(A/N: Just so you know, in this fic, Y/N has hazel eyes and glasses - for the effect and storyline; I'm not being discriminatory or anything, if you don't like it, please don't hate! Btw love you all, please interact more! [i need them *cue single tear*])
✨ Imagine Rafayel as an Art Student...
Both of you are art students. Studying in the same class, with only seven other studying art with you. Recently, you've started noticing him a lot.
However, he's been noticing you since the beginning of the year.
Little do you know, every time you walk by him, discuss a project with him, smear paint on your nose, drop some water on your canvas or even smile at your best friend - he's keeping the memory safe in his mind. To draw it out on his canvas at home.
At this point, he's memorized each and every little detail about your face. He's never drawn your body; never needed to, really. What was the point in trying to recreate you when he knew he could never replicate you in all your glory?
So this went on, until his room was brimming with canvasses of all size, all displaying the same face with varying expressions, every minute detail to the point.
Until one day, you two were paired again for an interschool contest. Three of your rival academies were up against you, and you knew two of your opponents - drawing like fucking Michelangelo possessed their asses for a while.
You were in a particularly lethargic mood today, and Rafayel was doing all the work for you - his brows bunched, purple hair falling into his eyes which he threw back dramatically. You were ranting on about how education systems are unfair, and then to inflation, then onto the topic of tourism, then a full-on argument about chicken burgers being better than beef.
And then finally, when he'd completed the rough sketch and you'd run out of valid points to make, you'd started yapping about how another boy in the Art Class had called your eyes pretty.
"And he said my hazel eyes look prettier in the light-" you'd dreamily grinned, and Rafayel had never felt a feeling more sour than jealousy (and the intent to brutally murder someone).
He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Bullshit. Your eyes aren't even hazel; they're amber." He sounded unimpressed, as if misinterpreting your eye color was a heinous crime and getting it right was the equivalent of saying 1+1=2.
"..."
"Did you ... did you notice my eye color?" You inquire, eyes darting up to his. You straighten in your seat, fascinated by the way his lips pull into a pout, eyes averting frantically.
"Hmph. It's not difficult to miss." He murmured.
"But I wear glasses," you tilt your head, and his heart does a little somersault at the way you look at him. He feels exposed, naked, under scrutiny - and he suppressed the urge to whine for you to just touch him.
Platonically, of course.
"It's not that I don't look at you every so often," he reasoned, glaring at the smudge of apricot peach on the pallet.
"How do you know the difference when amber and hazel are so similar?" You prompt, and you almost see his eyebrows disappear. You might've as well asked him to prove his parents are his parents of if the sky is blue.
"They are not- For the love of fuck, amber is darker. Hazel is lighter, and your eyes are dark amber with streaks of gold and a bit of green rings around the borders, and there's a bit of dark brown shadings in your iris."
You're left speechless for a second. "... I ... don't know if I should be concerned that you know this much about my eyes."
"I ... I just know," he stutters. And you see his ears turn red. "Um, because of art, you know. Yeah."
"Art? So you mean - you drew me?"
"What - no! I mean, who said that? Who'd draw you? Not in a bad way, of course, but uhh..."
"You know you babble when you're lying?"
"Am not. And I didn't know you paid so much attention."
"Says the guy who gave me a lecture about hazel and amber while my eyes are hazel."
"Oh my god, how do I have a crush on such a stupid girl?"
You both froze, staring at each other over the distance of a table. His eyes met yours warily, and yours met his as if searching for the answer.
"You ... you have a crush on me?"
"Wasn't it obvious?" He scowls.
"No, I - wait, what? That was obvious? Whenever I looked at you, you were busy talking to other people!"
"That's impossible. I spend all my time looking at you. Of course, unless you think I'm a liar," he frowns, sniffling.
You pinch his cheek - and it goes dark red under your touch. To conceal your influence on him, he suddenly clutched his face. "Ow! Ow, that hurt! You could've made me bleed!"
"Did you?"
"My perfect skin would have been marred!"
"Drama queen," you sigh, earning a glare.
"You know what? I'm doing my artwork solo." He announced, stalking out of the class with his paints and stuff.
You look down to see he left the entire canvas prepped and sketch outlined for you.
A week later, the results are announced - Rafayel won first place.
With a portrait of you, surrounded by jasmines and roses and sunlight filtering through some net onto your face.
When he approached you, a sheepish grin on his face - you're so happy for him. That he won. For the first time. That he won, and he made you, every little feature the exact same.
He steps toward you, mouth open in an explanation - which you swallow with a press of your lips to his.
That not only shuts him up, but has him dropping his bags, his canvas, his prize cash and certificate, just so his hands can finally, finally map your face instead of his eyes, so they could finally tangle in your hair which he'd been fantasizing for so long.
He could've never imagined you to feel this good, to taste this good. He'd tried not to think too much about your lips when he was drawing them for the winning piece.