The Sentinels bal du moulin de la galette

He honestly did not know what to do. It was Monet that held the attention of others; the men often wondered about her, and the women were vehmently jealous. Renoir could recall many instances where his own pride and love of her got in the way of friendships, and other moments where he would wedge himself between his sister and a potential love. No such interest was granted to him, though, that he was aware of. The way this man looked at him, complimented him — he found himself enjoying it far too much, and being flabbergasted by it.

All Renoir could manage was a muffled little sound, almost like a laugh, but it felt like a trumpet sounding off on his awkwardness. He shifted his weight and stared off at the trees, trying to think of something else to say while a warmth overtook him. In the end all he muttered was, Repons lan se wi, tout, trè ... trè bon. after which he traced the trees for a moment or two, inveitably landing his gaze upon Lasher's own, though he was not confident enough to hold it for long.

Then he was busying himself with a few strides, some exploration of the surroundings, doing anything to stop himself from looking fondly at the man. Mwen... I.. must go, surely.. Much to see, It was clear he wished for space, though Renoir did not deviate too much from Lasher's company, seemingly undecided upon it.