he's a portrait {frerard}

Art, 2

I walked over, a slow pace and I stayed behind him, not wanting to disturb his peacefulness. He didn't seem to notice me, his eyes gazing over the simple lines. That simple art. How could someone like him, from what I see, be so captured by something so hideous?

"What do you see in that?" I asked, making him suddenly turn to me. His hazel eyes glowed softly and perfectly in the dimly hued lighting. His features were strong and prominent, his nose standing out the most of all. It was long, yet an elegant style and seemingly a wise, smart look to him. His brilliant orbs must have been crafted at the very hands of the best god. They were a light brown, the same color of the fall leaves falling outside the windows. There were specks of beautifully mixed green perfectly blended in. His eyes were warm, welcoming and the most capturing thing I've ever seen. His raven hair captured his jarring features amazingly and it stuck out in odd angles. He still looked slightly rushed and his cheeks have off a slight red from it being so cold outside.

Never have I seen such beautiful colors and got the most inspiration from, simply, a human being. Humans are terrible selfish people, I can understand that from a personal view. But how could this boy capture so much beauty? Him simply having his gorgeous face in this ugly world is a blessing.

"Hm?" I hummed out, making him aware I had asked him a question, even while he seemed slightly shaken up.

"I see a girl," he answered simply, looking back at the drawing. "Can't you see her eyes and her hair?" He traced out the lines with his finger, showing me directly where he could tell. And yes, he wasn't wrong, I did see a girl even though that's not the only thing intent thing there. But that wasn't the point. In the first place -how could he see something? Random lines, random lines and stupid ambitious people I repeated to myself. Nothing's good, this picture itself could show this. But this boy -he is good. But how could he? How could he see a figure out of this mess. I stared harder at the work, my brain fumbling to trace back to the lines.

"No," I replied, although he seemed to ignore me, once again becoming enhanced in something so ugly that didn't make any sense.

"Anthony Thomas must be the most talented person..." He trailed off, tracing the scribbled messy signature at the bottom.

I made a small snort; oh how he was wrong.

He glared at me.

"Anthony Thomas?" I snickered, "Never trust a man -an 'artist'- with such a simple name. How nonsensical this doodling is makes me sick. He's a narcissistic being whose only true seen talent is self-loathing." He stared at me, a broken look in his eyes, and his gaze cast down. "He's rude, and disrespectful. How can someone be so terrible and still think they're good at this? At this. This is simply the worst, a child could do a better job of making lines than his lazy self ever will. Trust me."

He turned quiet, but it was obvious in the look on his face that he was thinking and had already stirred up an answer.

"Then why is it in a gallery?" The boy asked, her eager eyes peering up at me. He could only be a teen, not much older than myself. But he was... he seemed different. He wasnt running on the streets, wasn't begging for food or money. And for that, I respected him for living such a smart lifestyle.

"Because people think it deserves to be here; they pity him, trying to make him feel better," I quickly replied, knowing that I would be getting my point across. Because I was right.

"But it must mean something. It has to, or he wouldn't have made it. It's important to people and some of them see things out of this; they get inspiration and feel amazed. If it didn't make people feel that way, it wouldn't be in here. If it didn't have a meaning, it wouldn't be in here."

After his claim, he watched me for a response. And damn, maybe he was right. Maybe he was. No, he just was. I could feel it. His words were the only thing that made sense in this stupid world and this teenager deserved to be heard- hell, he deserved to be in this gallery himself. How can someone so gorgeous be so aspiring? His words are inspiring and seen to easily push mine off a cliff with just a small push.

"I guess you're right," I said, scanning over the scribbles that I now saw as a girl. Now I could. I could see it differently and more clearly. At first it was fuzzy, but he has a point. He does, and I'm stupid to not consider and appreciate someone like him.

"What's your name?" He asked.

I smiled to myself, catching a curious glint in his eyes. The joke was up. Now it's my turn to reveal myself. But only if he does first.

"What's yours?" I replied.

"Arthur," he answered, looking at me patiently. 

Arthur.

Arthur, oh lovely Arthur.

Such an elegant name to match a beautiful face. How perfect it fits with him, and how I scowled at why the name wasn't used more often.

If every Arthur could be like this kid, then there should a thousand Arthurs. There should be a million teens, especially in Jersey, just like this very special one.

The name never wears out either, saying it on my tongue just felt purely right and comfortable.

His name was nice and gave me a good feeling all over. One day, this kid will make history. His smarts will get him somewhere. I don't know where, but I know it'll be fascinating.

"What's your name?" He repeated curiously, quickly pulling me out of my thoughts.

"Anthony Thomas."