Those Beautiful Things (JeanMarco)

Chapter 3: Strange Things

It is rare for Armin to be gone so long. He is about the only person I know that cares about school; but here I am, alone in the parking lot with Connie for the third time. Maybe he got the flu?

The flu is common for college students, and Armin has never had a strong imune system. But flu so late in the season sounds outrageous. It's very late spring, how could he be sick?

Connie and I wait for a while longer before deciding to go to class. We always wait for a bit, but we don't want to be late.

Class is boring. Don't get me wrong, class is always boring, but today was strange. Yeah, professor Ackerman droaned out about the same boring business tactics and marketing goals, but something was very strange.

I shove my textbook into my backpack and walk out of the Scott building. Connie joins me as we walk back to the parking lot.

"Have you seen Armin, I havn't. He's never missed a day of class. Why isn't he here?" Connie pelts question after question to me. I don't have an answer. I just shrug; I really have no clue.

We talk for a short while before I drive home. I park my car and turn it off, but I don't get out. I stay in it and just rest my forehead on the wheel for a short moment.

I hate doing things such as these: calling family members, texting people I hate, and family holidays. I'm about to do one of those things.

I grab my phone from my pocket and turn it on. I scroll through my contacts for a while, and find the name I need, then I send a message.

3:10 P. M. Jeanbo: Yo, Jäger, where the hell is Armin?

I wait in my car with nothing better to do until my phone buzzes, indicating a text.

3:15 P. M. Fuckface: He's in the hospital asshole.

What? Since when?

3:16 P. M. Jeanbo: Why???

3:20 P. M. Fuckface: His grandpa is dying. Armin needed to be with him.

3:22 P. M. Jeanbo: Jesus man, I'm sorry. Tell Armin that I have his notes. I'm sorry to hear about that.

3:25 P. M. Fuckface: Yeah, he only has his grandpa.

I feel so bad for Armin. His parents are gone, and his grandfather is about to die from old age and blood cancer. It's not fair. Nothing is fair.

* * *

"Hey, Marco, I was wondering if we could go get coffee or something." I suggest into my phone.

"That sounds fine, is Saturday good?" Marco asks me. I nod before realizing that he can't see me.

"Yeah, that works." I reply. After a few brief seconds of talking, Marco hangs up the phone.

It's easy to become bored, so I decide to draw. I make a rough sketch, and it surprises me; it's better than I thought it'd be.

I purse my lips and grab one of my ink pens and begin to lightly ink the drawing. Faster and faster I go. My hand speeds across the paper in swift motion.

I continue to the point of no return. It's fully inked, but it's still not right. It's missing its color. I grab a case of water color paints from my desk drawer.

I can't stop myself, and before I realize it, my brush lands on the paper with the first stroke. Then another, and another.

I look at it, eyes wide. My finished art piece looks so familiar, but I can't pinpoint when I saw it last. I swear I've seen it before, but I don't know.