidnapped. Since they only let him have a wheelchair or similar during transports upstairs, he would usually drag himself when his legs were compromised, not only after they had done their disgusting experiment.

"I don't mind when you leave." Michael said after a time, going back to his work on the front legs of the horse. "Just... Just tell me... beforehand. So I don't worry." He'd not have admitted it before, but when he was left alone for hours at a time he began to fear he'd been forgotten. Or lost. Or abandoned. That feeling had always come when his captors locked him in his cage for a long time.

He nodded as he took in all the new information. Someone would probably bring in the specially prepared food then, since it was such an important part of what would help the other man heal. "I'll move the wheelchair closer to the bed then, so it's easier to reach." Why it lay across the room in a place Michael would have a hard time reaching, Sasha had no idea. Mumbling to himself about thoughtless fools, he slipped from the bed to wheel the chair nearer his charge, close enough that it would take but a few carefully planned moves for Michael to be seated.

"Ah .. Actually ... I still need to get my things.. Would you mind if I left for a little while to go and pick them up?" He had been debating on whether or not to keep his apartment, now that he would be staying right there at the hospital. Perhaps he would become Michael's permanent care taker. For some reason, Sasha had a hard time imagining anyone else doing the job.

Michael smiled. They'd moved it so far away when they came to take blood samples and his vitals, and reevaluate his legs. He hadn't had the chance to ask for it to be brought back before they'd left. "Thanks..." He said weakly, shaking his hands a little when his fingers tingle. He'd had them curled over his work too long. "I don't mind if you go. I'm just glad to know you'll tell me first." That way he didn't feel so helpless. In just an hour Sasha had made Michael open up more than anyone else. The therapist that had been called in to talk to Michael about his endurances. The mediator to get him accustomed to the world around him again. He'd been in that basement for seven years, mostly dragging himself around, stuffed into a tiny cage when left entirely alone. No doubt it had actually stunted his growth, and obviously had paled his skin and made it soft and delicate, unaccustomed to the elements of nature and society.

He looked down, using a couple new pins, two that ended in a ball joint so they could move to a specific degree. This would be the skeleton for the horse's bent leg. "Before you go, I just... I want to say thanks for what you're doing." His voice was low---hopefully Sasha could hear it. "I've been told I should talk about what happened to me to face it. To acknowledge it and get the weight out. I hope you wouldn't mind if I did that sometimes." He breathed in, a tremor in the sound. "It's nice that someone around here isn't so... fakey." Faking care, emotion, sympathy. They'd just done this too long, perhaps. They'd seen it, heard it, got tired of it. Maybe nursing wasn't their first choice of job.

"And don't forget, you have a pager and my pager number stuck to it on the back. You can call me at any time." He'd forgotten to mention that important little bit earlier. It struck him as odd, no as fitting, that Michael put metal within the legs of his creation to make it more like him. That probably wasn't his purpose ... Sasha shook his head slightly and resisted the urge to hug or touch the other man again.

Instead he smiled as he bent forward slightly to hear the other man's words. "Michael, I'm here to help you in any way I can. Of course I wouldn't mind." Why did Michael say things so easily, things which moved his heart in odd little ways? Sasha reached out to place his hand gently on the other man's shoulder. "I'll try to get back as soon as I can." Living mostly at the hospital anyway, he didn't have all that much to bring with him.

With that he turned away and left, but not before stopping at the doorway to wave a little for Michael's benefit. As he waled through the hospital, Sasha fumed silently. People were so unfeeling, so callous! He knew in part it was because those very same people didn't hold out much hope for Michael's recovery, and so they distanced themselves purposefully. Along the way, he mentioned Michael needing to be fed, and got a nod from the nurse that she would take care of it.

Then it was home he went to his sparse apartment. It took but a few moments to pile his clothing into a few bags. Sasha was more careful with the pictures of his family, and the little trinkets he'd picked up here and there. The furniture he glanced at and shrugged. It was all dump worthy anyway. The only thing he wanted to send back home was the bed, for safe keeping. That wouldn't take long, just a call to his parents, which he proceeded to do. Sasha gave them a quick explanation of the situation, and smiled at how supportive his parents were of his choice to move into the hospital on a permanent basis.

