Author: Rhine
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It's an idle day; the clouds a swirling grey like a frustrated artist's palette, early morning showers slanting off coloured rooves and dripping into a melodic pitter-patter rhythm onto the cobblestone streets. People are bustling past, careful to avoid the puddles in the cracks and the fall of rainwater from other's umbrellas; a dance of hurried people in sashaying steps and twirling umbrellas.
He watches the swarm of rushing people from the rain-specked windows as he waits in line, the small café full with other escapees from the rain.
He runs long fingers through his damp curls, trying to wipe at his water-smudged glasses with the edges of his soaked sweater, peeking over heads to count how many places are left until it's his turn, reviewing his order over and over again in his head.
The boy sighs but the sound is lost to the soft music of the café and the whirs of grinding coffee machines; distant conversations and the patter of the rain outside.
He just wants a place to sit, some coffee in his hands to warm his rain-soaked skin; a moment of stillness from the rush of swarming people and falling skies outside.
When he finally reaches the front of the line, his order is rehearsed and short, a quick nod of thanks and exact change as he finally holds the tall cup in his hands; hot enough to burn and just enough to thaw his numb hands again.
His hazel eyes are scanning for a spot in the crowded café, pink lips in a small frown as his eyes do a sweep over at all the taken seats; barely enough space to stand as it is, let alone sit.
He doesn't fancy heading back out again; cold rainwater mixing with his hot cup of bliss, searching for a safe haven in the form of a too-small canopy that he has to hunch over to fit without so much as an umbrella against the downpour of rain.
The boy meanders around, determined to stay – when he spots a small round table on the side corner of the shop, squished and hidden by others sitting in the too-close seats.
It'll do – he isn't exactly meant for squeezing into small places with his stocky build and broad shoulders, but if he can find a seat, then he can find a way.
He hurries over, leaving a trail of rainwater footprints, constantly mumbling excuse me as he tries to slip through the crowded shop – rather ungracefully, with his large, blundering steps – finally stopping at the small seat for a two-person table, halting in his tracks.
There's a girl on the opposite seat, earbuds firmly in place and humming a song he doesn't know, eyes trained on the thick sketchbook in front of her, a thin pencil in her hands and swift strokes of black against the paper.
He clears his throat loudly – ahem – and you look up with startled eyes, pulling an earbud out and pencil frozen in place.
"Can I sit with you?" He nods to the too-small seat across from you, a small smile on his lips accented by the drops of rain running from his wet curls. "There's no more seats, you see."
You nod, shifting your sketchbook closer to you, though it makes no difference – even after he's cramped himself onto the opposite seat, his large form is hunched over slightly, elbows propped onto the table, casting a noticeable shadow on your sheet with raindrop puddles beginning to form from his wet figure, a concerning trickle making its path towards you.
He mumbles a sheepish sorry upon noticing the hesitant bite of your lip at his disruption of your tranquility, looking out the window as he sips his coffee in an attempt to dispel your unease at his sudden company.
The rain continues to fall and the boy sighs at the sky outside and the seemingly endless clouds with the never-ending rain.
His eyes slip though, after deducing that the rain wasn't going to stop anytime soon – they wander over to you, back with both earbuds in with the pencil flying across the page in marks of shades and scribbles.
He finds himself watching, watching at the life that blooms to life on the page where nothing had been just moments before; blank before the tip of your pencil met the scratchy page.
Butterflies erupt from the end of the pencil in a soaring motion, cities of water underneath a lightbulb sun; a piercing eye in the softly shaded sky and wind depicted with tendrils of hair, buildings that curled into stems of flowers.
He's enraptured by it; by the ordinary simplicity of the scene and the astounding creativity that morphed it into something new; the magic of your swift strokes and concentrated eyes.
You peer up, startled by his sudden attention, your quick glimpse at him too quick for the boy to try and pretend to look away.
Your cheeks are a flushing red at this stranger watching you – seeing your drawings, seeing these little fairytale doodles of your mind – and you instinctively cover your work with your arms, too stiff and hurried to be casual.
