Where {his} heart lies [Lancelot]

[Tom]

Writing Thinking Hearing Saying

They never listen to him. His words ripple upon a pond of their ignorance as his words are never heard. "Dear. He doesn't leave that awful paint filled room. He needs to go outside and meet someone. Even if he's a shitty son, he should still learn why he has it good in this home and he should learn to behave and how act like a normal person." Enough was enough for Muse. Their words hit him with every piece of glass that they had shattered within his chest. The aching pain that never disappears pulls at his organs. Exposing his sorrows to the world that outshines him with it's disease of happiness.

The sun gleams down upon his skin, exposing the tan skin to the world. Exposed to the common people who he hid from for no reason at all. The pond that had been ignorance forms onto himself, an example of the beauty that he ignores from inside the mansion of a home that his grandfather had given his parents. The clouds, a fluffy white that reminds him if the cotton pillows that he would be resting upon if he had gotten his way. The notebook, filled with sketches of the scenes he could find, the only belonging that he had escaped with. A writing utensil within his jean pocket, resting calmly against his thigh.

The cool breeze tickles his skin softly, a gentle caress of the weather that cools him calmly. The jacket around his form, warm and protecting him like a shield from the breeze. As his feet move within beat of his own small hum, his hands fumble with the sketchbook within his hands. A calming habit of his own making, thumb rubbing against the binding to soothe his tired soul. As he walks, faces of the unknown and lost pass by him, their emotions fake and the smiles ever so haunting to him. If only Muse Stratos could find his own joy, his own happy end. There wasn't anything left for him, only a broken family and art that hangs from the walls. His heart shown to the entire home. Emotions painted upon canvas hung up to be shown to his parents, a clue to Muse's insides.

His spot. A cement bench, nowhere near the giant populated district square where he can watch the sun continue glowing down upon the earth. Winds blowing across the district knocking up leaves with a gentle push. The spot was relaxing and quiet compared to the noise of the residents who can't shut up for five seconds, just like his parents. The noise was both beautiful and ugly, a sound that drowns out the world that sits around them. They all couldn't see the beauty of silence like he could, but he can see the beauty of the noise. At first, he didn't notice the attractive male down the road. The fates of the world scream for him to look, but he can't, not when he's absorbed in the noise of the district.

He didn't notice him, not until the wind hit his cheek, shielding his eyes from the original direction he was looking. As he turns his head, all he can see is the man. Brown hair slightly blowing within the wind. His striking features burn Muse's cheeks pink for only a second. The body on the man makes him want to see every piece he can of it, but his lips stay shut. Muse Stratos wasn't the guy to go up to someone and speak. The striking eyes stare, not at Muse, but at something else that Muse can't figure out. Everything about the man struck him as beautiful. A well deserved piece of art, carved from the marble by a god that once lived in their world.

All he could do was pull out the sketchbook, his hand slowly pulling out the utensil in his pocket. His hand moves slowly as his eyes take in the beauty of a man down the road. The wind caressing Muse's cheek, teasing him. Beauty fills the page slowly and the form of a man appear upon the white paper. Muse's soul pushes the pen and his eyes absorbs the sight of the gorgeous boy across from him. Beauty was everywhere, but in that moment, the only beauty he could see was the man who blinded him from the rest of the world. His heart urns to know him, but his mind tells him not to. The world was a cruel place, Muse knew this. His mother and father were examples of the cruelty that poisons the world, but this man. This man was a gift by the gods who once lived there. As his hand draws the man, his eyes explores him. Nervousness in his veins, but his heart pulls as the image becomes clearer on his sketchbook. This was beauty. A man made from the word attractive. An artist with a broken soul. A world that is learning of what beauty is. This was where his heart wants to be, but can't. As it lays with his art in the book and on the walls.

[lance]

L u c a s   O ' H a r a

Few things are more relaxing than watching the dying embers of a setting sun.

It was a decision made long ago, made atop a slanted rooftop over the course of many days and many nights, a decision reinforced with the burning of pinks and oranges and reds into a steel trap of a memory, a decision set into stone in the form of paper, etched out with carving tools in the shape of pencils to forever be imprinted on matter more solid than the mind of a teenage boy.

A cool breeze ruffles through his hair, yet he is unperturbed. His focus is, for the moment, single-minded as he takes in the site before him.

Even the pollution of the factories of his home district did little to mar the extravagant display of colors that nature has set as her evening show.

Minutes pass. Then hours. And still, he does not move.

It was only after the sun begun its final descent into the horizon that the familiar scritch, scritch, scritch of a pencil dragging along paper reached his ears.

