of the space and memories
title: of the space and memories
pairing: none; lay-centric
length: drabble (262 words)
The boy stood there, still, and in his brittle fingers, a brush was held tightly. His lips were pursed shut, and his gaze was fixed to the blank white wall in front of him.
He was wearing a neat black buttoned-up shirt and a pair of faded jeans, and he was barefoot.
In the wall, only a piece of paper was taped on it. It said Zhang Yixing, 21, Male. He licked his lips while his eyes darted everywhere. It was only a vast sea of endless stark white, infinitely spreading. His breathing hitched for a little bit.
Slowly but steadily, he crouched down, dipping the brush on the paint. His hands were shaking; his eyes were drooping dangerously low.
Lifting himself up, he walked forward, the paint dripping sloppily on the floor. Widening his eyes, he realized that the paint was no longer black on the floor; it was a hue of pleasant green.
Nodding his head in understanding, he walked forward again, his face filled with grim determination.
The first stroke was sloppy.
The second stroke was more controlled.
The third stroke was superb.
Smiling slightly, he started to scribble a picture, his whole face filled with joy. The brush danced on the wall, perfectly synchronized with his flicking wrists. A rush of euphoria filled his whole body, and his movements fastened its pace.
Memories flooded him, only to fuel his creativity as he added the details on the wall. The colors emerged in front of him like a blooming flower.
The last stroke on that stark canvas wa perfect.
pairing: none; lay-centric
length: drabble (262 words)
The boy stood there, still, and in his brittle fingers, a brush was held tightly. His lips were pursed shut, and his gaze was fixed to the blank white wall in front of him.
He was wearing a neat black buttoned-up shirt and a pair of faded jeans, and he was barefoot.
In the wall, only a piece of paper was taped on it. It said Zhang Yixing, 21, Male. He licked his lips while his eyes darted everywhere. It was only a vast sea of endless stark white, infinitely spreading. His breathing hitched for a little bit.
Slowly but steadily, he crouched down, dipping the brush on the paint. His hands were shaking; his eyes were drooping dangerously low.
Lifting himself up, he walked forward, the paint dripping sloppily on the floor. Widening his eyes, he realized that the paint was no longer black on the floor; it was a hue of pleasant green.
Nodding his head in understanding, he walked forward again, his face filled with grim determination.
The first stroke was sloppy.
The second stroke was more controlled.
The third stroke was superb.
Smiling slightly, he started to scribble a picture, his whole face filled with joy. The brush danced on the wall, perfectly synchronized with his flicking wrists. A rush of euphoria filled his whole body, and his movements fastened its pace.
Memories flooded him, only to fuel his creativity as he added the details on the wall. The colors emerged in front of him like a blooming flower.
The last stroke on that stark canvas wa perfect.