hi if u saw me frantically changing my pfp for about two hours gay yesterday !! no u didn't ❤
***
Weston Doherty is loud as fuck.
He's the type of loud that draws attention for a four mile radius, the type of laugh that is so loud it causes my ears to hurt. Weston: a freckled, dimpled, semi-but-not-quite-asshole whose voice reverberates through the halls.
That's him at this very moment.
I'm making my way through the hall, and Weston plows next to me. Dark-haired with varying ancestry, Weston instantly seemed to gravitate toward me from freshman year. And while he happens to be loud as hell, he's also far more tolerable than anyone else on the lacrosse team.
"Yeah, so, I was so fucking confused right?" he continues, running a hand through his hair. My mind tries to flick back to what exactly he's talking about. Weston continues. "And I didn't know what to write because all the words were blurring together and shit and—"
"Damien!"
The voice cuts through Weston's loud talking, and the two of us whip around, the owner of the voice raising his hand with a nervous half-smile sliding onto his lips.
Soren.
Weston comes to a halt, eyebrows knitting together.
The three of us seem to stare at each other for a few moments. My lips inevitable quirk upwards as Soren's hand waves, fingers moving and rings clinking together. Weston glances between Soren and I. Repeatedly.
"Choi wants to talk to you?" he asks, a yawn escaping his lips as he knits his eyebrows together.
My eyes don't leave Soren as a reply slips from my lips. "Yeah, yeah he does."
"Alrighty then?" Weston says, swinging the hanging strap of his backpack back over his shoulder. "See y'all."
Then, he's down the hall, yelling something out at another player on the team, his shoulder bumping into the other teammate's, and a new conversation rising to the air.
Shifting from foot to foot, I wait in spot as Soren's eyes brighten, and he makes his way over to me, panting heavily once he reaches the middle of the hall.
I exhale a laugh. "Soren. You walked like, five feet." I try to stifle the laughter threatening to tumble out of my lips. "How are you winded?"
Soren rests both hands on his knees, gasping for oxygen as he raises one hand, his middle finger flipping me off. After he's composed himself, his arms fold over his chest. "Fuck you. I'll have you know that I went up the fucking stairs. And they're exhausting." A pause. "Fuck-head."
My hand rises to my chest as Soren huffs. His eyes glaze over before sparking with some sort of remembrance. "So, I'm painting today. Mom says it's good to relieve stress." His eyes drop to the floor, white sneakers glaring back up at him. "And, you know, maybe you could...?"
"Come with?" I supply, my eyes searching his as my heart pounds in my chest.
"Only if you want!" Soren clarifies as he falls into step with me, eyes carefully finding mine.
I blink, my mind whirring as the invitation finally settles onto me. "Sure," I breath, lips quirking upwards. "Of course."
Soren's grin widens, tugging at his lips. His t-shirt is a faint blue and oversized, somewhat tucked into pale jeans, pooling at his ankles, sneakers tapping against the floor. There are splashes of yellow paint on his jeans, a lily drawn onto the side of his jeans.
"Did you draw that?" I ask, lips parting, my eyes resting on the delicate lily.
Soren's eyes drop to his jeans, and he lightly traces over the lily before nodding profusely.
"Bella," I say lightly, Soren's lips quirking upwards once more.
Then, we're down the hall. Soren's eyes drift to somewhere behind me, and my eyes flicker in that direction. And sure enough, there are eyes following us, casually slipping toward us. Stares.
Clearing my throat, I make a firm pact with myself to ignore them.
Soren seems to be in on the pact as well, because he starts telling me about how he ended up painting his jeans in the first place. His words fill the air, and the stares seem to blur into the background.
For just a few moments.
***
Somehow, I float through the school day.
The stares are never really commented upon, and I keep my eyes on my paper or laptop throughout every class, burning through my work so that my mind doesn't wander.
When the final bell rings after an eternity, the class shuffles into action. Having AP Calculus last period has never been the most exciting shit. Tedious might be a more fitting word for it.
Still, my feet were bouncing the entire day, right underneath my desk, because I had something to look forward to other than Mama's weekly penne pasta. I finally get to see Soren in his element, in his natural habitat.
My feet make their way down the hall, my backpack swinging behind me, my thoughts still wandering.
"Motherfucker! Oye!"
Santiago Cortez, of course. I whip in the direction of my brother, watching as he bounds up to me, blond hair falling to the space just above his shoulders, eyes wide.