When he was left alone it felt as if the effects of the painkillers were only able to come through then. A crushing sadness stilled his hands and set the formed clay on top of the rest of it, which he'd wrapped up after pulling off enough for the last leg. It would take a couple hours to dry enough so that only a sharp blade could cut it gently, and while he still had to work on the head, Michael suddenly didn't feel like it. Didn't feel like much. He picked up the damp towel and cleaned his hands, covering the block of clay with it and gritting his teeth before beginning the careful shifting of his body. Putting his hands beside him, pressing down hard but keeping his shoulders squared, his jaw clenched, and his arms straight beside him. From this position he could almost feel the two largest bolts in his hips, but he ignored that thought and lifted himself up a bit higher. He felt so weak... How would physical therapy go? He had so rarely put weight on these legs, and if they ached so constantly now, how would he be able to handle what came during these possible years?

The door, which had been partially closed, opened and Michael quickly snapped his head up expecting to see a familiar pale-headed face. But it was the dark-haired older woman carrying a tray. She was actually from the cafeteria, and a kind woman---she always had a smile on her face, it seemed, and was never negative. It was eerie, really, but nice. She didn't have time to stay more than a minute, unfortunately, and she grinned widely as she set the tray she carried on he bare part of the table, grasping Michael's hand---which was one of the few parts of him that never pained him quite as badly as the rest of him. She left quickly, her job calling her back to the cafeteria, and Michael turned his gaze down. The food here wasn't bad at all, but couldn't compare to anything made at one's own home, under their own hand. This evening it was a roast beef sandwich with cheese, a small pile of mixed vegetables, half a pear, and a small bowl of yogurt. It was balanced, he knew, but always such a large amount. He couldn't eat much, though they seemed to feel that if they gave it to him, he'd be obligated to eat it.

Sighing, Michael picked up the sandwich and studied it. There was nothing wrong with it, but he'd gotten into the habit when his captors would give him a bowl of mix that didn't seem natural. Maybe he'd be happier once Sasha was back. Maybe he'd be happier if he told someone about what had happened. He glanced at the pager, but found no pressing reason to use it.

It took longer then he'd expected to put everything in his car, and it was a while before he found help to bring all his bags into the room allocated to him. Sasha nudged the door open, the one leading to the main area of the rooms given to Michael, and murmured softly to his helpers where to put the bags. Soon they were all piled up in the bedroom connected by the bed. Nodding to himself, Sasha turned to thank his fellow interns and escorted them from the rooms.

Then he allowed himself to walk into Michael's room after a quick knock with a smile on his face. "I'm back." He was surprised to see the amount of food given to his charge, and the neglected sculpture laying unfinished. Michael had seemed so intent on it... Oh the man was back to feeling down, it showed in the way his shoulders had fallen, the spark in his brown eyes disappeared making them seem dull ... What had happened since he'd left?

Michael did try to do right by his own. He was too small for his age, too weak, physically. He had to eat the right things, and the right amount of those things, to feel better. It wasn't the instruction of the doctors he was following, but himself. He knew he had to eat the right things. The right amounts. Though it was hard to do it, and he ate only half of everything he'd been given. It was a step in the right direction, at least, and the progress was acceptable to him. He pushed the tray back and took the taste from his mouth with a few drinks of water, and pulled a little handful of clay free, working it with one hand as the door opened again and this time, Sasha entered. He lifted his head a bit in a greeting, sitting upright. "I'm glad you're back..." He muttered. Glad to have someone around that cared, beyond the trio of quick meetings with the sweet older woman from the cafeteria. Maybe that physical therapy would be a little more bearable.

He tilted his head at the distinct lack of food around Sasha. "Did you forget to eat...? The cafeteria is open until eight..." Maybe he'd been too demanding and Sasha had forgotten in his haste to return...? No, no. That couldn't be the reason. It was probably the guilt that came from the depressive effects. What good were those painkillers doing if they hardly dented the pain and instead, made Michael sad and hopeless? It didn't make much sense.

He smiled and lifted the bag in his hand. "Someone picked up some food for me, one of my classmates... Or former classmates." Michael's mood seemed to have brightened, simply with his presence. That was probably wishful thinking though. He settled down on a chair and pulled out the hamburger. Sasha began to devour it. He hadn't realized how hungry he was, and made quick work of it. Once he was finished, the young man stood and washed his hands with quick efficiency.

