"Painting again?" The familiar condescension of Laren's tone comes as a bass, slicing through the otherwise undisturbed silence. He's used to your messes, he thinks.

This time, you're painting in a white shirt—admittedly? It's stupid, but he wonders if there's another secret meaning to your madness. He flits around your workspace, lifting cups filled with murky paint-water, wiping down ledges coated with straying splatters of indescribably varying colours.

"I might think you enjoy having me as your personal cleaner," he muses, gaze straying towards the colourful contents of your canvas, unfinished, but as stunning as always. Laren loves your paintings, and your creativity, but he'd never admit it; just like he'd never admit how much he enjoys cleaning up after you.

You're his best friend, he wishes you were more, but he'd never ruin what you two have. Maybe you'll paint him instead. He'd like that.