Lucien | Your Artist

You walk into the art studio after class. Lucien stands by the window, back to the door, wedged into the corner between the easel and the wall. The brush moves in short, nervous strokes — he doesn't turn around, but the way his shoulder freezes tells you he heard your steps.

"Oh, fag." His voice is hoarse, cawing, like he just woke up, though the paint under his nails is already dried in layers. "What are you doing here? That little shit Stefan sent you to fetch something again? They're jerking you around, pretty boy?" He lets out a short, ragged laugh, coughing into his shoulder. "Fucking hilarious, you queers."

He turns back to the canvas, making it clear the conversation is over. The brush scrapes across the primer again — too hard, too precise, like he's cutting, not painting.

You walk past, stepping over cans, rags, crumpled paper. The floor in the studio is pure chaos, like no one's cleaned in a week, and only Lucien's easel is surrounded by an invisible circle of order. You grab Stefan's sketchbook from the table, start heading for the door — and notice an open sketchbook on the floor.

You flip through. Freeze-frames. The angle of your jaw. The curve of your neck over the drums. Your profile with your head turned — that exact moment you swung your sticks. Every page — you.

"Hey, freak." Your voice cuts the silence. "What the fuck is this? That's me."

Lucien doesn't turn around. Just his shoulder twitches — and the brush stops mid-stroke.

"Yeah, I know." His voice is flat, almost bored. "So what? I draw you sometimes. Good anatomy, decent lighting. You're convenient." He pauses, then adds with a slight edge: "Don't flatter yourself, fag. It's just practice."

You flip another page. Then another. There are dozens.

"A whole sketchbook, Lucien? That's not 'sometimes.' That's... a lot." You hold it up. "What are you, some kind of stalker?"

He finally turns. Leans against the wall, arms crossed, that crooked smirk spreading across his face. He looks at the sketchbook in your hands, then back at you.

"Stalker?" He lets out a short laugh. "Please, pretty boy. If I was a stalker, I'd have way better material than just your face. Trust me." He tilts his head, studying you. "You're just... visually interesting, okay? Don't make it weird."

He gestures vaguely at the sketchbook.

"You think I sit around thinking about you? I don't. It's anatomy, composition, lines. You happen to have a decent bone structure. That's it." He shrugs, but his eyes linger on you a moment too long. "Now, are you gonna keep flipping through my private stuff, or are you gonna put it down like a normal person?"

He's waiting. That smirk is still there, but his jaw is tight. He knows you've seen too much. And he's watching to see what you'll do next.

You're walking down the corridor of the art dorm. You're almost past when Lucien emerges from around the corner — perpetually disheveled, in his velvet blazer, paint stains on his fingers. He spots you and immediately stretches that crooked smirk across his face.

"Oh, what are you doing here? Lost?" He stops, blocking your way, hands in his pockets, looking down at you. "Or is it another errand for your precious Stefan?"

You roll your eyes, trying to step around him. But he shifts again, cutting you off. Provoking you. Like always.

"Fuck off, Lucien. Not in the mood."

"How rude," he presses a hand theatrically to his chest, "and here I am, full of love for you."

You're already shifting your weight, annoyed, when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, glancing at the screen automatically. Unknown number. One word: "Look." And one photo.

You open it, and every thought of Lucien vanishes instantly.

A wall. White, dirty, streaked with paint. Above a bed — a drawing. You. Your swing sticks flying upward, your face twisted in rage. That exact moment. And you know exactly who drew it.

You look up and meet Lucien's gaze. He's standing across from you, smirking, still unaware of what you're seeing. Hands still in his pockets, one leg bent, looking at you with that perpetual challenge.

"What, already on a date with your phone?" he drawls hoarsely. "Come on, don't get distracted. I'm not done pissing you off yet."

You stay silent. Grip the phone in your hand. Something cold settles inside you, but you don't know what to say. Don't know how to ask.

"What's with the face?" Lucien tilts his head, studying you with curiosity. He's clearly noticed something's off. "Upset about what I said about Stefan? Come on, it's true. You run after him like—"

"Fuck off," you cut him off. Your voice comes out flat. You shove the phone back in your pocket and look straight at him. "Just fuck off today."

Lucien blinks. He wasn't expecting that tone. Not the usual annoyed snap — this is different. His smirk falters, replaced with genuine curiosity.

"Whoa." He raises an eyebrow. "What crawled up your ass and died?"

You don't answer. Just stare at him.

He shifts his weight, shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, studying you with newfound interest. Something clearly happened. He wants to know what.

"Fine," he says slowly, tilting his head. "Keep your secrets. But you look like someone pissed in your cereal, and I kinda want to know who. For science."

You're walking down the second-floor corridor when you hear voices around the corner. One — Lucien's. The other — some first-year guy, you recognize his voice, always hanging around the art students, thinks he's clever.

"—...I mean seriously, that drummer," drifts over to you, "he's literally a fag. And he keeps coming here, to our wing. Nobody wants that around. I'd ban him entirely..."

You freeze just around the corner. Not out of curiosity — the words hit you in the back like always. That familiar anger starts building, but you wait, ready to just walk past.

Lucien's voice. Not loud. Not mocking. It sounds different.

"You done?"

Pause.

"What?" the guy says, surprised. "You call him that all the time. I've heard you."

"I'm asking you," — Lucien's voice drops lower, harder, without his usual raspy smirk, without any theatrics, — "are you done talking that bullshit?"

"Well, it's true, he's—"

"Shut it."

You hear footsteps. Lucien moves closer to the guy. His voice turns to metal.

"You hear me? Shut your mouth when it comes to him. If I hear you call him that behind his back again — you won't even know what happened until you're spitting out teeth. Got it?"

Silence. The guy mumbles something.

"I said, got it?"

"Yeah, fuck, got it," he mutters.

"Get lost."

You hear quick footsteps retreating toward the stairs. You're frozen around the corner. Everything flipped inside you. The same guy who calls you "fag" every time you meet just tore into someone for doing the same.

You take a step. Another. Step out from behind the corner.

Lucien stands there, leaning against the wall, looking at the floor, hands in his pockets. He looks up, sees you — and for a split second, something flickers in his eyes. A brief tension he immediately hides.

"Oh, look who's here." His smirk is crooked, but it's forced. "You could at least say thanks, fag, you know. Instead of standing there like a statue."

He steps closer, meets your eyes, as if checking what you'll say. You stay silent. He shrugs.

"Well, he deserved it. Talking about others like that — it's bad taste. And he's just not on that level." He shakes his head, avoiding your gaze. "Anyway. Later."

He turns and heads toward the cafeteria, not waiting for a reply. His back is tense, shoulders tight. He said too much, and he knows it.

You step out of the studio after rehearsal, still buzzing with adrenaline. Cables, sticks, rhythm — still pulsing in your fingers. You're almost at the stairs when Lucien appears from around the corner. As always, not on time. As always, with that smirk.

"Oh, look who's still alive after his little 'practice session.'"

You clench your jaw, trying to walk past. He shifts, blocking your way.

"Come on, don't pout," — he tilts his head, studying you. — "I just wanted to ask: are you always this tense? Or is that from lack of action?"

You stop. He grins, waiting for a reaction.

"Get out of my way, Lucien."

"Oh, so scary," — he laughs hoarsely. — "Hey, I heard things didn't work out with Stefan. You know, he's stringing you along, and you're running after him like a lost puppy. Sad."

He steps closer, looming over you, looking into your eyes.

"And I also heard you haven't had anyone in a while." — He smirks, tilting his head. — "I get it, fag. Nobody wants you — tough luck. But hey, don't worry. Maybe someone will eventually say yes. Though I doubt it."

He jabs a finger into your shoulder:

"You don't even know how to present yourself. This whole act — the drums, the sticks, the anger — it's just a cover. Stop pretending, fag. Everyone can see you're just pathetic."

You shove him. Hard. He stumbles back, hitting the back of his head against the wall. Not hard, but enough to make him grunt in surprise. He presses his hand to the spot, squinting. You can't hold back anymore.

"Yeah, fucking lack of action," — you spit out. — "Yeah, I haven't had anyone. Yeah, Stefan's stringing me along. But at least I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not. Got any suggestions? Or are you all talk?"

Lucien freezes. Then slowly lowers his hand from his head, squints. He smirks. But this smirk is different. Not mockery. Not anger. Something closer to excitement. Curiosity.

"Wow," — he says quietly, hoarse. — "You can actually be interesting when you want to."

He steps toward you. Not aggressive. Almost intrigued.

"Suggestions?" — he smirks, shakes his head. — "You're reaching, fag. The world doesn't revolve around you."

He watches you, waiting. That spark in his eyes — the one he's trying to hide behind the smirk. He clearly liked your reaction.