The ranch in Texorami is big. All Ramon’s houses are big, and this one is no different. He’s been renovating it a bit at a time so it’s more to his liking – he’s not living there, so the builders aren't an inconvenience to him.
In addition to the sprawling farmhouse, there are countless outhouses – stables, feed stores, barns and the like. And cottages too, for staff or family of previous owners. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care. He’s just been wondering how best to utilize them all because he doesn’t like wasted space.
One in particular had seemed to be no use at all. It’s set back off the main driveway on its own, half surrounded by trees. He was almost going to leave it alone or turn it into a hidden guardhouse – but when Random went away, an idea had occurred to him and never left. He’d held on to certain things when Random had gone – they’d helped reassure him that the man was coming back.
So about two weeks ago, he’d sent builders in. And now he’s walking around it alone, hoping it’ll be good enough.
Rooms have been knocked together to create one large space; the walls are painted white and windows left bare for furnishings to be added later. The whole place is bare in fact, apart from one wall that’s taken over by a huge walk-in closet. It’s practically another room in itself. Ramon opens the doors now and looks at things he’ll never understand. The whole thing is a mystery to him, but he hopes Random will like it.
His idea had been to give Random space. He does realise, sometimes, that he’s not exactly easy on their relationship. He gets jealous and moody and can’t let things lie – it’s not easy, living with him. So he’d hit on this - a place where Random can come and be on his own, take a break and get away from everything. Do the things he enjoys without interruption. This is why the closet is full to the brim of art supplies and materials. The best that money can buy, naturally – acrylics and watercolours and pastels and oils and brushes and markers and crayons and pencils - everything. All stacked up neatly under a pile of different papers and canvases that probably emptied half a forest to make. Ramon doesn’t do things by halves. There’s a large easel set up by one of the windows – the entire side of the house is windows now, looking out over fields and space and the cliffs in the distance that roll down to the sea. Everything he needs, he hopes.
He shuts the doors and wanders off to the side, where there’s a small kitchen, with fridge and sink where he can keep some food and drinks and wash up all his materials if he wants to. White again – Ramon had specifically asked that it be kept bare, so that Random can do what he wants with it. And there are stairs to the side, running up to a converted attic. In that room, there’s a drum kit. A drum kit that practically is the room, because it’s one of those 64-piece ones, with cymbals hanging from above and all around and floor drums that surround the person that's sitting in the middle and playing. There’s a rack that’s full of sticks – because drummers do tend to get through them, he’s learnt from the club – and brushes and the big thick padded things that he doesn’t know the name for, for making big booming crashes. It all looks to be in order.
A knock at the door comes and he goes back downstairs to answer it. Caterers, carrying baskets and cushions and he lets them in silently. They’re setting up dinner on the floor of what is now a studio. The place is empty, but they’d promised they’d make it intimate and warm enough for an evening, before Random chooses furniture to put in.
He wait for them do it, supervising by silence. It doesn’t take long and he glances at his watch. He doubts the man will be much longer, but if he is, he is. It’s his birthday, he can do what he wants. Martin’s in the farmhouse, out of the way. A woman’s cooking there and is teaching him some things – for a price, naturally, but the kid doesn’t care. He seems happy. So Ramon goes to wait in his office, trusting that Random will find him when he’s ready.