"Santi." I state simply, as he throws an arm over my shoulder, practically weighing me down.
"You picking me up from swim practice?" he asks, eyes flickering over to me.
"I can't," I say, lips pursing. "I'm going to an art studio with Soren Choi, so."
Of course, as soon as the words leave my lips, Santiago's eyes narrow, something mischievous playing behind them. "So, y'all have been spending some time together, haven't you?"
"I guess?" I ask, eyebrows knitting. "Why the hell are you saying it like that?" Like that being in that singsong-esque voice that makes it very hard to avoid punching him.
Santi bats his eyelashes, angelically. "Que? I'm simply pointing out an observation." His shoulders fall with ease. "An art studio sounds nice. One might daresay romantico."
I roll my eyes, more than familiar with Santi's teasing. He's grinning and I'm tempted to punch him, and then he's laughing because it's all a joke, and he's joking, and somehow, I need to remind myself of the fact.
My head shakes. Once, twice. "Santi," I say, eyebrows raising. "Shut the hell up and go haul your ass to swim team."
Santi cackles. "Please give your husband un beso for me, please?" He laughs as he backs away, and my middle finger remains up until he's completely out of sight. Even so, I hear his laughter long after he's gone.
He's joking. It's one of Santi's signature teases, really. Before I'd taken Maria Delgado to the dance in middle school, we'd studied together. Every Tuesday after school. And of course, Santi made sure to constantly refer to her as my novia and shit, despite the fact that we never dated.
Santiago Cortez thinks he's absolutely hilarious.
Making my way down the hall, I shake my thoughts away, my eyes landing on Soren. He's leaning against his locker, eyes brightening once I come into view.
"Hey," he says, head tilting to the side, black hair swishing with him. His lips quirk upwards as he flips his car keys, a multitude of keychains clinging with every toss. When they keychain lands on the floor, he exhales a curse before picking it up.
A laugh escapes my lips as Soren turns toward me. "You didn't see that," he says, eyes intense.
"I saw nothing," I say, nodding assuredly, trying to fight the smirk that wants to quirk onto my lips.
"Good," he says, grin brightening. "Because I was really fucking hoping to not embarrass myself until we got to the art studio, at least." A pause as he stuffs his keys into his pocket. "Think I can accomplish that?"
"Sure," I say, but my grin refuses to fall, only threatening to get wider.
"Shut the fuck up," Soren says, his own grin failing to disappear as he gives me a slight shove in the arm.
"I didn't say anything," I say, the two of us making our way down the hall and into the open. I push one of the double doors open, waiting for Soren to pass through as I follow after him, and the sun bathes us in shades of light as we enter the parking lot.
It shouldn't surprise me that Soren's car is a white beetle. It's rounded on some edges, circular lights, so fucking Soren that I have to catch my breath for a few moments and inhale it all.
Soren unlocks the car, and the two of us slide in on either side, Soren's hands flying to the wheel.
"This car has your energy," I finally say, my lips twitching with slight amusement as Soren glances over at me.
A slight grin rises to his face, but it falters once a faraway look converts his expression to a vacant one.
"Yeah," his hands run through his hair, "I, uh, used to share it with my brother and shit." I watch him, eyes careful. But then, he shakes his head, changing the tone once more as he pats the dashboard. "It's my baby, so."
With that, he starts to pull out of the driveway, but haltingly so. He grips the wheel, shoulders hunched over as he glances around, eyes widened.
"You alright there?" I ask, my lips twitching as I give it my all to stifle a laugh. "Because you seem to be going a bit too fast. Are you sure you're under the speed limit?" My tone drips with amusement.
"You're so funny." He chirps, eyes still on the rear view mirror as he remains hunched over. "And I would totally flip you the fuck off if I wasn't afraid of crashing into something. Again. Anyways."
"What?" I ask, my eyes widening.
"What?" Soren blinks, eyes widened in faux confusion.
"Please don't kill me," I say, hands clasped together. "My mama is making penne pasta today and I really don't want to miss it."
"I make no promises," Soren says, finally pulling out of the driveway. His eyes glint with slight trouble, and then, we're out of the school. Soren cruises off, and I whisper all the prayers I know as we make our way to the studio.
***
The building is glassy.
It's a simple building, large windows showing flickers of art work and other activities occurring inside the space. It's pretty. The type of pretty that has sunlight refracting off the glass. The whole space feels quaint.
