i know it's just a number but you're the eighth wonder [ OPEN MINGLE ]

[postictal]

Who: Tim and EVERYBODY WHO WANTS IN ON THIS CAUSE IT A MINGLE
What: Nail-painting. Destressing. We have earned something Nice for ourselves.
When: February 12th
Where: Just outside the Storyteller's Temple
Warnings: Probably nothing of note? Will add if needed.



There's a man sitting cross-legged outside the Storyteller's Temple, general hub of interaction that it seems to be turning into. He still looks like shit, granted, his face a colorful patchwork of bruising and a fresh bandage slapped around his middle, but that hasn't stopped him from making the best of things. A few vials of some various colorful fluids might not be familiar to everyone here, but after everything? Screw it, thinks Tim. They've deserved a break. He deserves a break. The kids here, especially, deserve a break. It's time to celebrate the fact that they are no longer in danger of freezing in the dark and living out the remainder of their days in a bleak, sunless existence.

And he liked colors, as a kid. In the blank white walls of a hospital, where everything was drained of variation and bleached white and left bone-blank, the occasional bursts of color allowed in packages of crayons and colored pencils at art time were treasures. They stopped giving him crayons after he drew the man in his room one too many times, a tall black shadow in the back of every drawing that had the doctors exchanging looks with tightened jaws and the clearing of throats that too clearly spoke to their disapproval.

It dogged him, even once he stepped out of those empty walls, his wardrobe as consistently drab and dull and monochrome as his life. It dogged him with featureless rooms and

Fuck that.

Fuck that especially, because it means that kids like Ren grew up without colors in their lives, and it means that they've had precious few simple little pleasures in the past month, and it means that they are all owed a goddamn break. And if he's bound to be a freak no matter what he does, he may as well be one with a spot of color or two.

So today, to celebrate? We're painting nails.

Fuck it. We're painting nails.

It's safe to say that Tim's new at this, particularly when he only has one good hand at the moment, but he'll still seem quite open to sharing with whoever happens along - especially if you're a kid.

[ooc: yes this is a mingle for painting some nails feel free to top-level all over]

Comments

[alittleditty]

"Well, if it's worth mentioning, I haven't done this too much myself," Tataru offers, looking over the available stock, "Certainly not in this many colors!"

There were all sorts of cosmetic products available in Eorzea of course, especially in Ul'dah, but in various ways were restricted to the upper classes, of which she herself was no longer a part of.

[postictal]

“Hey, neither’ve I. Just figured everyone was owed something nice, y’know?” So clearly this was just the rational progression of things? Yeah, sure. Why not?

His shoulder twitches in a motion that’s fast becoming familiar - a shrug aborted before it can pull at a healing joint and strain it.

“But everyone likes colors, yeah?”

[alittleditty]

"Indeed," she says, picking up different bottles and considering them, "I suppose it probably wouldn't help at all to ask if you have a favorite color?"

Because if it were that easy, he probably wouldn't be so unsure about which one to pick.

[postictal]

"I'm not picky. You gotta favorite?" He will bedeck himself in the favorites of others, as you do, because that's somehow easier and more justifiable than the alternative. It's not as if he's doing the painting anyway; he's hardly in any state for that.

But it pays to know other people's favorites, he's learned. Just in case.

[alittleditty]

"Well," she says thoughtfully, "If you don't mind..."

She does a little investigating and finally picks up the vial of the nicest pink she can find - the closest to the very clothes that she's wearing, funnily enough. Yeah, she's not subtle at all.

[postictal]

"Not bad," says Tim, appreciably. "Got a nice look to it."

His be-slinged hand has been pretty thoroughly covered, thanks to the combined efforts of Ren and doubtless plenty of others, but his uninjured one is still clean, so hell, he splays it against the ground, palm down, fingers spread out.

[alittleditty]

"I wonder how they get these little brushes attached to the... ah, stopper," she muses, unscrewing the cap and gently pulling it out. She comes from a world of corks and non-sealing lids and similar stoppering devices.

It's worth noting, as she bends down to work on his first nail, that while she hasn't done this much before, her hands are very steady. Though perhaps that's not too surprising for someone who does a significant amount of crafting.

[postictal]

All things considered, she manages a much more professional stroke than the efforts of Chip or Ren. Not that it, uh, says a lot, considering that both were children with unsteady hands, but he can still appreciate the effort for what it is.

"Where I'm from, there's an entire market for this kinda thing. Never really understood it." And he wasn't the target audience to understand, anyway. "Special brushes are kind of an important part of it."

[alittleditty]

"Hm..."

It's interesting to hear about his world, no matter how much in the past he's insisted that his world wasn't worth asking about. The compare and contrast at least.

"There are some in the way of finger paints in my own world, but a lot of it tends to be reserved for the upper classes. Along with makeup and other such things. There are a few available to the general populace, but the colors aren't nearly so interesting as these."

More neutral tones, really.

[postictal]

"Well, hey. One thing you can be grateful for, for ending up here, right?" It's possible that he's making a joke, but given the deadpan nature of it, it's hard to tell. His jokes are seldom obvious, mostly because he's not so great at the signifier of an easy smile to defang the edges a hair. "No one cares if you're lower-class or royalty, 'cause the only economy we have is stories. Pretty handy, right?"

Frankly, he figures it's an improvement.