Finding Luna

canvas

noun ~ a blank piece of cloth used to make items, or for creating artwork

I was back in Phoenix's suite, sat on the floor as I used the coffee table as my art space. His suite consisted of his bedroom, en-suite bathroom and living area with huge cinematic television. It was basic, all a bachelor really needed considering he spent most of his time in his office.

My muddled mind began to dissipate as my hand flowed through the mess. My eyes were unfocused, my body completely unrelaxing as I allowed my creativity to flow. My mind fell blank, an unemotional haze coming over me. I don't know how long I painted for, but I became aware of Phoenix pressing into my mind every so often before dipping out when he found me still the same. Other than that, I merely got lost in the art.

The sudden click of light had me blinking back into my surroundings. Looking around I saw Phoenix stood at the front door, his hand still on the light switch. I frowned, glancing out the huge window to see the sun had started to go down, a grey shadow casting over the room.

"What time is it?" I wondered, clearing my throat.

He chuckled and kicked off his shoes. His hair was dishevelled, his shirt untucked and unbuttoned. He looked delectable, even though his eyes were foggy and tired.

"It's about seven o'clock." He murmured, coming to fall into the sofa beside me.

His head falls onto the back of the sofa, his eyes closing for a moment. His right arm stayed on the arm of the sofa, his left along the back of it. His knees were bent and parallel to the sofa. I was still sat cross-legged on the floor, paintbrush in hand, but looking at him, hand me picking up my paper folder and a pencil.

With his eyes still closed, I began to draw. His whole body had sagged into the sofa, moulding to its contours. My pencils ran across the page, shading and curving to his sculpture. His breathing had evened out not long ago as he fell asleep. I hummed to myself as I drew, finding pleasure in capturing his essence as he was right now. Peaceful yet exhausted, the jagged lines of his jaw to the softness of his silken shirt.

By the time I had finished, it was nearing eight-thirty and I set down my pencils to look at what I had created. This drawing was different from the paintings I had spent all afternoon on. I remembered and calculated every stroke as I observed Phoenix. It had come out perfectly, the dark contrasts of his shadows against the peacefulness of his form on the sofa. Dark and light, soft and sharp met each other in perfect harmony; much like Phoenix himself.

I smiled and set it aside before grabbing the first canvas I had painted. My breath hitched in my throat as I studied it, feeling so familiar for a moment, and then it clicked. The trees were cast in moonlight, the sky clear and bright against the full moon. There were shadows of wolves, lurking beyond the treeline once again, angered instead of feared. Wolves stood in a circle, as a shadowy figure stood proud and tall in the middle.

It was the night we overtook the enemy, the shadow in the middle was the leader, so I assumed Phoenix. Wolves have crowded around, some crouched in attack, others raised on their back legs, mouths curved in a snarl. I shivered, setting it aside. I had no idea why my subconscious had drawn that; it isn't something I wanted to remember.

I grabbed the next canvas, my hands shake as I caught sight of its darkness. A girl sat hunched against a wall, her knees to her chest, her head in her hands. Her hair was long, cascading down to her elbows and covering her face. I didn't know who it was, she was painting in a blend of red and black. It made me feel...sad. Weeping lines, jagged paint with texture... She was so sad, so in pain as she leaned against that floor with all she had. The room was small and white, only two walls come to view and they were completely bare.