the dark before the dawn breaks

There was so much going on around him through the billowing smoke, but he didn't seem to notice. The artist sat there in silence at his small table at the far side of the room, staring off into nothing. His journal was open in front of him where the beginnings of a drawing had begun, but the small piece of charcoal rested motionless between his fingers. With his other hand, he brought the glass of scotch up to his lips, silently noting the small amount he had even been able to afford...but maybe he'd hoped the amber liquid would jolt something in his brain.

Perhaps he thought this swanky establishment would have sparked some sort of inspiration in him that he feared he'd lost. Instead, he was surrounded by mentally filthy and hungry men, engulfed in clouds of cigar smoke, and the sound of murmuring voices. It was all the same thing, all the same feelings and expressions. The figures he had begun to draw were faceless because he had gotten bored before he could progress passed that point.

Everything was the same. Everything in his head was just the same.

Finishing the scotch with one final swig, Raphael had shut his book and was prepared to leave. That is, until she took to the stage. Dark eyes blinked as he felt it before actually realizing how much quieter the establishment had gotten. Most of the men had paused in their conversations to give the woman behind the silver mask their full attention while others somehow managed to tune her out. Were he not intrigued himself, he might have been annoyed by that notion.

Somewhere in the middle of her song, Raphael opened his sketchbook again without fully realizing it. At some point, the black charcoal pressed and dragged against the paper in swift movements, as if he feared he would only have a few seconds to commit her vision to memory. The glow of the lights illuminated her almost perfectly, but it was the way the tension had left her body temporarily that had him intrigued. Even behind that mask, there was this look in her eyes- a look he could once understand. It was freedom, it was over something she enjoyed and loved. It was her soul.

Then it was gone.

Raphael's ears were faintly ringing when the woman's song stopped and she was gone from his sight. He blinked again, glancing down to the sketch of the masked singer with her hand poised upon her chest, a look of euphoria contorting her features as she belted out her tune. He could still hear it, unable to hear anything else in that moment before he caught a glimpse of her at the bar.

Tongue pressed against the back of his teeth in thought before he tore the drawing from the book to roll it up quickly. "Miss?" He was gently calling to one of the serving girls who greeted him with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Would you...mind passing this along?" Raph asked, gesturing towards the singer seated at the end of the bar, handing her the rolled up paper.
Her eyes narrowed lightly in curiosity, but he couldn't help but sense annoyance. Perhaps he wasn't the only one trying to pass things to the lovely Silver? "Of course..." she trailed off before picking up his empty glass. She didn't ask if he wanted another- he clearly couldn't afford it.

His attention trailed from the server as she made her way over to the singer, settling his gaze upon Miss Silver as the paper was handed over. Although he noticed the gesture towards him, Raphael would not blame the woman for simply ignoring it. He realized a little too late that she probably received a lot of notes from gentlemen here, but his own was something far different with nothing attached.

There came a flicker of a smile when the gentle surprise washed over her features, half shielded by her raised hand. It had been a quick sketch, and he couldn't help but wonder what more he could do if he had a bit more time to paint her portrait. To really look at her and get her image just right. Raph often wondered that about a lot of people he came across, but the thought didn't always linger for very long.

Yet, it was now.

So, he was sitting up a little bit straighter as she caught his eye, and he simply offered the faintest nod in acknowledgement. Gift or not, he strangely didn't expect her to approach, so when she did, Raphael's mouth quirked up in a small lopsided grin. Shutting that sketchbook, he left it on the table as he stood up in her presence.

"Thank you," he said with another bow of his head, his gaze downcast for only a few seconds. 'It's strange...' Dark eyes flickered back up to her masked face, his expression softening slightly where he appeared mildly amused, perhaps even curious. As Silver confessed that she didn't see herself in such a way, he regarded her with a slight tilt of his head. "And why might that be?" he dared to ask, a hint of an accent in his voice. As he awaited an answer, he was quickly trying to study every inch of her face that he could actually see, that curiosity deepening.

