He lets the topic drop, not wanting to ask too many questions or intrude, staring blankly at the canvas in front of him. Chanyeol’s still at a complete loss as to what to do, and he fiddles helplessly with his brush. He’s never had to interact with any of his previous subjects (with the exception of the five noblemen, who had given him clear and succinct directions), never had to learn about them and what their frown lines and wrinkles meant, or about the freckles sprinkled across their cheeks and the laugh lines etched into their skin. He’d painted them all on a superficial level, acting more like a documenter than a genuine portraitist, recording scars and scabs and lines objectively and without a proper comprehension of their relationship to the personalities and souls that inhabited their physical bodies.