"I was thinking of having a quick physical therapy session, just to see where you're at. Would that be alright?" It was getting late after all ... They could always do it tomorrow morning, and then a bath after to sooth the sore muscles and maybe bring some shine back to those honey colored locks.

Oh, of course. Michael hadn't seen the bag, but he hadn't been searching for one. It made enough sense that he wouldn't keep questioning it, and absently molded the bit of clay into the general shape of a horse's head. Sasha was quickly decided to be his security blanket, a safe haven, someone that cared. Someone that quickly mattered to Michael as a real friend. Or at least, he could be a real friend. It had to be too soon to consider someone a friend. The social cues and interactions he'd learned at a young age had dulled to the point of nonexistence, and perhaps he was too quick to become dependent on the first sign of friendship that was presented.

He tensed at the prospect of starting something now. Now? Why not, at least, seen over by the person that he trusted more than the others? "I'll be honest, I... haven't really walked for four years." He'd stood a good number of times, but shifting weight from one leg to the other... it sounded like true torture. To feel the bolt moving with him, the metal clinging to his bones and interfering with his muscles.

Sasha shook his head quickly and turned to face Michael. "I wasn't talking about walking yet. More like just seeing how well you can shift your legs from a sitting position, if you can lift them, and work with them as things are. I wouldn't ask you to walk ..." How would he be able to do that? How could he do his job, when he knew how much every movement hurt Michael? Something clogged his throat up, making it hard for Sasha to breathe.

"I'm so sorry I have to make you do this." He wanted to take all the pain away. Sasha knew he couldn't, but the wish was still there. The young man walked a bit nearer the bed so he could see the other man's sculpture. It was so nice, shaping up beautifully. He just didn't know how to comment on that, without derailing the important conversation he and his charge were having.

Realization hit. That was true, it'd be too big a jump to actually try to stand, then move from one leg to the other. He'd fall immediately, no doubt about that, and then what? They'd blame Sasha. He was new. They always blamed the newcomer, because it was easy, he didn't have a reputation yet. He shifted as much as he could at that point, setting his work down and wheeling the adjustable table to his right. "Okay... It's okay, I mean. It's your job. And I know I have to move around on my own eventually. I guess it's better to do it now." He gathered the lightweight sheet and pushed it aside, very slightly brushing his pants legs off. Under the smooth cotton his skin was a uniform color, but defaced and scarred around the bolts and actual incisions.

He didn't want Sasha to have to take all the responsibility. Breathing in deeply, Michael willed his left leg to bend at the knee, and would have regretted it if it hadn't been for the advancement of his own mobility. He gritted his teeth through it and voiced his pain through growling, groaning huffs, shallow breath leading him into bending his ankle to set his foot against the bed. Oh God... I'd rather die...! His inner voice screamed at him for defying common sense. Fire and ice burned in his veins and knives stabbed at every conceivable free space of skin, and his muscle fibers felt like they were being ripped apart. His eyes watered and burned, spilling tears of pain.

Sasha's voice caught in his throat, forming a barrier against itself that simply wouldn't go away. Michael was trying so hard, to make such a small movement... Surely there was a better way then this! But there wasn't. The intern settled down on the left side of the bed and reached out to put his hands around the other man's left leg. He glanced at Michael, a wordless warning of what he was about to do. He did wait a few moments, until he was sure his charge had gotten more used to the sensation of having moved his right leg.

The pale haired man shifted the limb with gentle care until it rested in the same position as the other. "Maybe it would be best if I moved your legs during the beginning. That way I can support them, and help your muscles along. " He moved a hand to cradle the other limb, and found himself supporting both metal bound legs with a soft touch. "It might not hurt ... quite as much?" Sasha knew the hopeful tone of his voice was wrong, but he did so want to be able to do something about the pain... Anything at all.