Artsy and edgy and simple. And Soren. And fuck, it truly does make sense that this is Soren's place. It exudes his energy, exudes him.
Standing in front of the double doors, Soren glances over at me, his hands tapping the sides of his legs, his eyes finding mine. "Ready?"
I find myself nodding, and Soren makes his way over to the double doors, tugging at the handles, to no avail. He huffs, and lets out a curse as he pushes the door open instead.
"Always fucking forget about that stupid PUSH sign," he murmurs to himself, shaking his head as he holds the door open for me, giving me an awkward thumbs-up as I walk through, my lips twitching.
Inside the space is vibrant. There are stools and canvases strewn about, people working at different ones. There's a huge horizontal canvas that takes up a huge amount of wall off to the side, a pale-haired person sitting criss-crossed in front of it.
Soren's voice softly travels to my ear as he leans over, so close it's nearly hard to breath. "That's Margot," he gestures towards the white-haired girl seated in front of the extra-large canvas, all splattered in abstract art. Soren continues, "she's my mom's friend's—Candace's—daughter. We've essentially grown up together because of that."
"That's Viv," he says, pointing towards a dark-skinned twenty-something year-old with a coffee in hand as she stand next to Margot, saying something to her as she gestures towards Margot's work. Long black braids make their way down her back, and she hands her coffee to Margot, who shoots her a smile. "I am so fucking certain that they're in love, but anyway!"
Soren's arm rests on my shoulder as he rotates us in the opposite direction, making vehicle sound affects as he does so. "That's Paxton." He gestures towards a dark-haired, nose-pierced guy. He's on his tiptoes, working on a portrait. "He's hot," he states simply, a laugh escaping my lips."
"That's Archer." He gestures toward a slender redhead, his lips pursed as he scopes a drawing on a sketchpad. "He brings cupcakes every Friday. Everything we should aspire to be."
"And Gianna," he says, gesturing towards someone with a buzzcut. She has her legs crossed as she scrolls through her phone. "She works at the 7 Eleven near our school! So, you probably recognize her from around here. She likes being called King, Deity, 7 Eleven Shithead. Please feel free to select a nickname of your choosing."
I exhale a laugh at the in-depth descriptions of each person, and Soren carefully grabs hold of my wrist as he tugs me towards his own canvas, shouting out greeting at the people around him before finally settling down on his own stool.
He sits down, and I sit on the stool a few feet away from him, with its own individual canvas. Soren's eyes flicker over to me as his legs swing just above the floor. "You're so far away."
"I am?" I ask, my eyes flickering about my chair as a grin slides onto my lips. Soren nods in the affirmative, and reaches out to tug my stool closer to him. For someone who gets winded jogging five steps, his upper body strength seems to exist, and he pulls my stool closer to him, bit by bit.
Laughter escapes my lips as the legs of the stool scrape against the flooring, and Soren huffs, pulling me closer and closer until our knees are touching. He uses his leg to drag my stool leg closer until he's finally satisfied.
"There," he exhales, a smile rising to his lips.
With that, he turns back to the board, dipping his brush into a tube of cerulean acrylic paint and carefully sweeping it across the canvas. It's mesmerizing to watch. Everything about his movements are graceful, intent.
It's borderline cute; the way Soren swears whenever a drop of paint falls onto his jeans, the way he doesn't seem to notice the vast majority of the paint that falls and stains his clothing, the way he purses his lips as he determines his next course of action.
"Do you want to paint, too?" Soren asks, tugging me out of my thoughts. His eyes meet mine, and I blink, my hand scratching at the back of my neck.
"I would definitely fuck it up." I finally say, my hands carefully flying through dark curls, my lips pursing.
Soren hums, eyes still resting on me. "I doubt it." He leans forward, paintbrush sliding in between my fingers. I hold onto it, carefully.
Soren's voice rises to the air. "Can I touch your hand? Not in a weird way. Just genuinely asking, because—"
"Sure." I say, and Soren's hand finds mine and my chest threatens to burst because my heart is beating so fucking hard that it's hard to process anything else. His hand rests on mine, and I should be looking at the canvas, but instead, my eyes rest on our hands, and my breath hitches in slight surprise.
"If you so much as paint a smidge wrong, I will fucking annihilate you," Soren chirps as he guides my hand, and my eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.
