Phan One Shots - jilliancares

An Artist's Muse

Phil was an idiot, that much was obvious from the decisions he'd made so far that day. He had a test the next day, and being someone who made horrible decisions, he'd left studying for it until the night before. The library was empty and silent (thanks to it being one in the morning) and he was beginning to wonder if the fact that the door had been unlocked was a fluke. He could feel bruises forming under his eyes from exhaustion, and his glasses were beginning to refuse to stay pressed against the bridge of his nose, instead sliding down it over and over again.

Taking this as a sign that he should finally go back to his dorm, Phil gathered his supplies and shoved them into his bag. His legs protested as he stood, stretching and yawning widely.

He slumped out of the library, feet dragging against the carpeted floor. His limbs protested against moving, and he knew that it'd been a stupid idea to stay up this late anyway. Besides, the only reason he hadn't been studying for his test earlier was because he'd gotten distracted. It'd started off a doodle and escalated into so much more, as his art usually did.

Phil descended down the steps of the library, his feet scuffing quietly against the concrete. He still had to take a shower tonight too, he honestly didn't have any extra time to do anything.

Turning a corner, Phil stopped abruptly. Across the street was a boy, one who looked approximately Phil's age. He'd never seen him on campus before, but then the campus was quite large, there was no way he'd be able to recognize everyone.

The boy was seated on a bench beneath a lamppost, his legs drawn up and crossed underneath him, a book perched on his knee. Phil watched as the boy turned a page, before tucking his long fringe behind his ear. The hair escaped immediately, falling right back in front of his eyes, though the boy did nothing to fix it this time, perhaps not noticing.

An overwhelming urge took over Phil, and despite knowing that he was bone-dead exhausted, that he had no time to waste and had to get to sleep as soon as possible in order to actually function the next day, he pulled out his sketchbook and sat back against a large tree, hidden from view in the shadows. His pencil was moving before he had a chance to comprehend it, sketching the basic shape of the boy across the street. There was just something about his stubborn determination, about the fact that it was the middle of the night and he was sitting beneath a lamppost to read, that drew Phil in. And so he drew the boy.

The drawing came quickly, thanks to Phil's flying fingers. His pencil was likely to be worked down to a stub with how quickly and viciously he was drawing. The worst thing about drawing people without them knowing was that they had no qualms about moving, and if this boy changed his position or decided to leave before Phil was done with his sketch, he'd be endlessly annoyed.

Thankfully, the boy seemed content enough to remain in one position, his book distracting him from his surroundings. It was maybe ten minutes later when a shrill ringing escaped into the air, making the boy jump in surprise. He accidentally knocked his book off his knee as he patted his pockets frantically for his phone.

"Hello?" the boy said finally, once he'd found the loud device. His voice was croaky with disuse, and he cleared his throat immediately after speaking.

A few seconds passed, until the boy exclaimed, "what?" Phil continued to watch, seeing the boy's mouth drop open. "Two a.m.?" he questioned disbelievingly, before pulling his phone away from his ear to look at it, supposedly at the time.

He put the phone back up to his ear. "Shit," he muttered, and then, "okay! I'm coming, Jesus. Calm down."

Phil watched as the boy bent down to grab his book before he clambered off the bench, shaking out his stiff limbs. He yawned then, the late hour likely catching up with him, and turned and walked away. Phil glanced down at his drawing, mostly finished, and sighed. He didn't know what it was about that boy, but something about him had made Phil desperate to draw in a way that came rarely, usually with a huge stroke of inspiration at an inconvenient time.