he's a portrait {frerard}

Art, 3

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

We were sat in a half empty cafe and I was trying to draw, Arthur insisting on wanted to see my creative sense -if you could even call it that. He was more eager once I had said I was the Anthony Thomas, even though I'm not at all special, he makes it seem like I'm a rare treasure. He didn't ask many questions, in concern of overwhelming me. Not only did I freely invite him to meet me at the cafe because he wanted to talk, it was his gorgeous face that I wanted to see again. You can't call me selfish or rude, because anyone who ever got the chance to look at Arthur and keep him there -would definitely take the chance. To seal in his beauty and stare at him forever.

"What do you mean?" I asked, running lines over an empty paper, restraining myself from watching his hazel orbs glance around in the shallow light that was coming in from the window. I had to pay attention to my paper.

My dad had said that an empty canvas was like a whole new world you could do anything with. Like you had the world in your hands and were able to make things however you wanted them. To your own desire, your own liking.

"I mean," he started, running a hand through his hair, my eyes coming up to meet his. "Like you could have first mentioned you were the Anthony Thomas, but you talked bad about yourself instead." I stared at him, his eyes scanning my features as my pencil froze. It wouldn't have been worth it anyway, there was no point in anyone knowing me. I was slightly taken aback by how straightforward he was. And yes, I had a million reasons placed on the edge of my tongue and implanted in my brain -forever. Since I realised what I've been doing and taking everything as I do, I've made a million reasons that could go on and on for everything. "Why?"

"Because I loathe myself. My life is meaningless and there's nothing for me here. All I did was draw lines on a piece of paper and people take it as a pot of gold. Why are you so enthralled with me?" I had to ask, I always had to. It was everyone, why does everyone take interest in me? How do they get to notice me in the first place? If I could ask everyone who evens knows of my name, my mom, my dad, my semi-friends that aren't here anymore.

He bit his pink bottom lip and rested his head in his hand, elbow propped up on the table. I stared at him patiently, noticing him looking over the paper infront of me, contemplating on what to say.

"Because I think you're a genius."

I chuckled; actually chuckled. I didn't laugh, and I've never giggled. But this was close to a chuckle, a strangled one that erupted through my throat in a cruel way.

"I am nothing close of the sort, Arthur."

The first time I had said his name out loud and it felt smooth and right on my tongue. It rolled off with ease and a simplicity that was satisfying to say the least.

Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

I love his name, whether I'm saying to in my head to myself or out loud for everyone to know.

I continued tracing my pencil around randomly.

"I admire you, too. You think it's not good for me to, but I do." I looked up to glare at him, his eyes having a sad look and a frown pierced on his lips. I'm not sure if I caused that, or if it was his own frustration. "In all honesty." And it's not good for him to admire me because I'm someone who looks forward to dying and wouldn't waste a minute not thinking about how terrible my life is. No one wants that. No one needs to idolize that, I was smart enough to know that, but I was also smart enough to know that he would pay attention and wouldn't listen to what I had to say. He would ignore my persistent need for him to simply ignore me.

"In all honesty, you might be just as lost as me," I replied, signing my name off on the paper that was filled with scribbles.

I turned it to face Arthur, for once being curious about someone's opinion and what they had to say.

"What do you see in that?"

He looked at me quizzically, before drawing his attention to the sketch pad and letting his eyes take in every detail.

"A bird," he simply responded.

"That's how I feel."

"Like you're free?" He questioned, looking at me, his eyebrows drawn together in slight confusion, which just made him look even cuter.

"No," I gently denied, shaking my head. "I feel like I can go anywhere, but I choose not to. And I really could, I could go to Paris, I could leave this crappy town. But I don't. And I don't understand what draws me down to stay here. Like a bird. They can go anywhere, and most of them stay in that one place. Why? What force pulls them to stay there? Living a dull life, just wandering around and hoping to find something most interesting; when in reality, you could go anywhere, many places, to get something to enthrall yourself. I feel like a bird." I stared at him hopefully, wanting his youthful mind to comprehend the meaning behind something I did.

"Is that why you draw?" He asked softly, his voice a little unsure and definitely nervous. As if he was afraid to say the wrong thing. "To release that energy?"

"Yes," I concluded. "Thank you, Arthur."

He smiled at me, his cheeks becoming a soft pink, and oh, how pretty he was, yet so unaware. How everyone was unaware. How could people be so blind of something so perfect that was right infront of them? I was so glad to have this beauty for myself.