let them boys be

(splashes of watercolour)

Summary: The first time I saw RJ, he looked like he wanted to kill me.
Tags/Themes: paint?? blood mention, bruises, violence mention. 
Author's Notes: despite the fact that the only thing i can paint is the colour wheel, i like to write about people that paint. i can't title, apparently. oh, and beware those run-on sentences.

(splashes of watercolour) -       

The first time I saw RJ, he was covered in blood and had ugly bruises on his knuckles. He was leaning against the wall, a fierce scowl on his face that made everyone passing by give him a wide berth, and was quietly nursing his left cheek, which was beginning to bloom a dark, painful purple.

I didn't know what I was thinking, probably something too abstract and confusing as my mind tended to wander when I was alone, which was most of the time----anyway, I was carrying my newly bought fresh sketchbooks and paints and generally minding my own business but my eyes caught sight of him standing off to the side there, and my feet slowed.

I hadn't even made a sound or even stopped completely, yet his defiant gaze locked onto me, and he gave me the harshest glare before snapping, "What the hell are you looking at?" and telling me to fuck off. 

And while, admittedly, my head was too often lost in the clouds, I was smart enough to avert my gaze and hope he wouldn't decide to annihilate me right then and there. However, after about three steps, my curiosity got the better of me, and I turned back.

He'd lost interest in me, looking off into the distance with an impatient look on his face. He had managed to wipe off some of the blood on his face, though he looked no less frightening. But it wasn't the rough appearance of his that caught my attention.

When I reached home, I went straight to the little room in the basement I'd converted into my studio. I got out my paints and my best brushes and got to work, mixing and throwing colours together, but no matter how many times or how many combinations I tried, I could never manage to capture that startling, piercing dark of his eyes. 

I still can't.

| = |

I didn't expect to see the guy ever again, in real life I mean, my imagination was another matter entirely, since when my hands couldn't seem to paint the image I had in my head my mind would keep returning to it and I'd lost my point somewhere.

Class was cancelled because the professor had a conflicting schedule, though everyone knew it was because the professor had a nasty hangover. I was sitting alone in my favourite painting studio in the east art wing, happily painting away with the stereo on full volume. The professor loved me because I showed up every class and actually entered the contests posted outside the advisor's office. This meant I was trusted with the keys and could pretty much come and go in this private studio as I pleased, which I used to my advantage generously. 

In the middle of dabbing on some experimental gray, there came a crash from behind me, where the open window was, and I jumped about a foot in the air.

"Ow, fuck, that wasn't as easy as they make it look in the movies," a deep, rough voice said. 

I spun around, paintbrush still in hand, my mouth agape. I left the windows open to let in some fresh air, also to ensure that I didn't die from the paint fumes, but I didn't expect someone to actually climb the window and----

"Oh my god, you're bleeding, are you okay?" I threw my brush down, shock and caution forgotten, rushing towards the guy. It wasn't until his head snapped up at the sound of my voice and my eyes hit his that I realized it was the same dangerous-looking man I saw downtown last time.