Warning -- M&M SLASH!


He leans back and lazes in the sunlight, his eyes closed. A breeze stirs his hair, and he seems to nuzzle his face into the wind's caress. I want to join him, but as I hold a sketchbook, I stay where I am.

It's beautiful outside. From a summer of sticky humid days that makes all miserable, we've come to the fall. Today feels like the last true day of summer. I sigh and sketch some quick lines, drawing in his general shape. The breeze is persistent, and every time I glance at him, his hair has been blown to a new position. I groan loudly and erase the hair of the sketch, yet again, only to reposition it. He opens his eyes lazily, silently asking for an explanation of the plaintive noise.

I smile shyly, and continue. After a moment of contemplation, I decide to draw his hair being blown by the breeze. I stop. I stare.

His eyes are closed again. The sun beats down on us, but it isn't hot, not like the summer sun. If we would, by chance, get hot, the comfortable breeze would cool us off. It is a perfect day. The longer I stare, the more my urge to join him grows. The sun illuminates his pale skin. I can see the veins of his closed eye-lids, and I wished I had brought my camera. I want to kiss his eye-lids…

Slowly, I close my own eyes. For less than a second, all I see is black. Then things lighten. The red burns itself into my retinas, the most vibrant red I'd ever see in my life. I wondered if he could see this. I wondered if he could see the veins burning through my eyelids.

My eyes fly open. He is leaning forward, staring at me. I blush, realizing how long I must have sat with my eyes closed, pencil posed over the page of my open sketchbook. He leans back, closing eyes once more. I take in his appearance once more, and look to my sketch. In it, he looks asleep, maybe dead. Or maybe if I were continue, he'd look as if he had his eyes closed, wind blowing his hair, getting ready to spread his wings and fly away. I set my pencil back to the page to continue. When the bell rings, I jump, not realizing the entire period had passed.

We pick ourselves up off the grass, and trek back to the art room. Tomorrow, if it's as nice out, we'll continue. The teacher looks at the sketch, and writes us passes. Leaving the small, colorful at room, I stand and stare at him walking away from me.

I really wish that quiet moment outside had lasted forever. That slight reprieve from school had healed and broken me all at once.

The form of him walking away from me broke my heart. It felt like he was leaving me.

But how could he leave if we were never together?

Was that our destiny if we ever were?

I couldn't seem to uproot myself from the spot, watching his leave of our sanctuary of beautiful silence in the sunlight.


I'm walking down the hall. I don't want to go to my next class, but I must.

Turning the corner, I come to my math class. The teacher seems to glare at me as I arrive late, and set the note on her desk. I cower beneath her glowering stare and slink to my desk. Once there, I try my hardest to look small and insignificant. I know why the teacher hates me... I'm her worst student.

I try, I really do. It just doesn't seem to matter. My mind just does not think in numbers, and I can't seem to grasp the concept of x squared plus y squared equals a circle. It doesn't make sense, no matter how many times it's explained. All my life, I've barely scrapped by in math. All my other classes, I have no problem. Usually I find a way to apply my creativity...

I expel my pent up breath and ready myself for a day filled with imaginary numbers, linear slope equations, and quadratic formulas. Sometimes it makes me want to cry.


Once more, I sigh. My days lately seemed to be filled with these expels of breath. Someone walks up behind me, and jolts their hands against my back, in an attempt to frighten me. My head jerks a little, but that is the extant of my response. The person walks slightly faster to be by my side. I smile, and continue walking. With a friend by your side, the day always seems a little bit brighter. But not as bright if you had the one you love.

I sigh.

My friend frowns. She knows how I am. She also knows everything about me, and I everything of her. Whenever I had heard the saying "opposites attract", I always felt it was a very large cliché, but realized my friend and I were very different, yet very close. Our taste in movies differed exponentially, but our taste in music was nearly the same. We never argued because of our differences, instead my introverted nature and her eccentric allowed us to simply move to something new. We never fought, but politely disagreed, lost interest, and moved on.