Michael's eyes widened at the glance. It was obvious what was about to happen, but he'd never be fully ready for it. So he clenched his teeth to at least prepare himself, but it wasn't quite enough to silence a shaking cry. He'd helped move his left leg, which was, in all, the point of it all---to move himself, as much as possible. But actually moving them on their own accord and not handling them as if they simply couldn't move was almost too difficult. How would he be able to actually support himself when just bending his knees and ankles might as well have sent him back to that basement. But it was important. He had to walk. He had to get around. Even if it would cost him an insufferable amount of pain he just couldn't get used to. Maybe he would be able to live as if he didn't even feel it. A lie, maybe, but it wouldn't make others feel obligated to ask him if he were okay, or help him somehow.

He shook his head, pulling his hands over his face "It'll be painful regardless..." He sighed, feeling a bit of accomplishment since he'd bent his legs without manually doing so, using his hands. He'd probably have to do more solo exercises now, multiple times a day to get used to it again. "It'll be okay." He promised. Sasha seemed torn in emotion, as if he didn't know how to react or what to show. "It's better than dragging them behind me. I should learn how to walk again before I'm nothing but bone and skin, y'know?" He eked out a ragged chuckle, though it sounded a bit forced. At least he was doing something now. Something that would be helped by a kind hand. But he doubted he could bend his knees anymore. He could feel the bolt holding the metal and its anchor move when he did and it would be a bit too difficult to go beyond that point.

Sasha shuddered. He turned away to try and hide the unshed tears in his eyes. Just hearing the pain in the other man's voice had him wanting to cry. This was so much worse then he'd imagined, watching from the sidelines without really being able to do a thing. He felt so helpless. Sasha wiped the tears from his eyes and turned to offer Michael a smile.

"I'll be right here trying to help you, and cheering you on." He cleared his throat and stood. "It's getting late ..." Sasha was just looking for an excuse to hide in his room. He didn't want to let his own emotions make Michael's mood fall, well fall even more then it had already.

Michael shifted a little, growling through the effort it took to straighten out his legs again, and huffed in relief when they finally rested on their own. Now they didn't hurt quite as much, with only a painful ache that he could push to the back of his mind. "I'm glad you'll be here, Sasha..." He wanted to ask where the man got such a name. Wanted to ask a lot of things, get to know the man. Just how old was he? Did he graduate early? Did he have any other jobs? What about family? Friends? He did have friends, he'd mentioned that before. Where had he lived? Did he still live there? Siblings? Preferences? Favorites? So many questions... Michael shook his head.

"You can go anytime." He said, bringing the sheet back up and tucking it around his waist. "You're nearby, so... it's okay... Maybe tomorrow we can get to know each other a little better...?" He smiled, twitching his mouth a bit. He wanted to know about his new friend. Surely that was what it was considered, friendship. Sasha wouldn't have acted so strange if he didn't consider Michael the same, at least. Or so he hoped. He pulled the table back toward him, shifting it a little so he could get back to work on his figure. he would be working on the horse's head now, while the rest of it began drying so he could form it easier and handle it a little rougher. He'd use the other end of the metal implement, which was smooth and round, to shine certain parts of the head. If he was careful, he could cut a bit of his hair off to use as the mane and tail, glue it in with powerful, clear glue along the ridges he formed in the figurine's body, down the neck and just above the backside. A nice present, maybe, for Sasha, if he liked horses.

Michael was .... he was being cute. Sasha bit his lower lip and nodded quickly. "Yes, of course we can. It's just, I still need to go and set everything up. Just call if you need me!" The pale haired man turned away awkwardly to make a quick retreat into his room. The bags were everywhere! It was going to take forever to make the place look like his home. It would be for a while. He was basically going to be Michael's live in nurse, even though he had been training to be a doctor. Somehow, he couldn't find it in him to mind. Why had Michael said his name like that, like the person it belonged to was so important?

Sasha unzipped bags and folded his clothes into drawers. The room was so sterile and yet the more of his things he put here and there, the more it felt like home. He didn't know how he would deal with everything, with the odd living circumstances, the way Michael seemed to be willing to do anything he asked so readily. Would the other man have gone through his physical therapy session so readily for anyone else? That reminded him, he hadn't asked how the other man was doing, how he felt. Sasha had just been too flustered to, too affected by Michael's obvious pain.

He wiped his tears away again and sobbed slightly as he settled upon the bed. Michael hadn't deserved to be used and misused as he had.

