There was something serenely beautiful about the sunrise on a Wednesday morning.
Once again, I'd found myself not sleeping until sunrise on a school day. I couldn't sleep now, because the bell would ring in ten minutes, but I wasn't worried, not really.
I just watched as the orange orb known as the sun made it's way over the horizon, the colors in the sky melting together like paint. It was orange, and then pink, and then red, and then purple, as the vast expanse of sky slowly, ever so slowly, lightened up to it's daily blue. Even in my paintings, I could never get this moment exactly perfect. Nature was it's own artist; it didn't need paint.
I didn't let my eyes leave the colors as I grabbed my bag, double checking with my hands that I had everything I needed. But soon, the colors of the sun's awakening were faded out as the blue got brighter and slowly overtook the town, brightening my surroundings and alerting the people that our day was beginning. I walked down the steps of my porch.
All of the other kids were smart enough to get to school on time, and I let out a weary sigh as the bell rang, only a few blocks down and loud enough for me to hear it. It was senior year, but I still hadn't learned to get to school on time.
I wasn't worried, though. Everyone was used to it, and the slower I walked down the road the more I could admire my surroundings, even if I'd seen them hundreds of times over the past eighteen years. I could never get tired of the way there were fresh drops of dew on the gentle grass each morning, or the way the same family of birds chirped melodies at me on my journey to school. It was refreshing, the way each day was a new beginning, and no two mornings were ever the same. There would always be something new, even if only an added mixture of colors to the canvas of the sky.
Soon, the gravel under the soles of my feet flattened out until I was walking on the concrete of the school's entrance, the doors leering at me as I walked up to them.
Our secretary, Ms. Kenna, already knew I was late most of the time, so I didn't have to say a word as I stood next to her desk, awaiting the slip of paper that I would have to give to my teacher.
"Here you go, Dan," she stated as the paper found it's way to my fingertips, a slight smile ghosting at my lips as she waved me off to class. I had a feeling she was beginning to warm up to me, after multiple detentions due to tardiness. She was more kind to me than anyone I'd met before, and all she did was give me sympathetic looks with her dark blue eyes and smile at me with teeth whiter than the midnight moon.
Soon enough, I was down the hall and up the stairs to my first class; history. I didn't hate it, but I didn't love it. I didn't love any of my classes, except for art and creative writing. I enjoyed creating things, not reading about things already created.
The fingers on my left hand reached forward and I slowly swung the door open, stepping inside and shutting it behind me, causing the room to erupt into silence.
"Howell," Came the voice of our teacher, Mr. Nem, sounding exasperated as I knew the slow breath coming from the corners of his chapped lips was one of disappoinment rather than anger. "Late once again."
I nodded, held out the slip, and treaded over to my seat, remaining silent, as usual, with my eyes cast on the floor as I did, ignoring the judgemental snickers from other students that I received each day. I slowly opened my bag and set down a notebook and a pencil, gripping the writing utensil in my hand as I kept my head down, letting my senses focus on my ears so I could possibly pay attention this class.
***
The day was over quickly, quicker than I'd expected, but my good mood that I'd had at the morning's sunrise had quickly sunken into a bitterness I never enjoyed having. Usually, everything with school was fine, consisting of not speaking to anyone and ignoring the wads of paper launched at my head, as long as I ended up having art class. But on this day, our teacher had been sick, so we'd been forced to have a free period in place of my favorite escape. I'd walked outside to a picnic table and sat on it, sketching since all my paints were in the art room and at home.
As the graphite had lightly traced around the paper, I could feel my mind sharpening, to the point I felt as sharp as the tip of my utensil. I could have closed my eyes, my fingers overtaking everything as the sounds bustling around me quieted and the only thing I heard was the sound of pencil on paper, lightly, gently, and my own breaths growing slower, calmer.
When the bell had rang I'd looked down fully, and seen I'd drawn an eye. One, single eye, filled with fear.
I hadn't known where that image had come to my subconcious mind, not until now.
As soon as I reached my block, I let my gaze lift upward, tearing my sight away from the pebbles benath my feet and instead focusing on the boy in fromt of me. He was walking, two houses away from his own and three away from mine. I slowed down, wide eyes keeping tabs on his figure as his feet padded against the concrete, a hand on his bag and the other messing with his hair.
Three years ago, both of us had been fifteen years old, and I'd been walking on the road behind him, just like each day now. He'd lived in the small house next to mine ever since I was a baby, and never once had I noticed him. He was tall then, but by now we were both over six feet. He had black hair, a fringe hanging down identical to mine, but to his right instead of left. Unlike my attire of black's and white's, he'd been wearing a blue plaid button down.
