In need of inspiration once again. Nothing works with his art anymore and all his brush is doing is leaving stains on canvass after canvass. Going to traditional art galleries or some pretty garden just doesn't cut it anymore. He's exhausted, he's fed up, and really, all he wants to do is complete that masterpiece that's been pending for six years. He wants to create something; something worthwhile; something that would mean the world to him; something that would have put his heart and soul into. He just wants to finish this one god damned work of art in his whole lifetime.

He hits his head repeatedly, drops of blue paint dripping down onto his brown hair.

"Why is it so hard?"

He lies on his bed and the monsters of his imagination don't come out. Not even the little grey one that he hated so much. Great. So his sense of humour is nonexistent, now his imagination is, too?

He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. 

He feels long fingers wrap around his neck and his air supply is cut off. His hearing is cleared out all all there is to hear is screaming from all directions; "How did it come to this?" and "How could you do this to me?"s  and "I thought you loved me?"s lost in a blanket of a thousand other screams; inaudible. Everything fades into the background; white noise. Every word from every invisible mouth stitched with anger, and the emotion flows right through him.

He hears everything but he hears nothing.

The hands tighten around his neck and it takes himself a split second to blink. Back in his room, sweating; panting. He tugs at the paint stained jacket that has been hanging on the bed's headboard for well over a week. I need to go for a walk. He manages to convince himself. 

10 minutes into it and he's tired of walking. Everything he sees is the same and nothing contributes to his lack of inspiration A coffee shop dimly lights up the street up in the distance; he's tired and it's the only place left to go to. 

It's okay. He doesn't really plan to sleep tonight anyway.

He steps into the coffee shop and takes a seat in a corner despite the fact that the shop is practically empty, save himself and one staff member.

The boy behind the counter is younger than him, but he's a tad bit taller. Blond-- a color that pretty much blends in with the rest of him and his pale skin.

"Double espresso." He says before the boy even gets to him.

For a coffee shop, the place is too cold. He rubs his hands, sighing with relief once his coffee comes, brought to him clumsily by the blond boy, who casually bows before retreating back to his spot behind the counter.

He takes a sip, his imagination literally buzzing back to life, the shadows start to speak to him again, cracks in the wall telling stories that no one knew, a scratch on the table tells and especially interesting one about a married couple and he hears all the noises from his dream all over again. It feels crazy how everything is speaking to him and how he understands nothing because everything fades back into white noise and monochromatic images. His mind comes up with an idea and he almosts hits his head against a shelf when he stands up to ask for a pencil and a paper.

He starts drawing and for for the first time in his life he doesn't have to force his pencil to do anything. His hand is moving on it's own, creating tones of grey and black, none of which coming out dull. He's been pulled into the paper by his own imagination, failing to notice when the boy clumsily inches towards him, eyes curious, mind entranced.

He fails to notice that he's drawn a timeline on the boy's life. Made up stories, and hurt epressions from a face that he's only seen in a curious state. He drew his own story of this boy, how he end up there, why he was all alone, how he looked when he stared into space, waiting for somone to come in, how he got accepted even if they knew how clumsy he was, or how awkward he could be without eve having to speak a single word.

"What's your name?" He asks as he signs his work, causing the boy to flinch, almost falling off his chair behind the counter. He blinks, long bangs falling over to cover his small eyes. He looks around, as if to make sure that it was him that the artist was talking to.
"Kwangyeon." The blond says cautiously.
"Alright." He replies as the stands up and hands the boy the drawing. "Keep it for a bit, I'll be back sometime."

He's halfway to his house when he realizes that he forgot to pay for his coffee. For five whole minutes, he sits along the sidewalk, contemplating over whether or not he should go back. It's late and there was a Twelve to Three curfew on the area. He didn't really have the money to pay for the fine, but he didn't want to get that boy into trouble either. 

Click.

He decides to go back; not sure why exactly he cared about what happened to that boy-- Kwangyeon-- he mentally corrected himself. He isn't sure why his hands drew what they did earlier, or why he said that he'd come back, or why his hands shook as he swings the glass door open to find Kwangyeon cleaning up.

Awkward silence fills the store as they both freeze and stare at each other. The both snap out of it when the open door brings in a gust of cold air. 

"I forgot to pay" He says.
"My treat, thanks for the drawing." Kwangyeon says, smiling. 

He sits down, tapping the pencil that he also forgot to return. 

"What time do you get off?" He asks. Kwangyeon searches his arm for a nonexistent watch, swearing uner his breath when he's sure it isn't there 
"Eleven fifteen." The older boy says, checking his phone.
"Fifteen minutes." Kwangyeon replies.
"I'll wait." The artist says, trying to act indifferent.

His heart is racing when they walk out of the cafe and the boy locks up, a backpack and something that seemed like an oversized guitar slung across his shoulder.

"So, where do you live?" His string of questions didn't seem like they'd run out anytime soon.
"What did you draw?" Kwangyeon replies, a smirk tugging at his lips as he ran his hand down the strap of his backpack. He looks up at the sky.
"I never knew realism was my specialty" Youngjun replies, kicking a stone that seemed lonely in the middle of the street. "Wanna stay over at my place tonight?"
"Sure, Youngjun." Kwangyeon replies.
Youngjun stares at him; tall, lean, fragile. He never mentioned his name to the boy.
"By the way, I like your hair color" Kwangyeon says, chuckling as he pointed at the drops of paint in Youngjun's hair, almost tripping when they come across a lump in the road.
"Well, an artist has to be good with colors." Youngjun says as he opens the door to his house. Maybe a smile even appeared on his face.