He knew a night of restlessness was ahead of him. It wasn't unusual. He would fall asleep for a while, but then wake up when the pain began seeping into his half-dreams. Now only the light of the warm lamp to his right was on, offering its light to his work. At that point the body and its legs had dried to a point that it could still, very slightly, be formed, but wouldn't do so unless Michael used both hands and a good amount of muscle to force it. And even then, it would probably break, which wasn't in his concept of 'finished work'. He formed the head a bit more around a lightweight metal construct and used a little extra clay to push it onto the solid body and hide the seam, the head pointed upward in the equine's proud display. While the fresh clay was still pliable, he formed its ears, then used the dull polishing end of the implement to form the horse's eye sockets and nostrils, and the sharp end to cut the creature's mouth in and form it a little to make it more realistic. It was always the small, minute details that were the hardest...

Before he let it all dry, he cut the mane and tail holders carefully and set it carefully down, making sure the head and neck were off the flat surface so they wouldn't dry in a crooked manner. There was a television on the wall nearby, but he didn't usually watch it. There was, though, a specific channel he liked that was dedicated to classical music, and he poked in that channel number, happy to hear piano and stringed instruments. He'd always wanted to learn the piano. Or violin. His parents had an against-the-wall piano he would practice at from time to time, at least while they weren't home so he didn't annoy them. Michael remembered that much. He squeezed extra clay between his fingers, sighing and looking at the fingerprint he left in it. Maybe his parents would be too curious to resist visiting sometime... They'd gotten the call, the hospital, the room number. They just hadn't acknowledged any of it. Maybe they'd come to see him sometime.

He changed into his pajamas and dozed, the strains of music flitting through the other room lulling him to sleep. Any noise might wake Sasha, lift his mind from dreams. Dreams that twisted and turned, integrated the days events into a roiling boiling pot of emotions. Images of Michael, walking, falling .. The metal in his legs disappearing. A horse, unfinished and crackling because the clay used to make it had dried. It crumbled, fell apart.

And there was nothing Sasha could do but watch helplessly as everything took place. The men in white coats he imagined the scientists had been like with gleaming knives, advancing on him, or was it someone else? He really couldn't tell anymore.

A long time passed. He had a few books to keep him occupied, but didn't normally read them. They just weren't his kind of stories, mostly compilations of shorter stories. They never interested him, and in their place, he drew. While the clay dried, his pencil moved over a piece of paper from a notebook. It had been meant to record his daily activities and pain records, what he ate, what he thought. But he just drew. Flowers, animals. People he might have seen walk by. It let him forget the scenes he remembered when he slept. And while his pencil hovered over the picture of a little girl in a white dress, Michael's head rolled back and his eyes fell closed. The classical music wasn't there anymore. The ground cut into him. Bars. A cage's floor, covered in some dirty blankets. He was put there when they were leaving for the whole day. He made it a point not to eat or drink anything during that time. This time, though, he could move his legs without pain. They'd recently healed from their most immediate break.

A door slammed somewhere, and Michael jerked, suddenly waking from sleep, followed quickly by a jolt of pain through his legs, then his back that made him hiss and lean forward. "God... Okay... Okay..." He sighed, shaking his hair from his face and rearranging himself carefully. The buzzing sensation slowly ebbed away, and Michael turned his gaze to the figurine. It was pale, ready to be shaved away at to add the finer details without pressing fingerprints or misforming the set creation. He started at it, focusing on the body first. Horses, at least this one, had smooth bodies, and more detail along the legs and faces. He added clay eyes, tiny orbs that would be painted darkly later.

A sound jolted him from his troubled sleep. Words spoken softly in another room, a sound of pain ... Michael! Hair in disarray, clothing pulled up, exposing smooth flesh, Sasha stumbled through the door. His eyes roamed through the room before falling upon a hunched over form, working diligently upon a sculpture that made him shudder a little. That horse! It had haunted his dreams, like the man sitting upon that bed.

"Michael, are you alright?" Sasha walked nearer, and sat beside the other man. This felt so much like a dream ... The young man wouldn't have lifted his hand to brush his fingers gently across Michael's cheek if he'd been completely awake, nor would he have begun to play gently with the other man's dark locks. He was definitely dreaming. Normally he would never touch another man in such a way.

