Glancing at the man when he stood up, reflexes kicking in, the artist recoiled and flinched with the sudden movement, jaded gaze round with surprise. Relief flooded his system to realize he’d merely been considering helping him, although Orion steadfastly clung to his independence as he collected his belongings and placed them beside him, diligent but disorganized. His confidence had been building lately, yet he still had his moments, and he was certain that sudden movements would always startle him into a panic, afraid he needed to roll himself into a tight ball and hide himself away. The stranger clearly respected privacy, at least, for he backed off and allowed him the space to finish gathering what had tumbled from his bag. A few crumpled papers at the bottom, none of them important anymore, were stuffed into the trashcan beside the bench, reading the flavor on the lollipop and decidedly slipping it into the pocket of his jeans, figuring his wife might want it. Plucking a few pencils that had fallen into the bag, likely due to his carelessness when he was struggling internally with the nagging in his head, he set them on top of the sketchbooks, puffing out his cheeks and turning the bag upside down to shake out while the man spoke. “Art is… art, regardless of whether your audience gets off to it, it is not my place to judge what you do for a living,” Orion replied thoughtfully, glancing at him, “Everything has the less glamorous sides, oui?” Collecting the freed objects, he decided most of it was able to be tossed, focusing on the older male when he handed the bag to him. After a moment, he looked down at it, biting his lip, drifting his thumb over the scar below his lower lip, hidden by the patch of facial hair. He’d slowly been easing out of his habit of covering his scar with the goatee covering the worst of it. “Um… Do I– What do I owe you? For borrowing it?” he asked then, brow furrowing, assuming that would be the case. Better to know now than find out about it later, he thought, a spark of paranoia jolting through him. Unzipping the pocket of his own bag, he produced a business card for the tattoo shop, holding it out to him, saying softly, “You can pick it up in the afternoon tomorrow, I go in around eleven. The doors may not be open yet, but you can knock.” Clearing his throat to adjust his volume, Orion glanced at the bag again before starting to pack it with his art books and craft supplies. “Orion. Lovely to meet you, Thomas,” he said, enunciating his words through his French accent, pushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear and gesturing toward himself as he spoke his name.
germansingergirl
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
prguitarman
2087
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
