9:30 just hit and I hear grunts and moans coming from the room upstairs. Nash has been at whatever he's busy doing for about an hour. Getting back to sleep is not an option now that I'm already up. He told me not to check on him nor to peek at what he's doing.
I respect it. Artist and their ways, you know? what could you do? So I've just listened to him grunt for the pass hour. I decide to play music and 2k16. Turns out Nash packed more than just clothes in that overnight bag.
My phone rings and I see it's my mom. I've spoken to her not too long ago. Kept her up to date with everything. She reacted well to the news that the house is mine.
She was pleased to hear that out of all my grandmothers children she got the most inheritance. Sounds selfish but who doesn't like money.
"Are you guys eating well?" She says after five minutes on the phone like a worried mother would. Rolling my eyes I scoff.
"No, mom, we're eating garbage." What else would we eat? We have a half hour conversation and kind of start to miss home. Just a little.
Listening to my mom talk and my father speak merely in the background makes me crave the feel of my household. I just needed time away to do what I wanted and focus on me.
For that I needed people with me that weren't going to hold me back. People that weren't going to tell me no and be on me all the time. Nash turned out to be that person. I laugh at something my father says but it's cut short when I hear something hit the floor and Nash grunt loudly.
"oh, God. What the hell was that?" My mother exclaims. I'm a tad bit appalled that she could even hear it. I dismiss myself, telling them both bye and blowing a kiss into the phone.
Walking up stairs I notice that the door is still closed but I know it's not locked. Nash isn't that crazy. There's light music playing; super rich kids by frank ocean.
I open the door and I see Nash on the floor with his face in his shirt. The room looks a mess. Newspaper covering every inch of the room, tape on the borders of the wall, and paint every where.
"I told you not to come up here." He groans, voice a little stressed. I think he has paint in his eye. I walk over to him and try to catch a glimpse of the issue but he moves away.
"eye drops." He says. "I need eye drops.... I knew this shit would happen."
Thinking about the way this could've happened makes me giggle a little bit as I walk into the hallway to the nearest bathroom. Coming back with the drops and a cold washcloth I find Nash in the same position, blinking vigorously.
"Here," I hand him the eye drops with a ghost of a smile on my lips. He rolls his eyes at me.
"Laugh all you want. When I go blind we'll see whats so funny." This makes me laugh harder but I get down on my knees and decide to help him. He flinches when I get near his eye. It's completely irritated. I notice the paint is black and it ,in fact, did go into his eye. But not so much for it to be dangerous.
He hisses under his breath when he blinks so I hurry to clean around it and put the drops in. Hopefully it'll flush it all out and he doesn't go blind.
When I'm done he just sits there, looking at what he did manage to get done. But I don't. The contrast of the redness of the irritated whites of his right eye and the electrifying blue of his iris captivates me, leaving me stuck in front of him.
He notices and shifts his focus on me. Blue meeting brown is enough for me to notice that I'm staring too long. Do I care? Usually, no I wouldn't. But the events of last night was an absolute game changer. So it matters now.
I grab the washcloth and take the eye drops away. I feel flustered and red. Like some type of girl who has a crush.
the feeling of his eyes watching my movements make me feel the need to fake that I'm cool. Pretend to be unbothered by him and maybe, just maybe he'll pretend it never happened. Pretend that the tension isn't real. That it doesn't reside in this room with us.
"Let's put the paint brushes down for now." I tell him surely. But he doesn't say a word just holds my gaze. It makes me uncomfortable and I feel insecure and unsure so I look anywhere but him. "you can get to it another time, maybe."
still he remains silent. I take it as my queue to leave. He grabs my arm as I try to get up. It surprises me but I don't say a word.
"sit with me." Nash says simply. His voice is slightly gruff. The light from the window shines directly on the two of us. The paint splatters on his shirt and pants, along with the paint in his hair, fingers and arms are apparent.
it's an irresistible sight and I almost wish I could draw as he could because he, at this very moment, is a beautiful work of art.
I sit beside him, putting the washcloth and the eye drops down beside me. Nash contemplates for a moment before turning around and grabbing a small canvas.
"grab that brush." He tells me. "I want to show you something."
whenever he gets in a mood like this I make sure to seize the moment. It's not everyday he wants to be bothered with my presence when he draws. So when he decides that he doesn't want to be alone I let him do what he wants.
Before he can put the brush on the canvas he stops midair. Then he turns to me abruptly.
"Do you think you're beautiful?" He asks suddenly. My brows knit together and my palms almost start to sweat. Such a blatant thing has never come out of his mouth. That's a lie, but nothing like this.
"no." I answer simply. I consider myself handsome, good looking and those kinds of things but I don't consider myself beautiful. It takes a lot to be labeled as that. Goodness inside and out. I don't know if that's me.
"Can I call you beautiful?" He asks, never breaking his stare which is fixated on me. I chuckle a little but nervously, I bite my lip.
"if you'd like to." He takes the opportunity to smile smugly at me. I'm confused yet he does nothing but turn away and draw. Soft strokes and steady motions. In the end he shows me a silhouette of person.
Etched into their features like the crease of the eyelids, the crinkle of their smile, the color of their eyes, is the word beautiful. I look at him then back at the painting. In just a half hour he made something so outstanding. He leans closer to me and grabs the sharpie pen he also used from his back pocket, and begins to write in the corner of the book.
"I call this one..." He whisper is loud in my ear. "Cameron."