He was focused, so much so that he almost didn't see Sasha come into the room until he actually spoke. Almost startled, he looked up quickly, setting his work aside as Sasha approached. "Oh..." Guilt filled him quickly, turning his eyes down and away from Sasha's touch. "I... I'm sorry I woke you up. It was just a dream. It woke me up a little hard." He sighed, looking back to Sasha. "I won't wake you again tonight." He wouldn't be able to go to sleep again tonight. It was something like a quota, and when he reached that, he wouldn't be going to sleep until the next day, or sometime during the morning, when he caught another fifteen minutes or half an hour at a time.

Michael had thought he'd been quiet when he woke. That he hadn't made his discomfort known quite as much as he might have some time ago. He breathed in quickly, going back to his work. He could paint the majority of the horse in a white base coat when he finished the face, the ears, and carved out the nose a bit more. He wouldn't have to wait long for the eyes, but they would still have to dry. If he wasn't imagining things, though, he could have sworn Sasha was looking at the figurine a little oddly. "Erm... You aren't afraid of horses... are you?" He could always add it to his collection if Sasha didn't like it. Perhaps a different animal or figure, a flower or tree, or an angel.

Sasha shook his head quickly. "I'm a light sleeper, Michael. I thought I heard a door slam too ... That alone would have woken me." His light sleep was a good thing, if it meant he could keep the other man company. It saddened the bronzed man's heart to think of the other man sitting awake all alone at night after having a nightmare. His dreams had only been troubled, the images jumbling together and already fading from his mind. He doubted that was the case with his charge, though.

"No, of course not! It's just ... I had a dream ..." And now he sounded like a disney movie. Sasha smiled, and hummed a little of the song from Tangled. He almost started singing, but he didn't know if Michael would want to hear, or if might disturb any of the other long term residents.

Michael bit his lip. Maybe it wasn't him after all that had awakened Sasha, but it had been him that had brought the man out of his room when he could have fallen back to sleep. He breathed in carefully, but it didn't stop his eyes from watering once again. His eyes were always so shadowed, red with either actual crying or simply watering out of pain or general dry air. But Sasha had had a dream too? Perhaps of a horse. No wonder he was staring at Michael's creation the way he was. It had to be a strange coincidence.

He bent over to get the box that contained his finishings. Paints, brushes, sponges, a little spray bottle full of the protective varnish that would go over the paint once it was dried. It would make it shine beautifully. As he unscrewed the top of the white paint container and set it down, he smiled at Sasha's faint humming. "Is that a... lullaby?" He asked curiously. He didn't remember any. He'd been too young to understand what his mother would sing, and the memories had faded away long ago. It sounded nice, though maybe a bit modern. Maybe too modern for a lullaby.

He laughed and shook his head as he watched the other man going about his preparations. "No, it isn't. It's from a movie. But I could sing a lullaby for you." And so Sasha did, a french one for that was the only kind he knew. The language flowed from his tongue easily as he sang of a flame gone out on a moonlit night, and asking a friend to help. It was Au Claire de la Lune, something his mother had sung to him once upon a time when he'd been younger.

It didn't matter really, that Michael couldn't understand. The melody soothed, inviting one to sleep. Perfect really, to sing to someone who'd just woken from a nightmare. It soothed Sasha's nerves, and soon he was smiling softly as he switched from one song to the next.

Michael tilted his head. He'd figured out languages before fourteen. It sounded like French, and it was a nice tone. He smiled. A nice tone. he rocked a little back and forth, sponging the white paint onto the figurine and half-closing his eyes. Sleep was far away, and would be, perhaps, until the window lighted with morning. He switched to a brush---a soft brush, with long bristles. It brushed the paint on evenly and smoothly, and didn't leave gouges. He painted the entire thing, except the eyes, which would be done with a different medium of paint that made the eyes glossy and obvious, even when the entire thing was sprayed in its clear varnish.

Eventually, he had to insert a pin into the horse to finish painting it, leaving the bottoms of the hooves clean and using his used sketch paper as a bed so the paint wouldn't get anywhere else. It took a moment for him to realize that Sasha had just fallen silent. "S... Sasha, do you like horses? A favorite, maybe?" If that were the case, he could paint it to specification. If he just had a point to go on, first.