"Your – your drawings... they're nice."
He's mentally berating himself for sounding so lame but he doesn't know what else to say to your shy eyes and red cheeks.
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry if I – I... I couldn't help but to admire your work." He says with a dimpled smile.
"It's nothing, really. Just some – some doodles. It's not much."
"Don't say that – they're beautiful. Can I... can I see?"
He asks bashfully, curious eyes with a glimmer of hope in them.
You bite your lip but hesitantly turn the book over to him, this time watching time while his eyes are the one focused on the page.
He's careful not to drip rainwater onto the thick canvas pages, light fingers just above the paper, tracing the complex lines in the air, grazing over the places where he can see the imprints of your faint fingertips as you smudged the pencil marks, soft echoes of the original lines still on the paper.
He's astonished at the black-and-white that seems to jump to life in front of his eyes; the shades just as lively as the colours of the room around him, a frozen picture that whispers of movement in illusions and haze.
You gauge his reaction carefully – as you always did when showing your work – and his wide eyes finally look up to meet yours with a reverent glimmer reflected in hazel.
"This is... wow." He shakes his head with a small chuckle, still trying to take in all the wonder that's leaping from the page. "How did you come up with this?"
You shrug a little, a small smile blooming from his rainwater curls and sunshine grin, the warm feeling of his appreciation and awe surging through your veins and warming your face.
"I just see it – it comes to me."
You fumble with your words a little, trying to explain the world through your eyes.
"See the rain?" You tap on the glass window next to you lightly, his eyes following you. "It trails – it trails down and it's like an outline – a skyline, almost, if you look at it right."
He peers at your elongated fingers and sees the faint smudges of something that he was looking past the whole entire time, looking through instead of looking straight at it like you did.
You tap at the sketchbook in front of you, and he sees the faint city of water bearing resemblance to the raindrops on the window, the same hazy movements of sliding down the clear pane.
He looks at it – at you – with wonder, deep dimples and flattened hair, a glimpse at what you saw through those thoughtful eyes.
You point out other things – the lipstick stain from a cup of a woman two tables over, the flowers in the pots next to the washrooms, the furled dreadlocks of a young boy just behind him – things he would've missed, things you saw differently than him if he was to even see it in the first place.
Do you see what I see?
He sees just a shadow of what you drew in black and white.
But he's captivated all the same, rapt eyes as he listens to your words, questions on his lips – where did you learn to draw what's your favourite thing to sketch – and you're always a bit hesitant, a bit shy when it comes to answering questions about your art – you're never quite satisfied with your work, but this boy with the attentive eyes makes you feel as if it's perfect.
He doesn't realize it, but he's been talking to you and flipping through your sketchbook and listening to your soft explanations and the rain's stopped and the people have left – but he's still just as hunched over to be closer to you and your words and his knees are touching yours underneath the rounded table, wet curls beginning to dry.
The coffee is cold next to his propped elbow but all he can think about is the yearning desire to be in the world you so vividly outlined in your pencil drawings, to live in your world.
But despite the timeless paradise in the shades of black and white on the page, the sun still sets from the window and you're reminded that your sketchbook has to be closed, that you have to go.
He doesn't remember what plans he had anymore, doesn't remember what he was supposed to do before he met you.
He doesn't quite know how to say goodbye when he never really meant to say hello in the first place.
You're past introductions but he wishes you weren't at a conclusion.
It doesn't have to be though, you say, shyly reaching for the worn sketchbook and flipping to a back page.
And he does live in the place you draw in between the pages, a sketch of a boy with a lion's head with a dripping wet sweater that trickles into a pool of paint at his feet, suns for eyes and coffee-stained skin.
And he does live in your world in the end, with messy digits among your sure strokes, just below the name you caught as he was about to leave – you've always been a forgetter of the basics, names and birthdays, numbers and formulas – you only saw in complex swirls that weren't really there, but this one – this name, this number – you think you'll remember as you trace the pencil marks, careful not to smudge the squared words.
With love, Ashton.
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