The torture that was my day at school was at an end. I just adored my senior schedule. My wonderful friend and I were soon finished, and had early release. A wonderful thing it is to have no classes to fill the last periods of the day. It made me want to draw hearts all over my schedule... Oh, I had already done that.

I giggled at my absent mindedness, and my friend smiled. She seemed to always know what I was thinking. We knew each other too well. I smiled at her, and skipped ahead, my bag thumping against my back with each skipping step. I held out my hand and spoke for the first time since before art.

"Come, Delilah! Let us away this place!" My introverted nature chided me for the immature action pared with Shakespearean language. Delilah answered me by entwining her hand with mine. As we skipped to her rusty brown car, giggles bubbled from our lips and seemed to float away from our mouths as soon as they were uttered.


Delilah's car smells like rust, mold, and paint. I shudder remembering last summer, when Delilah was obsessed with painting, and left the tubes of it in her death trap of a car. The heat mixed with the incubation of the metal car has caused many of them to explode. My pants had been ruined when I sat down in her car.

Silently looking to the sky, I hoped for the sunny weather to persist. The sealant between the doors and the body of the car had long since passed. When it rained, it poured into the car. Delilah's father had drilled holes into the bottoms of the doors, to stench the flow of water, and direct it out of the car, but it did not stop the mold from growing.

Delilah notices my wrinkled nose as I duck to sit in her car. She smirks a bit. "I know, Brier, dear. It reeks, and is bad for our health. I'm getting a new car. Hold on a little while longer?"

I sniff a bit, and regret it immediately. The stench made me dizzy.

"You better let me be the first to drive it," I say, whining.


Delilah's bedroom,on the other hand, smells like my friend. No rust, or mold. The light smell of ink mixed with paint, and a flowery perfume. I drop my bag onto the floor by the door before throwing myself into her bed. She hates when I do it, but I can't help it. The mattress is hard, but the feather bed on top was just so soft. I wish I could sink into it, and never wake from an eternal sleep induced from the softness.

When I had pounced onto the bed, it creaked mightily. A cat had shot out from beneath. I wonder briefly if one of these days, my weight bounding onto it would break the bed. Just make it collapse into a mass off nearly twenty-year-old wood, mattresses, and blankets.

Delilah watches me as if she has something to say, but seeing me floating in my own mental world, she smiles a bit, turns up her stereo and goes to her desk wedged between the end of her bed and wall.

I sigh, and roll over. Laying on my stomach, I feel myself drifting perilously towards sleep. Taking desperate measures, I slither off the bed, and sit on the hard floor. The last time I feel asleep on Delilah's bed after school, I woke to find my face painted like a clown's with acrylic paint, my hair caked in clay, and my clothes torn open, and the rips sewed shut. I learned my lesson, and my skin had been dry and flaky for weeks after. I did, however, love the artistic look to the clothes, and still wore them.

I roll, and find myself next to my bag. Wondering if a day of not looking at the sketch had changed my perception of him, I unzip and pull the sketchbook out of my bag. Delilah looks at me questioning. I smile a bit, and hand the book to her. It's her turn to sigh.

"You know, you're amazing at still life. Too bad you can't get out of that mind set and try caricatures," she mutters, commenting on the numerous pictures in the book that I had drawn. Most were of him, candid drawings he didn't know I was doing, drawings where he was willingly my model. I sigh at her, and demand my book back with an out stretched hand.

"I have tried, and failed miserably," I whine once more. Delilah raises her eyebrows.

"You sigh too much," she picks on me. I pout, protruding my bottom lip to ridiculous proportions. "You know, the Japanese have a belief that every time you sigh, you sigh a bit of your happiness away." That was Delilah, mistress of random and useless beliefs of cultures unlike our own. I sucked my bottom lip back in and smiled a bit.

