Taking a Gamble

The painter stepped back, unsure of how to reply to the boy's rather sharp reply. Elijah frowned slightly and looked over at the canvas sitting on the easel, awaiting the moment when Elijah would return to it. He turned away and crossed back over to it, taking his seat once more. He looked over at Dexter and smirked before picking up a pencil.

"You know...being alone is pretty boring," Elijah spoke, quickly marring the canvas with lines. They were incomprehensible and would be until he finished the thing itself. "You shouldn't have to deal with your injuries alone. It's not fair."

Dexter blinked at the boys words. "Boring?" Dexter did not understand the concept of boring. The things that bored his peers fascinated him. And he was always doing something to stimulate his mind; his little block puzzles, reading, studying, practicing spells, going about one of his little self-proclaimed research projects he came up with. He was foreign to bored.

"I prefer being alone," Dexter stated matter-of-factly to the other boy, even though it really was no one else's business but Dexter's. "And it is fair, they are no one's burden but my own. I am perfectly capable of doing it on my own anyhow."

When the curly-haired Ravenclaw blinked, Elijah smirked and shook his head. He moved his eyes back to the easel and took his pencil off of the canvas. He poked it behind his ear and turned in his seat to grab a smaller stool in comparison to the one behind the canvas. He pushed the larger on out of the way and put the stool down, slapping his hand against the seat.

"Sit," he commanded with a friendly smile.

It was odd to have someone so...firm around Elijah. This boy seemed incredibly intent on doing things for himself. He didn't realise that it was good to have help. Elijah picked up his paint palette and took a brush out of the pot by his elbow. He gestured once more for the boy to sit and he brought the end of the paintbrush to his lips. He bit it gently and looked at the picture, idly wondering where to start.

"Your curls will be difficult to paint," Elijah said absent-mindedly, removing the paintbrush from between his lips. "But not impossible."

This boy seemed to be in on some joke that Dexter did not understand; not that that would be a first for Dexter. He didn't understand normal social cues, and most jokes went right over his head because they were either incorrect in their facts or simply not funny in actuality. He began to make himself busy and Dexter began to walk away, thinking that was his cue, taking books out of his bag.

A singular word met Dexter's ears and he turned. "I-" he cut himself off. This boy was bigger than him- not that that was hard to be. But that, in Dexter's book, meant compliance if the task was something tolerable. Dexter did need to get off his feet. His knees were incredibly sore from the fall. He shuffled the books into the crook of his left elbow and sat at the boys gesture.

It took Dexter awhile to realize what was going on- the boy genius who could figure out any equation lacked social understanding to the most obvious of situations- and it was only until the other boy spoke again that he realized what was going on. "Why are you painting me?" He knew he was not the best specimen to represent human beings physically.

Usually it was obvious why Elijah painted people. He hated still life with a passion. Things had to be moving. They had to be alive. There had to be visible life in every piece he did. That was why his favourite picture he'd done of Chase was the one when his daughter was rather visible. She was a goddess, the pair of them were. Goddesses in their own right. Even though the mood in the painting is sombre, the protruding stomach showed life.

Elijah's trademark though, was that he only painted things that were beautiful. This boy was an interesting subject. He was innocent enough. Sweet, with curly hair. Innocence was God's gift to Elijah. Many a time he'd been threatened by many a woman and many a man for deflowering their son or daughter. It amused Elijah to no end. Sometimes even his presence was enough to set off the parental units.

He had a lot of answers but Elijah replied with a question of his own.

"Do you not know who I am..?"

Elijah didn't wait for the blank stare. Instead, he jumped to his feet. He put his things down but picked up his pencil. He squatted down before the boy and prodded both of the boy's knees with the blunt even of the pencil. He hummed thoughtfully before reaching up and curling one of the boy's curls around the pencil. He took it away and watched as it sprang back.

"I am painting you because in you I see a great deal of beauty. You don't see it in yourself though do you? Behind the glasses and the baggy clothes and those great big, fat tomes...there is a rather delectable piece of human. There is a piece of that behind every person. I've always made it my main aim to find that. Bottom line is that I paint people who are beautiful. That beauty might not always be apparent to the onlooker or to the subject but I see more of you than a magnifying glass could so shall we continue dear?"

Elijah could do nought but grin after that.

Dexter blinked at the boy's question and answered in a blunt voice. "No." Of course Dex did not know this boy. Dexter didn't know anyone past Pippa and Trowa and his tormentors. Even his tormentors typically remained nameless. Dexter did not look past books to learn usually, and he rarely looked past his won nose because he did not care for the surrounding world.

The boy approached and kneeled before him. Dexter leaned back, his eyes wide with sort of a horror and fear as he stared at the boy before him. He curled his hair around a pencil and Dex's eyebrows scrunched slightly, looking now as though he was surveying a mental patient. What the-

Now Dexter definitely was freaked out. Beautiful? What? Dexter did not busy himself with beautiful, because it was not practical nor necessary. He did not understand it really. Had to do with that whole living in his own little world thing. Once the boy moved away, Dexter continued to stare at him. "That's really weird," Dexter said. "What's your deal?"

The boy did not have the reaction Elijah had been hoping for. Then again, Elijah hadn't been sure what to expect from the boy. He didn't know him very well at all. Usually he was a rather good at judging people's character. This boy just seemed moody and abrasive. It was probably only because he'd fallen over, too. Elijah wasn't about to be blamed for doing something he'd not set out to do.

Taking his place back on his stool, Elijah picked up his paintbrush and palette. He let the latter fall into the crook of his arm and took the former in his hand. He bit the end of the paintbrush again before looking over the boy once more. Elijah shook his head and put some paint on his brush.

"Elijah Krum," he introduced himself, sweeping the paintbrush across the canvas.

Usually, Elijah would just leave it at that. With this boy, however, he didn't think he could. The boy seemed adamant that Elijah explain, putting the artist off slightly. The dark-eyed painter pursed his lips and sighed gently before taking his eyes off of the canvas and placing them back on the boy.

"Is what I said before not enough of an answer or are you querying something else? Forgive me, the English language confuses me. What is weird about art? Are you truly uncultured? Everyone has heard of at least one artist. I do not think I will win with you though. Quidditch does not seem like your forte and if you cannot recognise one artist from another then I fear I will have to explain myself without evading the whole conversation."

Dexter felt the reaction immediately and his name burst out of him the second the boy said his name. "Dexter Carrigan." He could not help it. His parents had instilled in him only a few social skills- too busy encouraging him in other parts of his life- but this one had been important when professors and teachers and various others had set out to learn more about Dex.

Dex was liking and trusting this boy lesser with every word. Dexter was still weirded out by the whole kneeling thing. Was this guy coming onto him? He has used the word beautiful. He had touched his hair. Even Pippa knew to not cross any lines, and all of those combined crossed a huge line for Dex. And implying Dexter was uncultured was rude.

"I know culture, I know artists, I understand what you are doing, I am not an idiot," Dexter said very quickly, enunciating perfectly. "I do not understand why you, a stranger, are suddenly painting me. That is not something that people normally do upon meeting. I am not sure I am comfortable with it. That is what I mean."

Elijah quirked an eyebrow when the boy's name burst from his lips. A small smile crept across Elijah's features, pulling up the sides of his lips and making his eyes sparkle slightly. He chuckled and took his pencil out from behind his ear. He made a quick adjustment to the outline, wrote a note on the side of the canvas, and quickly continued on with what he'd been painting.

Dexter had been abrupt. Elijah would have been a liar if he'd said it hadn't startled him somewhat. He'd kept it together though, whatever it was, and responded in rather aristocratic way. The quirk of an eyebrow accompanied by silence. It was a favourite of his cousin's.

Adam rarely spoke. If he could have, Elijah didn't doubt he would have spoken with signs. He knew them better than he did his own language. Worried that her son would never speak, Arlene had taught him signs. Knowing that he can though, gave him no reason to use them and certainly, no excuse to.

Elijah had never had such a subject. He'd dealt with the likes of Anne-Marie, who just wanted to find out what was underneath those, quote, "form-fitting jeans." He'd painted his own dealer. Arnold had been insufferable that day. He'd gone through another divorce and was setting off in search of another wife. Every year or so, Elijah would paint him. It had become a tradition of sorts. It was a document of Arnold's life and only paintings Elijah would ever write on. Even then though, it was in the finest of calligraphy -- putting Micah's lessons to good use.

"You have not been to Paris," Elijah said finally, bringing the paintbrush back to the palette. "Or at least...perhaps not my area of Paris. Usually though, it is the subjects that appear in front of the artists. They request to be sketched. A sketch is all it usually takes. If they cannot find someone then they go to a particular park. I do believe it is Wizard-created. At the park you find your favourite model or take one at the request of your art dealer. It is not uncommon to just pull someone off of the street and keep them holed up in your studio for hours on end. They know to expect it. There are artists everywhere."

Smiling fondly, Elijah put the paintbrush back to the canvas and swept a line of colour across the outline of the boy's shoulder.

"Do you truly wish not to be painted?" Elijah queried. "It is far less intrusive than say, a photograph. Besides, your face will become famous." Here, Elijah smirked. "I am sure you want your privacy, though. Another painting free for the joy of the subject and the agony of my art dealer. Arnold will have my head. Well, that or my balls. That said...would you like to keep this?" Elijah gestured to the painting. "When it is done of course...I shall not finish it here. It is far too large in size and there is so much to say."