Sitting lonely on a bench near the library, Lucas’ fingers plucked out something so soft it sounded shy; his posture was un-self conscious but the melody was something he’d only tinkered with in his room before; his open face was turned taut by a rare public display of concentrated focus. The instrument was a way to avoid studying for a test, but the air hung so serious, so heavy around him that he’d felt the need to crack the air open with something dusty and lilting and sweet ( he ignored the images it conjured of home. images of home held too many conflicting memories. this moment was meant to be made of light, of ease. this planet existed to ignore the plights of home ). Lucas hoped to catch someone smiling, or at least relieved, at the break in the somber air, but his gaze was so focused on the catches of his fingers --- absently, he wasn’t sure how he’d gauge reactions bent over the guitar as he was, books forgotten at his feet.
