Chapter 1: Dawning

The Hyundai Accent pulls up the road with a quiet, vacuum-like buzz, the engine purring through ascend. A small drop of forge-gray against a rainbow palate of others crammed into the parking lots as it slings into one of the only spaces left. Ronan blinks once, lustrous gold eyes flickering. In one move, he clicks off the soft pop hits and sets the vehicle in park. He turns the key completely, holding it in his hand for a moment.

His eyes are closed, breaths counted in his head. In for five through his nose, out for eight past parted lips. His back throbs as the other muscles lose a tiny pull of anxious tension. It makes his features scrunch into a wince.

“Ignore it. Ignore it,” he chants to himself in a low voice, some of the syllables clicking together. Someone beyond on the campus lets out a whoop—probably just for their friends or something unimportant—but Ronan jolts, a chirp escaping. His brows pull together into a frown at himself. “Just suppress it,” he mumbles, half-sighing.

He shifts in his seat at last, his back not touching the cheap—affordable—fabric. Another twinge, and an ache beginning again for the day. The sigh repeats. But he grabs his bag from the passenger seat and tugs it closer, a pleather strap against his too-warm palm.

The car door opens with a click. Then he shuts it with a small thump—never a slam. The bag is settled over his shoulder, firmly seated against his hip. He locks his car with a beep; he doesn’t have to, especially not for such a car as cheap as a Hyundai, but he still does since he cares about the little thing. He hasn’t had it very long, so it almost looks expensive under some lights. Dark lights.

His sneakers tap against the concrete a little too loudly. His heartbeat seems to pulse in his own ears. The map of classes he’s going to need—as well as their strict schedules—is laid out in a confusing knot in his head. One hand grips the bag a little tighter, the other dominant one digs itself into his shirt’s hem, wrinkling the dark blue fabric.

The first class doesn’t turn out to be super hard to find. Ronan stands there for a moment, intricately calculating seats—both available and not—before he moves forward, ignoring the odd look from the professor. He seats in the fourth row, right beside the wall. His bag slips down to rest against his sage Converse.

And he waits like this, silent amidst a group of chatty young adults/teenagers. He barely twitches—not even when the urge arises, and it surely does repeatedly, especially as his back hurts a little more. His body tenses when someone almost takes the single seat behind him, then relaxes meagerly when they don’t. Quietly, he yawns, gaze drawn to the window beside his desk. It’s small and dirty—too high up to be regularly cleaned, he surmises—but it’s a view and he instantly appreciates it.

The professor soon closes the door—which Ronan stiffens again—and calls the whole class to a quiet. Two fingers press to the bridge of his nose, straightening his glasses. “I’m Dr. Leming, and if you are in the right class—which I hope you are—you are in room, 203, Botany 1001. Let’s begin with the syllabus.”

Ronan exhales, relief washing his face.

Ronan sighs heavily as he moves through hall after hall. His next class is just… missing. Or something. His gait picks up, time shouting into his head that he’s going to be late if he doesn’t find it or else—

“Hey dude!” A loud voice calls, echoing across the expanse. Ronan almost jumps out of his skin, but the boy just laughs merrily. “You lost?”

He glances away, down at the other doors he’s already checked. Then he looks back at this student, at the dark brown eyes and friendly smile.

“Drawing class..?” he murmurs, slightly angling himself back.

“Haha, yes!” The student throws up a fist, animated enough that Ronan’s lips twitch with mirth. “I’m in drawing class too,” he shrugs. “I think it’ll be pretty easy.” Without a shred of ceremony, he throws an arm around Ronan’s shoulders and nearly tugs him off his feet entirely. “Woah, bro! You’re so lightweight. Can I pick you up?”

“No!” Ronan almost shouts, eyes wide.

The student chuckles, hands raised in surrender. “Okay, okay. Class is starting in a min, let’s head. I’m Arthur by the way. You?”

“Uhm.. Ronan Elms,” the boy answers a little hesitantly.

“Cool! Yes, I got a bud already,” the guy snickers, striking a confident pose—so ridiculous it almost sparks a bark of laughter out of Ronan.

It turns out, he’d been very close to finding it. Just another hall past the ones he’d checked—farther through the strangely dim area. This class is very quiet when they arrive, except Arthur’s boisterous voice brightens it by at least a hundred percent.

“Ma’am, may I compliment your blouse,” Arthur smoothly lays out, striking yet another ‘suave’ pose. “What a fine rip in your seam!”

The woman plants a hand on her hip and rolls her eyes. Though she’s smiling. “Enough, Arthur. This class is not for games—as the others aren’t either. Please take a seat.”

Ronan happens to have been stepping forward through the rows already, just setting his bag down when someone’s hand touches his shoulder. He grabs the hand in the blink of an eye and twists the wrist hard. Arthur lets out a quiet, surprised yelp, staring at the culprit like it doesn’t even belong to his own arm.

“Boys! We are running a bit late already!” The teacher chastises a little sharply for the first day, painted lips pursing. “Keep the roughhousing out of the building!”

Ronan drops into his seat, letting go of the hand immediately.
Arthur follows suit right besides him but with less grace, glancing at his hand with subtle puzzlement.

“Now, we don’t have time for the syllabus so hopefully you all looked it over already,” the woman huffs. “I’m Mrs. Perkins, your drawing instructor. Today, we’re just going to warm up with some basic shapes before we get going into something small.”

“An hourglass,” Arthur chortles with a devilish smirk, crossing his ankles.

Mrs. Perkins gives a small glare. She turns back to the whiteboard, drawing some simple examples. “A circle. Triangle. Square. Pick one and begin. Remember to shade.”

Ronan swipes some of his deep chocolate bangs back, then dives into the activity with very subtle, soft vigor. After precisely flexing his fingers on his writing hand, he makes many circles. Circles he chose because they’re a bit simpler than a triangle or square. It’s merely a swoop. Then he makes careful strokes with a simple pencil; dark edges first, and gradually moving toward the epicenter at a particular, bright point. He erases a tiny dot totally white, brushing away the eraser dust.

He’s totally absorbed in his task, but he still hears the softly awed whisper from the noisy boy beside him. Arthur stares at his paper with his mouth in a tiny, round ‘o’ shape.

“Omg, dude—it’s been like two minutes. How did you fill up the page with… that?!” He whisper-shouts under his breath, gesturing to his page with one or two poorly drawn squares.

Ronan’s hand successfully covers his amused grin, smothering the laugh wanting to escape. “Just focus,” he whispers back, expression smoothing into something more dutifully immersed.

After some moments, Mrs. Perkins calls attention again. “Okay, now we’re going to do a fun activity that will help us all get to know each other. I’d like you all to draw the person beside you as best you can for now. Stick to the basics if needed—shapes, shading, simple blends, and basic features. Whatever your time allows.”

Ronan looks at Arthur.
Arthur looks at him.

They both shrug as they pull out a fresh piece of paper.

The class works pretty quietly with the continuing time—sometimes murmuring to their friends, occasionally chuckling over some kind of shared joke. Ronan keeps to himself, just glancing beside him every so often to memorize facial features. Graphite rubs against his fingers, staining them a little; the cons of being a lefty. But it also keeps his work a little more private—harder to see with the shadow of his arm and hand.

Forty minutes goes by extremely quickly. Mrs. Perkins smiles and claps her hands together. “Now, let’s see what you all did!”

She walks through the rows, murmuring little tidbits of things when needed, humming at the works that impress her, kindly chuckling at those that don’t. She full-on snickers at Arthur’s piece. Ronan doesn’t bother trying to peek over her shoulder, he just waits his turn.

The woman’s brows raise at his. Ronan feels like he’s watching in slow-mo. Her lips separate, thick and magenta. Her wrinkled fingers tap against the crisp, slightly-less-smudged edge of paper.

“Good,” she hums, still retaining that expression Ronan himself can’t quite decipher but didn’t see for the others.

Arthur leans over, gaping once again. “Bro. I look like me!”

Ronan raises a brow. “Uhm… do I look like me..?”

He holds up his own. Ronan stares. Stares some more.

“I captured you pretty well, wouldn’t ya say,” Arthur grins. By the tone he’s kidding. But his confidence levels are outrageously high. Because what is staring back at Ronan is not Ronan. This person has a misshapen head and ridiculously literal heart-shaped lips. Eyes that seem demonic, a neck too long and thin—he’s not quite that thin, jeez—

Ronan’s nose twitches. Then his breath shakes. A laugh bursts out, quiet but bright. Arthur beams like that’s what was intended all along.

“You… u-uh—need a little more practice,” the boy awkwardly tries to say through laughter he can’t quite suppress.

“Fair,” the other boy shrugs. “But I don’t know how the hell you did yours. Like a mage did it.”

Ronan shifts, silent but smiling gratefully.

It’s a lovely day out. Even despite the stream of students milling everywhere. Ronan is ambling steadily down one of the longer walking paths, headphones quietly playing music. He hums along to it here and there, barely letting the tone lilt before he has to roll his shoulders a little, trying to ignore what’s shifting and hurting.

Nearing the end, he slips his headphones around his neck instead, pausing the music for later. The birds sing their own melodies, right besides the wind, the trees’ whistling leaves, the tiny insects squeaking. Ronan has to appreciate them—something inside refuses to ignore their song.

He’s passing by a gazebo when he hears something else. A flute, playing sweet lyrics that he could wrap himself up in and go to sleep—in the best way. His heart quickens as though anticipating. He flinches mildly at the terrible, resonating hurt against his back—reminds himself to try to take more painkillers soon—but he can’t walk away. Ronan does what anyone would do: not go introduce himself, or compliment the flutist, but duck down and hide.

His back twinges much worse when he tries to rest against the brick wall—so hard he feels a little faint. But he grits his teeth, and closes his eyes to focus on something else. The waves that this music makes in the air; he can feel them pretty easily. A softer chirp escapes him as he thinks:
I wish… I didn’t have to hide.

The rest of his break passes like this. One moment he’s closed his eyes, and the next, he’s due in class in the next five minutes. The flutist is long gone, vibrations totally absent. Ronan rises stiffly, gait skewed by the pain burning across his muscles, but pushes through anyway. The day still awaits with two more classes before he can go home.