For a moment, confusion runs rampant in his mind. He'd neglected to bring his sketchbook along with him on this particular outing, so, theoretically, the sound should be nowhere near him at the moment.

But it does not take long for two and two to click together, and with an almost lazy turn of his head, he identifies the source of the sound.

A boy, tanned and smooth-faced, is hard at work. A pencil is dragged across a sketchbook not unlike his own, drawing something that he is unable to discern from his current vantage point.

The boy looks up from his project, brown eyes matching his own with a look that quickly clouds with surprise.

He raises an eyebrow in amusement as one, two, three, four heartbeats pound away inside his chest, yet it isn't until the fifth that his curiosity is piqued and words spill from his lips.

"What're you drawing, if I may be so bold?" he speaks, a light smile on his lips.

The question is almost rhetorical in nature, for despite his lack of knowledge as to what the drawing consists of, a theory has already begun forming in his mind.

[Tom]

Writing Thinking Hearing Saying

The man that his hand was currently sketching with a mind of it's own doesn't notice him right away. The man was carved from stone, born an adonis for the world to see. Features that make Muse's heart pound a little faster than normal. Attractive labeled across the man's body, like a second layer of skin, but it was only what he was. A chest that seemed both muscular and relaxed is being sketched out upon the blank white paper. The hair that shines gently in the sunset, makes his heart pound softly against his chest. It takes only a second for him to focus on the paper and look up to see he's been caught. Caught in such a joyous moment for Muse.

A raised eyebrow at Muse makes him shiver quietly. It wasn't even that cold out, but yet a glance from the attractive stranger can make him both cold and warm at the same time. It only took a second for Muse's breath to vanish from his body. His heart taking over so quickly that he doesn't know what to do. All he can do is continue to sketch to his heart's content. The small smile that appears upon his face sets something in his chest ablaze. The thoughts of his family lost with the adonis of a man who was now speaking to him.

"What're you drawing, if I may be so bold?"

His voice sets something in Muse on fire, like the dreams of the pit of flames as monsters made of bones creak. He's ablaze on the inside, but only a light blush pulls at his cheeks. Never once had he blushed in front of someone, though it could be the fact that he never leaves his artistic room that he paints the dreams and images that form in his head. Storms, hellfires, boned beasts, and so much more. As he looks up to the guy, he can feel his heartbeat quicken just a bit, in fear of someone finding out about his secrets. The secrets that he can create with his pencil in motions so familiar to Muse, but so unfamiliar to so many others.

District Nine was full of gang wars and misunderstood individuals who didn't know where their heart lies. Muse had figured where his heart lies within the first sketchbook that his mother had bought him as a child. Never once did he let go since that day. A book that he kept his gorgeous sketches and paintings, soon enough canvas came next and the life Muse had created still stayed the same. Instead of school and manners, Muse snuck off to paint to his heart's beating wish. And then his heart led him to the guy that he was sketching, never once would he have expected the fates' wish for him. A man whose attractive looks could silence his lips in a moment. His lips have a mind of their own as he speaks, some new found confidence within his chest escapes. Speaking was something he didn't like to do if it wasn't needed, but the attractive man brought forth a confidence in Muse that he can't describe with words.

"Sketching. I'm sketching you. Hope you don't mind?"

A small smile pulls at his lips as he watches the guy who he was sketching. The curvature of the arms were becoming a difficulty, but nothing that Muse couldn't figure out. The pencil scritches against the papers lightly and Muse continues to work. Eyes stare for seconds, until he looks back to the page. The sketch was coming out well, like it always did when he lets his heart draw for him. The pencil was an attachment to his heart, the communication through blood cells and the skin upon his hand. The voice that escapes his lung surprises him a little bit, but he keeps the confidence that he has. If he was gonna go out swinging, might as well swing as hard as you can. A smile pulls at his lips as his confidence rises.

"You're attractive. I'm always a sucker for sketching attractive guys."

[lance]

L u c a s   O ' H a r a

"Sketching." The boy corrects, not unkindly. "I'm sketching you. Hope you don't mind?"

His grin grows wider upon hearing confirmation that his theory was indeed correct. And yet he does not speak, not yet, for the boy has already returned to his work, pencil scratching furiously on paper.

His mind flashes to his own sketchbook, currently sitting on his bed on the other side of town, and for a moment he internally curses himself for not having thought to bring it along with him on this expedition.

But the feeling soon passes as he gazes at the boy sketching away, eyes flitting from the raven hair to the smooth, precise movement of his drawing hand to the determined, focused expression on his tanned face. A mental image of the boy flashes through his mind like a photo caught in the camera of his mind, and he wonders how well he'd be able to draw it out from memory.