How much did that mask actually hide? Was it just an identity, or more? That flicker of her soul had shone through for such a brief moment, he couldn't help but wonder about it despite it being far out of his right to ever ask.

He certainly wasn't teasing. Not that she would know, but Raphael didn't ask questions he didn't truly want answers to. He was curious about that single, fleeting moment of hers. A moment he couldn't seem to grasp onto himself anymore, no matter how hard he tried. His work, as well as his life, was suffering because of it...but you can't rush genius, or however that saying went. That just meant he'd starve to death before having any sort of break through.

Weren't the great artists only truly appreciated after they had died?

That dark gaze remained upon her face the entire time, barely wavering. Of course, he was quite aware of the attire she wore. When she was up on stage, every set of eyes could see it. For him, though, in this very moment, her eyes were far more interesting. Dare he think that he wanted to see that moment of passion, that glint of happiness and freedom in her own brown eyes all over again.

"This place?" he questioned with a quirk of a brow. Raph seemed rather amused by that, because every other moment (from the short time he had noticed), she didn't appear to like her place of employment very much. Yet, maybe he wasn't in the position to really judge her. 'But one does what one must.' That was when his expression faltered a little bit, because that was the very truth of it, wasn't it? "Luck is a rare thing for some of us."

Raphael's eyes narrowed just slightly in his lingering curiosity, wondering why such a woman would have three jobs. Perhaps he shouldn't feel sorry for his own plight, and waste the only money he had left on a single serving of scotch.

"I do..." he began to answer her questions. For the first time, his attention faltered from her to glance down to that sketchbook in thought. "It is this...feeling of contentment I can't find anywhere else. It's peace, it's happiness and determination." Running a hand down his face tiredly, he held back a sigh. "I've lost it, I admit." Slowly, Raphael's eyes found her face, recalling that single moment on stage once more. "But, I believe you may have shown it to me again." A hand reached out to gently touch that drawing she held within her hands to indicate such. "It is a shame that your voice is wasted on a place like this." He almost said that they didn't deserve it, because they didn't understand what her song meant to her, yet he silenced himself. Perhaps he didn't deserve to hear it, either.

Raphael's face lit up a little when he seemed to further solidify what she meant. And of course he understood it- it was a constant struggle to find any semblance of creativity these days. Then, he should know better than to spend what little coin he had on an establishment like this, after finally managing to sell a painting or commission.

Then again, would he have had the pleasure of this woman's company, even if it was to be short-lived? Would he have seen that brief flicker of euphoria, feel that spark of wonder and yearning if he hid away in his studio every hour of the day? What had started as being irresponsible might have turned into something better. All he wanted to do was rush back to his easel and see what flowed from the brush.

But would he lose this momentum the moment he parted from her? Whoever she really was.

He'd noticed that half-step back, the way she bit her lip, and how her gaze dropped. Raphael, even as tired as he was, tended to notice these subtle things in people, because it's what he did. He studied them, painted their likeness. If he wasn't aware of the way one tilted their head in thought, or how their lips parted just slightly in the gentlest pout, his artwork wouldn't be one hundred percent correct. And he was a perfectionist.

So, he must have overstepped and withdrew his hand to slip it into his pocket. He was trying to figure out how to apologize when she was already speaking. Ever so slowly, his grin returned. "Fontaine," he answered her quietly, and if it wasn't already clear by the accent, he further solidified that he was not from here. Dark eyes watched her face again, wondering what lay behind the mask, while at the same time not wanting to ask what was at the tip of his tongue in worry of frightening her.

