All Things Considered [🗸]

23. make me feel

BEING IN PAXTON'S ROOM is a lot.

There are blue LED lights, a pale cream color to the walls, and a bed that stretches out in the center, draped in gray-blues. Of course, there's also art. Paxton has charcoal paintings, the canvases leaning haphazardly against different parts of the wall.

Three months ago, I never would've expected myself being here. I wade into the room, eyes flicking about the space. Apparently, Paxton wanted help on an art project, and for some reason, he decided to ask me to come over and give artistic advice despite the fact that I barely know shit myself.

The art piece he wants help with is the art portrait assignment Ms. Lee assigned earlier this week. That being said, given the art portraits elegantly strewn around his room, I don't know why he would need my help. He seems to have it covered.

I fidget in spot, fingers drumming over my leg as Paxton makes his way toward the side of his bed. His eyes meet mine, amusement flying across them as he pulls his hair back. He nods  toward where I'm standing all too awkwardly. "You could just sit there or wherever."

Blinking, I finally settle down onto a gray beanbag, tugging at one of my curls. "Yeah, yeah." A pause. "Okay." As if any more confirmation was needed.

A laugh escapes Paxton's lips and he settles down against the side of his bed, back pressed against the edge of his mattress. His paint supplies are spread across his room. Jars of paint, clean brushes, containers filled with water.

"So," I drag on, watching as Paxton's eyes flick up to mine. He has several strands of hair that spill out of the elastic. They frame his face like a portrait. Clearing my throat, I push that thought deep down into the underworld and plow on. "How do I help?"

Paxton grabs a canvas, allowing it to rest on his legs. He takes hold of some more supplies: three paintbrushes, four jars of paint. He purses his lips as he briefly glances up at me. "Tell me about your music."

My eyebrows knit together. "How does that help you with your portrait?"

Paxton rubs his temples before sending me the faintest smile. "Just talk, dumbass."

"Damn," I say, adjusting my cream-colored sweater vest. "Fine," I trill my lips afterwards, my mind pouring over all the songs I've ever written. "What should I say about them?"

Paxton exhales a groan. "For fuck's sake, Dion. Say anything. Their names and what they're about. Christ."

My hand rise up in defense, my fingers drumming over my lap. "Okay. Well, I wrote this song called 'Deities'." It was at the end of eleventh grade. I'd been visiting my grandparents down south and had been right outside their house, on this old swing. There was this big, gaping, rural sky over my head. And the idea had come to me.

"What's it about?" Paxton asks. His paintbrush is already moving across the canvas, but I can't see what he's drawing.

"It's about the universe, I think," I say, my lips pursing in thought. "It's about how we as people connect to it. It's about that feeling of serenity of being in the natural world, I guess. I don't know, I felt really at peace out there. You know?"