With my sketchbook back in my hands, I open it to flip through the pages. I see few month old pictures, to sketches drawn just earlier today. Though some may be touchy subjects, or show something deeper than the lines, it makes me happy to see my drawings. I stare once more. A picture I drew of a girl at lunch weeks ago. I remember now. She had been telling Delilah and me of her accident, how terrified she was to think about it, and the court case coming up. As she had told the tale, I drew absent-mindedly, not aware of my actions or the image I had drawn until later; a girl looking away, fear written on her, sadness in her eyes, but a grim determination of survival set in her mouth. I could see my suffering friends in the picture. If only I could draw something to touch people, to affect them as profoundly as the words she spoke.

I was opening my mouth to comment on my thoughts to Delilah, when the bedroom door opened, nearly hitting me.

"Oof!" Delilah's little sister exclaims as she forces the door open by slamming her body into it. She always did this. It seems too odd to me, opening a door with a hip or a shoulder rather than a hand.

"Ouch, my foot…," I whine, the door clipping my toes as it swung to be fully open. Whimpering a little, I pull my feet in and glare at the twit of a little sister. She always did this, barging into Delilah's room to demand an audience for her stream of babble.

"Oh, my Gawd, Brier! I didn't, like see you there at all!" She twitters, not offering an apology; she continues. "My day at school was crazy! Delilah, you know my braces got tightened the other day? I was eating lunch, at school, and my expander just totally fell out! The orthodontist told me it should just pop out any day now, but I didn't think it would happen while I was eating! And then Bobby kept making dirty jokes about my expander, and Allen thought it was just so funny. And Anna wouldn't help me shut them up…" she blathers on. I pass the place of boredom and not caring, I flip to a new page and sketched quickly. Soon, I had caught Alice into the pages of my book.

"Oh, I forgot!" she squeals, "Look, it's my expander!" She holds out a piece of shaped metal in her open palm that she had dug out of her pocket. I grimace, and tried to back away from the hardware that had been in her mouth for months. Finally, Delilah speaks.

"That's gross, Alice. Get out of my room," Alice opens her mouth to protest when the door swings open once more, hitting not me, but the chatter-box.

"Waaah!" she screeched, clutching her head.

"Oh, whoops," smiles Delilah's mother, as she backs into the room. She's an old fashioned lady, always bringing her children and their friends treats. "Brier, sweetie, want something to eat or drink?" I shake my head, trying not to laugh as her youngest daughter fumed. Mount Alice was about to explode. "Alice, are you bothering your sister again? Come on, your tutor should be here soon," I started giggling hysterically as Alice turned red at the mention of her tutor, here to fix her sub par grades.

Just as she opened her mouth to shriek at her mother, and Delilah for their insolence in her eyes, the tray of food is sat down, and a father joins the room. Ignoring the insanity, I pick up the tray and sit on the bed with it. Sighing, I pop a cookie into my mouth.

"What are you three doing, and why is Brier here?" he asks, as if I shouldn't be here. Ever since that happened at my home, I spent a majority of my time in this house. Her father began again, talking over the noise in the room of Alice and her mother fighting, and the stereo. "Your brother and his wife are coming. We're going to have a family night. Brier needs to go home." Delilah responded by being outraged.

"Dad! Brier is family! You said he'd be welcome here anytime, and now you're throwing him out because we're supposed to have a family night?" her points were valid, he had said I could come any time, even when my own father wouldn't look at me. I sigh once more. Delilah glares at me, forfeiting the argument. "I'll take him home," she mutters angrily, beneath her breath.

Delilah stomps from the small and noisy room. She grabs her keys in a clash as I grab my bag, shoving my sketchbook into it. I smile at her arguing family and wave a goodbye. I love them, but sometimes I wondered if they understood why.


AN -- I think I might actually continue with this... Thanks to all my friends for reading this before I typed and submitted this! That includes Shannon, Kandi, and Nyssa!

Thanks for R&Ring (because now that I've said thanks for it, you will review, right? Riiight?)

Its people who review that make my suicide by pencil all worth it :heart heart: