In the following days, Willy seemed to have found a new toy and frequently went to Leisen's studio.
He liked to appear when the other party was least expecting him, secretly hiding behind his own portrait painting, scaring the poor painter so much that tears welled up in his eyes and hung on his eyelashes.
Sometimes he would cast a spell on his painting tools, so that when Leisen used them, the brushes would fly around, dodging and weaving nimbly, the paints would suddenly stop working, tighten their caps and roll to some corner to sleep, and even the canvas would rustle and make music.
Meanwhile, Willy sat leisurely on the tall wooden ladder used for painting, watching the painter run around panting, his red hair soaked with sweat, hanging down listlessly, and finally looking to him for help with tears in his eyes.
On another occasion, he changed the flavor of the blood plasma brought by his servants. To use a human food analogy, it was like replacing chocolate with chili peppers, but it was indistinguishable in appearance and smell. Lysen, completely unaware of this, drank it all.
That day, he cried so much that the corners of his eyes were almost as red as his pupils.
Why does he cry so much? Willy always felt that if this continued, one day even the art studio would be flooded with his tears.
But Lyson's appearance, coupled with this pose, only made him more captivating.
"Now I understand why Thun made you live in the castle."
If he had stayed outside, he might have been turned into a work of art by other vampires long ago.
The older brother often told Willy these bedtime stories to warn him not to leave the castle easily.
He said that some lowly vampires like to capture nobles like them and torture them with extremely cruel methods. They also imprison them as blood servants and enhance their own power by drinking their blood.
With Vili's strength, he wasn't worried about these things and continued to do as he pleased. But as for Leisen in front of him...
Willy forcibly tore open the wooden planks on the studio window, letting in soft moonlight that gently bathed the boy. He was sitting on the sofa, hugging a soft cushion and tilting his head to look at Leisen.
The man lowered his eyes to avoid his gaze, but his paintbrush never stopped. He would secretly glance at Willy the moment he looked away, and the painting in front of him gradually took shape, outlining a beautiful silhouette.
The studio is now completely different from what it used to be. The heavy, dusty books are now neatly arranged on the bookshelves, and the scattered oil paintings have been collected and moved by the servants into display cases in the empty rooms. Leisen goes there several times a day.
The gloomy room was gradually transformed. Transplanted green plants stretched their branches and leaves freely in the flower pots, a sofa that Willy liked was moved into the corner, and there was even a small refrigerator next to it, filled with drinks that wouldn't stain the paintings.
In the past, Leisen often hid in his dark studio, painting day and night. When he got tired, he would lie down on the cold floor, surrounded by portraits of Willy, and curl up, imagining the boy's gaze falling on him, trembling as he closed his eyes.
But there are always unbearable moments in such days. At those times, he would indulge himself, hide in a corner, follow behind Willy, and greedily trace his outline with his eyes. Inspiration would flow, and he would copy it onto the canvas.
...But how can a fake compare to the real thing?
Leisen felt that this studio was his own embodiment, like a sewer, disgusting and repulsive. He was a shameful crow, unable to spread his wings and fly, believing he had stolen dazzling gems, when in reality they were just cheap plastic sequins.
He never imagined that one day a real gem would slip through the narrow crack and land on top of this pile of garbage.
The boy's presence permeated the studio, transforming it beyond recognition. His mere presence could turn barren land into a vibrant garden.
For the first time, Leisen was distracted while painting.
He was more interested in the model of the painting than the lifeless object made of paint.
He didn't answer Willie's question, and the latter didn't seem to mind, changing the subject.
“A few days ago, when the servants were cleaning the studio, they found several other paintings.”
"I thought you could only draw portraits of me, I didn't expect you could draw other things too."
"Villiers sighed."
He didn't notice that when he mentioned the paintings, Leisen's paintbrush suddenly stopped.
"Speaking of which, those paintings all have the signature 'secret' in the corners, that must be your pen name."
"But you never sign your portraits, why is that?"
Willy recalled the pencil sketch he had first seen, on which another person had been erased... whose figure and outline were very similar to the person in front of him.
Just like his pen name, Leisen is like a "secret," always shrouded in smoke, his features blurred.
Vili had asked him countless times why he painted his own portrait, but the other man always remained silent, and would burst into tears if pressed.
But the more he did this, the more Willy wanted to get closer to him, stretch out his furry paws, and fiddle with the cup that was teetering on the edge of the table, to see what it would eventually become.
Vili twitched his nose slightly, sensing the deathly aura in Leisen's soul, and his eyes brightened slightly.
For vampires, this is such a distant word, let alone something that would happen to a young vampire like the latter.
"Lesson?"
Seeing that he remained silent, Vili urged him on.
"..."
"because……"
Leisen unconsciously gripped his paintbrush tighter, his knuckles turning white, and he lowered his head, organizing his thoughts.
"I no longer use this pen name."
“I am no longer a painter… so there is no need to sign my paintings.”
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