After I'd glanced at him for a few seconds, my eyes had returned to my shoes, reminding myself it wasn't a good thing, to notice other people. Especially when other people never noticed you.
But I couldn't help it. My gaze had drifted back up to the back of his hair, slowly, like a gust of wind was what had lifted my head.
And that was when it happened.
I'd stopped right where I was standing when I saw him walk up his driveway, my eyes widening when two guys jumped out from behind the car parked there. My mind had raced faster than it had in years.
Why would two guys come after him? Were they bullies? Or was this kid a drug dealer? Were they drug dealers? Should I help him? Could I?
I'd reacted on instinct when one of the guys had punched him in the face, causing him to let out a yell.
My feet were running over before the rest of me had any say about it. And my hands had shoved the guy backwards, my fist raising as I punched him, a crack resonating through his jaw as the sudden rush of adrenaline pumped through my body. The other guy came from behind me, but he was smaller than the last, so all it required was a kick to his stomache before he was dragging his friend down the road.
I remember it clearly, now. The way I'd turned to the boy standing beside me, taking in the bruise on his cheek and the hair hanging down his forehead. And his eyes.
They were blue, a blue so bright I couldn't remember a time when I'd ever painted a color so refreshing, so calming. But they weren't just blue, there were tints of green and the slightest bit of yellow hidden beneath it. It was a combination of colors I'd never seen before, a combination of colors I knew I would remember. His eyes were wide, fearful, the black dots of his pupils small within his iris's and his eyebrows lifted in shock.
And then I'd run home.
The next day, I'd noticed he was in my art class, actually listening to attendance that morning instead of diving right into my work.
His name was Phil. Phil Lester.
After school, I'd waited until he was inside his house, making sure no one was there to attack him this time. And every single day after that one, I would walk behind him, slowly, and always wait until the front door of his house was shut until I continued home.
The guys hadn't showed up in three years; I didn't think they would, ever again, but I felt a protective stance over this boy. He was eighteen now, as was I, and could most likely take care of himself, but I couldn't help but wait, each day, until I knew he was safe.
Today, I realized soon that what I had drawn at school had been his eye. Exactly how it had looked that day three years ago, looking at me with the colors in his gaze, fearful.
As soon as I walked into my own home, I listened. My mother must have been out, but I knew my brother had to be home. He always got home before me, and it was the sounds of him doing things in the house that always assured me he was safe when I arrived through the door.
I kicked off my shoes and padded into the kitchen, gaze sharpening as I took in the empty hallway, before I spotted him sitting at the counter. I let out a breath of relief as I saw him eating some cold pizza, knowing I wouldn't have to cook anything tonight and I could just get to work on my painting. I turned to leave and head upstairs.
"Dan?" Adrian called then, so I returned to the kitchen door, lifting an eyebrow at him. "Are you going to have dinner?"
I shook my head. He knew good and well that I never really ate anything anymore, except a slice of school pizza here and there.
"Please?" He questioned, and I took in the way he was slouched over the countertop. I took in the way the cirlces under his eyes were darker than they had been yesterday. I took in the way his fingernails were bitten down bloody, and I figured if I could do one thing to lift his mood, I should. Hesitantly, I grabbed some leftover noodles from the fridge, giving my brother a quick smile before slowly heading up the stairs.
It felt good to finally be home and have the rest of the night to work on my current painting. It was one of a boy, in a dark gray town, people bustling around him, their faces painted with looks of sadness, anger, fear. You couldn't see his face, as he was turned around, but it was raining, and he was the only one holding an umbrella. The entire painting was gray, except for him, beneath the safety of the umbrella. His skin was alive, tinted pink, and his blue jacket was bright, and his purple shoes were colorful as they splashed against the water in the street.
I hadn't been working on it for long, but that was the essential idea I had for when it was finished. My room was a mess, black clothes scattered on the floor and canvas after canvas leaning on each and every item around me. My computer was off, but I knew it had most likely been open to tumblr or youtube before I'd headed to school. My pile of clear canvas's was on the right side of my desk, awaiting for paint to be brushed onto them, awaiting for the white surface to be covered in colors.
I opened my paints, standing in front of my easel, slightly turned to the right so that I could see outside my window.
I saw Phil, talking on the phone with someone in his room across the way. He looked angry, hands clenched hard enough that his knuckles were white.
I turned away, knowing that it was none of my business, closing my eyes, and sinking into my art.
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HEY GUYS ok so this is my first attempt at a phanfic!!!! I hope y'all enjoy it I'm gonna update quite a lot since this book has shorter chapters than my other books. Thank you <3333333