@cami040405 / cami040405.tumblr.com
Chapter 2: The Approach Through Art
Summary: You and Vincent become closer because of art, he takes you to his family's residence so that you can feel more comfortable and rest.
(A/N: I hope you're enjoying my writing, remembering that requests are open, so feel free to ask for what you would like to read here.)
You felt a shiver at Bo’s words.
“Your GPS broke, huh? It turns out this city has a way of… confusing technology.” He shrugged, a smug smile on his face. “But don’t worry, I can fix it. It’ll only take a few days.”
Your stomach churned.
“Days?” you repeated, trying to stay calm. “Isn’t there any other way? Maybe a nearby gas station where I can get a map?”
Bo chuckled, as if he found that question too innocent.
“Oh, honey, there’s not much around. The road to the nearest city is long, and without a GPS… Well, let’s just say it’s easy to get lost.”
You didn’t like the way he said that.
“But you can show me the way, right?”
Bo tilted his head, pretending to consider the suggestion.
“I could. But I’m not that good with directions.” He smiled. “Besides, you already said you liked the city. What's the harm in staying a little while?”
You tightened your fingers around your notebook. Something told you that insisting might be a mistake.
Vincent remained by your side, as still as a wax statue. You couldn't decipher if he was comfortable with the situation or if something inside him was also struggling.
You took a deep breath. You had no choice at that moment.
"Okay. But I'll need to let someone know I'm here."
Bo narrowed his eyes, assessing your reaction. Then he shrugged.
"Sure. We have a phone in the house. You can try calling."
That choice of words bothered you. "Try"?
But, again, you didn't insist.
Bo lightly patted Vincent on the shoulder.
"Why don't you take our new friend to get to know the museum better? I have a few things to take care of before I show her where she's going to stay."
You felt a shiver of uncertainty. But when you looked at Vincent, you saw that he didn’t seem like an imminent threat. Still, something about him… made you uneasy.
Vincent hesitated for a moment before turning and starting to walk. It was a silent invitation for you to follow him.
You looked at Bo once more. He just smiled and gestured for you to go.
The path through the museum’s corridors was unsettling. Vincent walked ahead, without saying anything, his footsteps silent on the worn wooden floor.
You looked around, taking in every detail. Now that you paid more attention, you felt a growing unease. The wax statues were impressive, but some… had expressions that were too real. You couldn’t explain it, but a strange feeling began to grow inside you.
Vincent opened a heavy door and invited you in.
It was a studio.
The lighting was low, and the smell of hot wax hung in the air. There were molds, brushes, sculpting tools and… unfinished mannequins. Some were faceless, others had eyes that seemed to follow you.
You held your breath.
“You do all this?” you asked, looking at Vincent.
He nodded slowly.
You felt a knot in your stomach, but forced yourself not to show nervousness.
“It’s amazing,” you said, genuinely fascinated. “You’re really talented.”
Vincent remained silent. But something in him relaxed, as if he appreciated your words.
You looked around, wondering how such a talented artist could be trapped in a place like that… After some time in the studio, Vincent left first, making it clear that you should follow him. You hesitated for a moment before following him. The wax museum was strange enough, but the brothers’ house seemed even more… isolated.
You walked through the silent streets of Ambrose, and you felt the absence of life around you. Not a car passing by, not a distant song, nothing. Just the wind and the sound of your own footsteps.
The house was an old building, surrounded by trees that cast long shadows as the sun set. Vincent opened the door and entered without making a sound. You looked around. The interior was cozy at first glance, but it carried a heavy atmosphere. The smell of old wood and melted wax was strong.
Vincent led you up the stairs to a room at the end of the hallway. He opened the door and stopped at the entrance, waiting for you to enter first. The room was simple, but not uncomfortable. There was a bed, an antique wardrobe and a small dressing table with a dusty mirror. The room was clean, but clearly little used.
“It looks like you were expecting a visitor,” you commented, crossing your arms.
Vincent didn’t react. He just tilted his head slightly, as if trying to understand your tone.
You let out a sigh.
