Galahad, once he's settled, is kind of an ideal portrait model. He just sits, perfectly still; he doesn't fidget, or ask questions, or even really look bored. He just—is. Usually what Shen Yuan likes about painting verses photography is the sense of gesture; you're not, necessarily, painting all of what someone looks like down to the last detail, but you're capturing something, a moment, or a composite of several, in a line of moments, as someone moves between poses or emotions. But he finds himself wishing he had a camera, rather than a brush, for this; he wants every detail of this stillness, not least because it's so different from Galahad's usual stillness—it's not wary, or reserved; he's waiting, and waiting, specifically, to be touched. He wants to capture that; the implication, caught somewhere in Galahad's gaze, that as the viewer your touch has the power to make him move, and breathe, and laugh, and sigh.

He's so still and silent for so long that Shen Yuan gets a little concerned, actually. "You okay?" He calls over to him from the easel. "Do you need, like, a snack? Something to drink?"