Before long, the boy lifts his head again, and when the two lock gazes, the surprise in the other's has been replaced by a sort of reckless confidence.

"You're attractive. I'm always a sucker for sketching attractive guys."

He blinks, for it is not every day that he finds someone so direct, so to the point as this boy. But he regains his composure quickly, and lets out a light chuckle in response.

"Something you and I have in common." he stated, tone as light as his laugh.

Bold. He adds silently. I like it.

He turned his head back towards the sun, which by this point had dipped more than halfway beyond the horizon, before he spoke again.

"By all means, feel free to continue." he teased, knowing full well that the boy had likely done just that. "Don't let me stop you."

[Tom]

Writing Thinking Hearing Saying

In all of his eighteen years alive, never would he have expected to meet someone that he was sketching and have the confidence to be able to flirt directly to the guy. The gentle breeze reminds him of a brush's stroke as it paints a picture of the scene they were in. Muse's hand holding the pencil that scratches against the paper beats like his heart with every movement. The feeling of floating sends his body into a blissful smile. He stares at the guy as he hears him speak words that allows a light pink to tint his cheeks and nose. "Something you and I have in common."

It wasn't every day that an attractive male, who Muse would fall hard for given the chance, complimented himself to the point of his heart beating faster in his chest. Sketching wasn't his favorite thing to do. He'd rather be at home painting some sort of landscape, but that was before Muse struck gold. He found himself stuck between a gentle breeze and an attractive guy who seemed to be flirting with him just as much as Muse had flirted with him. The sun dips upon the horizon as he looks up softly, the gentle orange that kisses the landscape is gorgeous. Muse would remember it until they got home, just like he would remember the guy who was there, in all of his attractive glory, watching Muse as he sketched him. The pencil catching all of the features of the adonis, who was built like a god.

His mind moves back to the sketching, but his mind is stuck upon the male who he was sketching. A name to the male would make things for Muse so much better. He's struck gold with the adonis. Silence was comforting, even in situations where Muse's heart beat strangles the words that typically fill up his head. Confidence oozes off of his skin that typically had none. His parents wanted him to go outside and do something more than art, but in the end, he found the art of a man. A creation forged from beauty itself. The voice that the male had was a gentle comforting sound. Muse lets out a light laugh fall from his lips again, the words of the adonis just smoothing over his skin. Pink disappears as he hears the male reply again. "By all means, feel free to continue. Don't let me stop you."

The light laugh escapes his lips again. Eyes stare up for a second as he takes in the adonis' facial features. A little more closer and able to see the things that make up the male who made his heart beat. The calming air adds to the shivers along his back as he catches his stare again. Confidence oozes from Muse's pores as he speaks silently. A playful tone upon his words as he imagines the ways that the godly man could make him stop him from sketching. His smirk forms again as the sketching stops for a moment. His voice rings in the air. Her heart beats within his chest. This was a miracle and Muse was going to take all of it that he could.

"You wouldn't be able to stop me. Even if you tried to."

The wink falls from his face softly as he returns to sketching the body of the man who was there. The sun's rays gleam upon them, caressing his skin with a glow that makes Muse want to see what it feels like underneath his hands, fingers, or lips. Muse wanted to see every piece of the man who was easily a great muse for his drawing skills. As he stares into the irises of the adonis, he feels his throat go dry and his heart beat faster. This was a meeting that was created by fate and fate alone. It was Muse's fate to gain the confidence to be able to speak to the attractive male. It was fate that he even got to sketch him, let alone feel like his cheeks were burning. It was fate that Muse would give his name before he would learn of the other male's name. His voice is quiet and yet strong with a confidence that the other male had created within Muse's mind.

"I'm Muse by the way. What's an attractive guy like you have for a name? Hopefully nothing too strange like my own name."

A laugh falls from his lips as he looks back to the adonis. A smile pulls at his cheeks, something that hasn't happened in years. Never once did he feel the slight pull at his lips when it came to staying home. All of them were fake, unlike the one upon his face now. It wasn't every day when Muse was happy, but when he finds something to smile about, it was precious, something he would remember for days, sharing secret smiles in his room. This was an event created by fate to keep him full of hope in a hopeless world. As his pencil continues upon the paper, his ears are listening. The adonis was a miracle to his sorrow filled eyes and heart. The only question inside his body was if the adonis would fix him or break him. Muse ignored his conscious and just smiled for once like the world wasn't burning around him.