“You don’t talk, do you?” You ran your hand through your hair, frustrated. “It’s hard to know what you’re thinking.”
He stood in the doorway, just watching.
You noticed that, unlike Bo, Vincent didn’t look at you with that evaluating expression, as if he were testing you. His gaze was intense, but in a different way—like an artist studying a blank canvas.
You took your notebook from your bag and sat on the bed.
“So, what do you do when you’re not sculpting?”
Vincent remained still.
“Do you have any other passions besides art?”
Silence.
You laughed, shaking your head.
“Okay. I guess I’ll just have to get used to this.”
You opened the notebook and began to scribble, letting the graphite slide across the paper. For a moment, you forgot where you were. Your mind immersed itself in the strokes, forming lines, shadows and details.
When you looked up, Vincent was still there.
Your heart raced a little.
He had come closer without you noticing, his eyes fixed on your drawing. His posture was curious, almost hypnotized by what you were creating.
You tilted the notebook so he could see better.
“It’s you,” you said.
It was a sketch of him, his mask reflecting the light subtly. Even without seeing his real face, you managed to capture something in his expression—a mix of mystery and melancholy.
For a moment, Vincent stood still. Then, without warning, he pulled out a pencil that was on the dressing table and, with a slow gesture, drew something next to the face you had sketched.
A hand.
You frowned.
“Is that yours?”
Vincent just looked at you, then at the drawing.
The silence between you was not empty. It was filled with a meaning that you still didn’t understand.
You closed the notebook and smiled slightly.
“I think you want me to keep drawing you.”
Vincent neither confirmed nor denied. He just stood there, watching for a few more seconds before taking a step back and leaving the room. You noticed that he had left the door open. As if he wanted you to know that you could leave.
But deep down, you were already beginning to suspect that maybe… it wasn’t that simple.
.
Chapter 1: Arrival at Ambrose
Summary: Your GPS breaks down in the middle of the road, but lucky for you there was a small, isolated town just a few meters away, Ambrose.
You never liked to follow the obvious paths. While your friends preferred beaches and trendy parties, you felt drawn to the forgotten, the strange, to what held stories in its cracks. It was the same with the places you visited, the people you met and, especially, with your art.
So, when the old town of Ambrose appeared on your route, it was impossible to ignore.
You were driving alone when the GPS stopped working. The tank was empty, and the suffocating heat made the inside of the car unbearable. When you saw the small dirt road and the aged sign indicating "Ambrose – 14 miles", you felt a shiver of curiosity. The name sounded familiar, as if you had heard some legend about the place.
You decided to take a chance.
The streets of Ambrose seemed abandoned. Not completely—there were signs of life, but something seemed… still. As if time had stopped. The old storefronts, the silent church, and, mainly, because there were no people on the streets.
You got out of the car and picked up your sketchbook. You always did this when you found a place that intrigued you. The details of the architecture, the contrast between shadows and light, all of this enchanted you. You walked to a small convenience store that seemed to be the only business open.
When you entered, a bell rang.
Behind the counter, a man looked at you with an appraising expression. He was tall, wore a cap and had a somewhat cynical smile. His relaxed manner didn’t completely hide his perceptive gaze.
“Well, well… It’s not often we have visitors,” he said, leaning his elbows on the counter.
You smiled slightly, trying to ignore the discomfort you felt when you noticed how his gaze seemed to study you.
— My GPS stopped working and I’m almost out of gas. I saw the city sign and decided to stop.
The man nodded slowly, still studying you.
“Hm. Lucky you. Not everyone finds Ambrose,” he said, his tone filled with a strange humor.
You didn’t answer right away. You opened your notebook and began to scribble a quick sketch of the store’s interior, your eyes glancing at the man. He noticed and arched an eyebrow.
“Do you draw?”
“Always. I like to capture different places. This one… has a unique atmosphere.”
He chuckled.
“Yeah, you could say that.” He took out a cigarette and lit it absently. “But I don’t know if you’ll want to stay long enough to capture everything.”
There was an undertone to that sentence, a hidden warning. But you didn’t back down.