Nerves course through my veins, and Soren seems to take notice because his own eyes widen. "I'm joking! Please. Your facial expression." His tone seems to be fluctuating between bubbling of amusement and sympathy, and I feel heat rise to my face.
"Cállate," I murmur, the embarrassment seeping in once more. Shit makes me nervous sometimes." My head shakes. "I hate screwing up."
The sentence is an understatement, really. After all, it goes all the way back to getting an A- on my calculus test and refusing to eat or drink for the rest of the day. It goes back to setting the table at eleven, and Tia Gina's critiques. Critiques that even followed me into coloring books when I was eight; being told to fill in the line, crying if a single stroke was out of place.
Soren's eyes widen once his eyes catch onto my expression, which seems to be giving more away than I want it to. "Hey, I'm sorry," his voice softens. "Don't feel like you can't fuck up sometimes. I fuck up all the time and look how I turned out!"
The last sentence snaps me out of my reverie, and a snort escapes my lips, the laughter slipping out in full force.
"Wow, okay." Soren says, lips parting. "Fuck off, asshat."
The mood seems to only steadily increase from there, and the memories are quashed down deep inside, giving way to Soren's smiles instead. Some time within the next half hour, Soren positions his canvas opposite me, and works on another piece of his own.
I work on the drawing we started together, trying to avoid screwing it up in every way possible.
Hours bleed away, but they feel like seconds.
Finally, Soren speaks up, glancing at me from over his canvas. "Damien! The studio is closing soon, so we should probably get going."
Leaving our piece on the canvas, I ready myself to leave. Soren rises to his feet, picking up my backpack, his back turned to me as he whips back around and zips it up, handing it to me, our hands brushing.
My eyebrows rise, but I don't say much as I quirk a half-grin at him, and he shoves his own supplies into his backpack.
With that and a few goodbyes, we make our way back into Soren's white car, Soren starting the vehicle as he offers to drive me home. Hozier fills the air, and his voice seems to set the energy in the car.
Soren spares glances over at me, grin soft, eyes attentive. When he glances up at me, the darkening sky framing him, the thought occurs to me that Soren Choi looks pretty under the stoplights.
My house seems to come into view all too quickly. Still, I slide out of the car, my backpack weighing down my shoulders as I give him a light wave.
He returns the wave, smile lopsided, and I feel my heart beating inside my chest.
Then, he's gone, and I'm making my way into the house, everything in my chest feeling right. In the kitchen, Mama looks up, grin wide. "Frijolito."
Once I approach her, she places a kiss on my cheek. "I can't believe I have to get on my tiptoes to do this now," and pats my back. "Penne pasta leftovers in the fridge," she says, "be warned, Santi did not wait and likely downed ninety percent of it."
A laugh escapes my lips, and I wouldn't be surprised if the percentage was in fact a little closer to ninety-five percent. I nod, and Mama returns to her table with another rub of the back, typing on her laptop as she places her reading glasses over the bridge of her nose.
Once I'm done with the penne pasta that is everything as good as it always is, I make my way upstairs, winding up in my room, sprawled across my bed.
A message pops up on my phone. Weston. He'd been the one to type his contact on my phone.
west 🥍🔥💯: Yo never knew you and choi were friends
I set the message aside, choosing not to respond to it. Setting my phone back onto my bed, I glance up at my ceiling, basking in the euphoria my time with Soren left with me.
However, reality quickly sets in, and I reach over to my backpack, rummaging in it to pull my homework out. However, my hand finds its way around an unfamiliar material, and I slip it out, holding it in front of my face.
It's a small canvas, a portrait. On it, I see a face. My breath hitches, because sure enough, the guy in the picture shares the same slope of the nose that I have, the same dark curls, brown eyes.
My face is angular yet soft in the portrait, curls so real-looking, I'm tempted to reach out and touch them. My eyes are gentle, staring at something far in the distance. My lips are simple, nearly twitching with amusement.
I look beautiful. And it's strange, because I've never seen myself in the way. In the way that this portrait sees me.
But, here I am. A work of art depicted on a small canvas. A portrait. On the canvas, my face seems to glow, seems to capture the word ethereal and all that it contains.
My breath hitches.
My eyes flicker to the bottom right corner, where a messy scrawl writes down the initials SC.
Soren drew this, drew me.
And I find my head shaking, but my heart shaking more, because I have a million words but none of them can be put to words.
***
3500+ words omg ??
also yes weston texts like THE straight male 😭 esp with those emojis pls </3
hi how are u <3