"Mr. Lester."
I glance up from my desk, the contrast of of the intricately beautiful designs I had been drawing over the skin of my hand with a pen to the unpleasant face of my history teacher annoyed me.
"Yes, miss?" I ask, folding my hands under my chin and settling my elbows onto the desk, blinking as the old woman groans.
She had grown used to my behavioral issues by now, deciding to give up in arguing with me and just lower my grade instead. Sweater boy, oh he had found out about this, and he never missed a chance in lecturing me about it.
"Phil, how do you expect to get anywhere in life with a grade like that?" He was quiet as we sat lounging behind the bleachers at lunch. The way he had become more talkative towards me hadn't gone unnoticed, and I couldn't tell at the moment if it was a good or bad thing. I have to admit that I do prefer when he just sits there and looks pretty instead of lecturing me on the current status of my grades.
"Dan," I say, clicking my tongue as I loosely throw my leg over my other, watching as the smoke puffs from my mouth and dwindles out over my flat body as I lay on the shaded ground. "
"Are you sure you see me as the type to care about schoolwork? To care about grades and all that superficial shit? It doesn't matter, and I know I probably sound like a huge hipster right now..." He giggles softly at the hipster comment, his back against the flat backside of the bleachers. "But I don't wanna go to college and become just another kid studying all for nothing.
"I-" I pause, the cigarette between my fingers blowing out and crumbling, falling to the ground beside my head as I had let it. "I want to do something I care about, something that you don't need a degree to succeed or be validated in."
I turn to look up at him, twisting my neck and breaking away from the daytime sky I had been staring at to the nighttime stars in his eyes. Twinkling, they were, as he watched in amusement the way I was passionately spilling my heart out to him under the old bleachers.
"I want to do art." I finally say, lowering my head back down to the ground, tearing my gaze from his as I hear him hum softly, "I'm good at that." I whisper, and Dan seems to agree, as I softly catch him whisper a response, one that he hadn't planned on me hearing.
"You are, Phil, you really are."
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this is boring as shit and ion have the planning anymore i'm kinda fucked and just writing whatever i want at this point
YOU ARE READING
colors ;; phan
Fanfiction"well, what can i say sweater boy, you and i mix as well as those damn paints on my brushes and the colors in those sunsets you love so much."