"You are absolutely right, Miss Silver, not a waste at all," he added, his expression softening a little. "But, please...I'm just Raphael." The artist didn't care for titles of any kind. First names were more personable, and he felt like he connected to others better that way. Still, he did not ask her for her name (her true name), although he wanted to. "I am certainly glad I came here tonight. And...I know this is probably too forward, but I find myself to be a spontaneous man-" Raphael paused, letting his gaze drop as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Perhaps, one day...you'll allow me to paint you. Just you, as you are. The real you." Not the mask, but the woman. Although his voice had dropped, almost to an inaudible level, the words lacked his usual insinuations and was but a simple, innocent request.

The red that flushed her skin made him question if it had been too forward. He really did struggle with the concept of propriety- just because he didn't care for it, didn't mean no one else did. And the last thing he wished to do was make this woman uncomfortable. It was just this honesty he spoke with that could often times be a little too blunt when he hadn't intended for it to be.

Raphael just knew that there was something about her that he could easily relate to. That search for reason, purpose, passion, whatever it was, he wasn't alone in it. And it was ever so slowly bringing that creativity back, that drive he thought had left him forever.

"You," he answered her with a nod; a corner of his mouth curling into a light smirk. This stammering of hers suddenly contradicted that sparkling persona she wore on stage. Right now, he supposed he was getting a tiny glimpse of who this woman truly was, and it was endearing. It was even a little interesting.

His head tilted, watching her closely as he caught the apologetic smile, prompting his own to slowly begin to fade as he seemed to consider her words. The seriousness had returned when his eyes briefly flickered to the one now on stage, Miss Silver's sister from what he recalled. She certainly knew how to work the crowd, which wasn't a difficult feat considering the audience, but Raphael's attention didn't linger long. The woman in front of him now had struck a chord, had drawn him in to that familiar feeling of "being lost", as she had put it. It had been so brief, and perhaps he was feeling desperate, but he wasn't ready to let it go just yet.

Boundaries, Raphael.

Dark eyes alighted upon her masked face once more, studying her again in the dim lighting of the nightclub. "I am asking you, chérie...because you're real." The artist understood that probably didn't make much sense, and his gaze lowered in thought. "I do not ask for Miss Silver, if you understand me. My curiosity lies with the one underneath the mask, the one I got a second's glimpse of." He gestured lightly to the drawing. "She feels far more interesting to me..."

If he were to be honest, he didn't expect her to accept. Many people would have found it wrong and improper of him to ask such a thing, even if it had been made with true innocent intentions. She was interesting, that was all there was to it. And because he didn't entirely know why, that made her all the more mysterious to him. Perhaps it was the mask, or perhaps it was a lot more than that. She was hiding herself behind this charade, that costume; he wanted to further see the singer, the real one that had slipped out for those few seconds. Maybe she was sharing a little bit of herself with him now, being as honest as she was.

So, when she agreed, he didn't bother hiding the wide smile that stretched across his face. 'I can't say I understand your interest in me...but perhaps in time, I'll see whatever it is that you do.' "Perhaps you will," he replied quietly. More often than not, Raphael painted portraits that he was commissioned to, not always ones that he desired to. So, she certainly might see what he did. A good artist could pour their heart out onto the canvas, no matter what the desired subject was. A keen eye could see if the painter was simply creating a piece for money or because he wanted to just by the expression in the brush strokes.

As Miss Silver turned her attention towards her sister, his gaze remained upon her; his expression softening a little more when she finally looked back to him. Then, she was surprising him just a little more- she spoke French. His dark eyes lit up, and his awe fell into the crooked grin that curled his lips.

’I'm glad we met tonight.’ ”Je suis tellement content que nous ayons fait…” he murmured gently in reply before his eyes finally broke from her. ”I probably shouldn’t take up more of your time.” His tone was almost apologetic, but he definitely did not regret this conversation.

”I have a studio over on Savile Row...right past the flower shop.” Raphael paused in thought for a brief moment. ”Whenever you’re ready, or if you rather call on me, of course.” He would go wherever she was comfortable with, it mattered not to him. The artist was simply delighted that she agreed, even if she wouldn’t actually go through with it. One day, perhaps, he would see the face behind that mask.