“Maybe I will,” you replied defiantly.
The man smirked, as if he found it amusing.
“So, why don’t you start with the wax museum? It’s the biggest attraction in town. I bet you’ll like it. By the way, my name is Bo.”
“Y/N!”
You looked out the window toward the old building, its faded sign barely visible beneath the dust. Something in the way Bo spoke sounded like an invitation and a test at the same time.
“I think I’ll take a look.”
Bo just smiled.
“If you need anything, just call me.”
But you knew that, deep down, it was him who was watching you.
.
The museum was an impressive place, but something about it made your skin crawl. The way the wax figures looked too real, as if they were on the verge of movement. You walked through the dusty hallways, feeling like an intruder. Each room revealed something new and disturbing—frozen expressions on some faces, anatomical details too perfect to give you the creeps and a sense of eeriness.
But instead of running away, you took out your notebook and began to draw. The dim light flickered as your hand glided over the paper, capturing every detail.
That was when you felt it.
Someone was there.
The silence grew heavier, filled with an invisible presence. You stopped drawing, your breathing steady. Your gaze moved slowly, scanning the darkness between the statues.
Then you saw him.
A shadow stood out against the gloom. A tall man, dressed in black, with a wax mask and long black hair covering his face.
He didn't move immediately. He just watched you.
You felt your heart race, but you didn't back away. Instead, you held your sketchbook tightly and looked directly at him.
The man didn't attack. He didn't approach you in a threatening way. His dark eyes slid down to your drawings. There was something different about that look.
Then, slowly, he took a step forward.
You didn't move. Something about him told you he wasn't a threat. At least, not yet.
He bent down, picked up a piece of charcoal that had fallen to the ground, and, without hesitation, began to draw beside you. The line was firm, precise, too realistic. You watched him in silence, fascinated and cautious at the same time.
That was how he communicated.
.
You didn't know how long you spent next to that mysterious man, exchanging strokes on the paper without exchanging words.
The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable, but charged with something unspoken—a tacit understanding between the two artists. The man drew with almost obsessive precision, and you felt your curiosity grow. Who was he? Why was he hiding behind that wax mask?
But, for now, you didn't ask. He finished the drawing before you, leaving on the paper an impressive portrait.
Not of one of the sculptures, nor of any face, but of you. Your hair falling in waves, your eyes captured with a disturbing intensity. It was as if he had studied you long before that moment.
You felt a shiver run down your spine.
Before you could say anything, a noise echoed through the museum.
— Vincent! — the voice came from the entrance.
You turned quickly and saw Bo standing in the doorway, his eyes alternating between you and the mysterious man, whose name you now knew was Vincent. His tone was controlled, but it carried a hint of surprise.
— Oh… So you made a new friend? — he said, a lazy smile appearing.
You closed the notebook slowly, trying to understand what was happening.
Vincent didn’t answer. Of course not. But something in his posture indicated that he didn’t want Bo to interrupt that moment.
Bo took a few steps towards you, watching the interaction with interest.
— What did you think of the museum? — he asked you.
You hesitated before answering.
— It’s… different. Impressive. The sculptures are very realistic. Who made them?
Bo smiled.
— My brother. He’s talented, don’t you think?
You looked at Vincent, who remained motionless next to you.
— Yes. Very. — You looked down at the drawing he had made of you. — I’ve never seen anything like it.
Bo watched your reaction, seeming to be amused by it.
— Well, if you liked it so much, why don’t you stay in the city a little longer?
That question set off an alarm in your mind.
“Stay?”
You looked out the window, noticing how empty Ambrose seemed. The sun was lower in the sky, you hadn’t checked your cellphone since you arrived. Did you still have signal?
Bo noticed your hesitation and laughed softly.
— Relax. No one will hurt you, dear. And you can stay at our house, we have a spare room! —
— Still… I need to get back on the road — you said, trying to sound casual.
Bo sighed slowly.
— I don’t think that’s going to be possible! —
.
The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad (1949)
The Mandalorian x The Last of Us by stillindigo
