Just One Night // DNF

42 - Sparked

A/N - 2800+ babes; short chapter before I go MIA for 2 weeks lmao. Get a snack, something to drink (preferable water cuz I know you haven't drank enough today), and a comfy spot to read<3

"Why?"

"I needed to spark more inspiration."

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Sketching and drawing are like riding a bike. Every stroke of the pen on paper is muscle memory from years of training. Years of learning how to fine-tune techniques. How much pressure to apply when drawing someone's eyebrows, the number of lines needed for the little crinkle in the corners of a person's eyes. 

George believed that he would have forgotten how to draw since he hadn't picked up a sketchbook in months. Numerous times had he picked up the spiral notebook that laid dormant in the second drawer of his desk, right next to his erasers and rulers. Numerous times had he stared blankly at the thick, cardstock-like paper that seemed foreign to him.

He was wrong because when he sat down on a bed that was not his and leaned against a wall that did not belong to him, he had been a wick finally set alight. A spark of inspiration had him asking Dream to drive him home, only briefly, so he could grab some of his belongings. A spark of inspiration had his mind in overdrive, burning with a desire to create. Fingers itching to find the ignition of his creative engine.

Only when the sun was barely up, streaks of orange and pink shining through the blinds did George finally let his pencil meet paper. 

He hadn't slept, his mind too awake to rest. His fingers itching to do something, to draw something. Dream had told him he should go to bed, but George's body refused. This need was too strong. It felt like if he didn't seize this moment of inspiration, he might regret it for the rest of his life.

By the time it hit 1 am George had shifted across the room. Pacing, really. That stupid blank sketchbook lay on Dream's desk, folded open with a clutch pencil placed neatly at the top. He stared at it, then stopped and would turn to the large chalkboard wall. It was barely filled. There was a checklist written in Dream's scratchy handwriting on the left side. Menial tasks crossed out, some not; do dishes, clean room, go grocery shopping, visit Val, finish chem hw, English essay due on the 5th, etc etc.

George would read over the board, take note of the little drawing and doodles near the edges. That's when he would grab the chalk Dream kept in a cup on his desk and just stare at the board. It was like a huge canvas, just waiting to be drawn on. 

By the time it hit 2:15 am, George had covered the bottom right half of the board. Little figures that were made purely from his imagination were doodled on the black wall. Little flowers and succulents on a hospital window sill. Tiny yellow fireflies over a dark lake. Constellations traced through a black abyss with white chalk. A tall figure's silhouette, headphones plugged in his ears, the wires twisting down to the pocket of their green hoodie. George spent a little longer on that one. 

By the time it was 4:30 am, George had used up all of Dream's remaining chalk. His fingers stained red and pink and white and blue and orange and yellow, hands powdery against his skin. Half the wall was covered. Two figures walking on a beach. Three figures, two boys and a girl, sitting at the top of a lighthouse watching passing ships. Two hands linked together like missing puzzle pieces, the hand on the bottom larger than the one on top. A boy standing in the middle of a brick road, his hands colored red. George erased that one.

By the time it was 5 am, George was huddled against Dream's wall on his bed. His back pressed against the crease where two walls meet, pillows cushioning the harsh drywall. His sketchpad was placed on his propped-up legs, pencil folded between his fingers. The light of dawn shone through the blinds, the colors casting golden against Dream's muscled back.