he's a portrait {frerard}

Art; 6

That night, Arthur had decided to go home and I bid him bye, knowing I would want to see him in the morning. I could barely sleep last night with all these thoughts barreling, whether they were about Arthur, art or even life itself. But most important -what was wrong with Arthur? And in all honesty, I couldn't wrack my brain enough for am answer as to why this perfect boy could be so upset.

And in the morning, I called him telling him to meet me at the coffee shop like yesterday. I knew it was none of my business to get into this boy's life, but I wanted to help him. It wasn't to figure out his weaknesses and poke fun at him for my own humor. It wasn't for my own selfish needs, for once, it was partly for someone else.

So when he walked in while I had my coffee warm in my hands, distracting me from the slight snow fall outside, he looked excited yet confused.

He sat across from me, glancing to my side and on the table. He had small snowflakes in his dark hair, and his face a soft pink. His breathing was calming down and I thought about how saddening it was that the colors outside didn't  match his eyes anymore. But none the less, did it even matter, because you could see the universe in his eyes. Everything, there for me to gaze at forever.

"You didn't bring your sketchbook," he trailed off, slipping off his coat and revealing a gray sweater.

"I don't feel like being an artist today," I answered, taking a sip from my black coffee and letting it burn on my tongue and all through my throat as I heavily swallowed the liquid I so desperately craved. Maybe not as much as Arthur. Maybe. "I just wanted to talk."

He looked shocked, taken aback, and he tugged around the neck of his sweater. He seemed caught of guard but nodded slowly and let him coffee warm up his hands.

"Uhm... well, I'm seventeen; I dropped out of high school quite some time ago, my first year... and tried to become a uh..." He lifted his hand up, moving it around, as if he were trying to analyze everything and make sure he could find a fitting enough word. "Become a artist. Not that I exactly tried too hard to achieve, so, I live by myself and get paid some what enough to keep my apartment going and good enough art so."

"You don't have to be famous to be a artist. Simply creating art, is enough to be an artist."

I was still slightly confused by why he decided to live by himself at this age and drop out. Had his parents let him do that? I couldn't see someone this intelligent not finishing high school, or even going to college. But I guess you wouldn't need that to become an artist in the first place.

"And I've learned that," he said quietly. He looked at me innocently, his eyes trained on my lips. "I've never noticed your piercings."

I curled my lips a little at his curiosity and twirling them with my fingers.

"I've had them since high school," I mumbled. "I've have a few tattooes as well. You're just never able to see them."

His eyes perked up at the mention of tattoos, like a child usually would at the mention of candy.

"Can I see?" He asked.

I thought about it. About my tattooes littering my arms and the obstructive marks that littered over them.

I rolled up the sleeves of my jacket, letting him clearly see my hands for the first time. My hands were covered with tattoos and I regretted none of them. Not the mention the ones covering my legs, back, chest and arms. I'm so hopelessly in love with sticking needles to my skin -which is needless to say- not very healthy.

His eyes widened and he grabbed my hands with his smaller ones, the soft pads of his fingers trailing the lines of my tattoos and the faded marks of them. His hands were warm and soft, and just maybe it would be nice to hold them.

"I would get tattoos, but I hate needles," he said, letting go of my hands, leaving them cold once more. "But I like yours." I smiled little, what I hoped looked like a smile at least.

And that day I got to know more about Arthur and even see the few things he drew. There were napkins in his pocket covered with small vampire doodles and coffee mugs sketched on the edges.

He talked about art like it was something that did truly keep him alive. He talked about having other art works that he never gave out because they held too much meaning to him. He explained how people shouldn't be critics of art, when in reality nothing is perfect and nothing is terrible.

And maybe a part of me believed him when he said that.

He never once mentioned anything about his own living style or how he got there, which left me slightly concerned and I bit back the urge to get too curious and ask, because God knows that would lead to yelling and fighting and me being the narcissistic being I am.

Arthur didn't see me as that, though. He told me he thought I had a brighter side and that something simply caused me to be this way. That it could have been me, or not. It could have been depression or some upsetting family problem. He understood I saw the awful side of things too much and thought about death too often for it to be normal.

He even got into depth about why he sees things so positively -it's that he's trying to get over the worst of life. Because one bump doesn't mean that your entire life is ruined, it only explains that things are hard. That the worst is only at the time when you stop breathing, and the only noises you hear include weeping and the bleak sound of heart machines. He refuses to see everything to terribly because he wants to live life to be living. Not just as someone here that paid bills and died. He thought everyone should be living like they were actually alive.

And in a way, I did believe him a little.

And in a way, I did love Arthur. I knew I admired him and liked him quite so, but in a totally different way -I did love Arthur.

I fell in love with his ideas and the way he believes and sees his side of things. It's inspiring. Most people wouldn't bother listening, but with Arthur it was as if I could listen for hours.

And so I did.