sleepran:

Rating: G

Lunch break. White collars scatter past the shade of the high rise umbra; stop at eateries for overpriced sandwiches. Hux has packed lunch, and chooses the local park squander his hour. It is mostly empty, other than a few parents tending to very small children in swings, and a black swathed twenty-something intently sketching the spring flowers. His strokes are quick and clever; every leaf and petal recorded with care.

Interesting. The man’s ink strands hang unbound, partially veiling a splash of dark moles. He is handsome in the best way, the businessman thinks: the kind of beauty that is up for debate. Long digits flex and linger over a zinnia, then flip a page. No doubt skillful hands. Hux takes care not to let his eyes linger too long. Staring is rude.

A toddler breaks the relative peace by sobbing over his skidded knee. The handsome stranger folds his small black sketchbook and pockets it, heading towards the gate. Hux questions himself for a split second before packing the remains of his lunch and following.

He has not gone far; only enough to light a cigarette within safe distance from younger lungs. Hux has a light in his bag, but elects to ignore it when he takes out his menthols.

“Left my lighter in the office,” he lies, feeling foolish.

The man examines him with a look not unlike one he gave to the flowers. Hux feels flattered almost, and leans in to the little flame in his palm. He receives a nod when he breathes in; smells the smoke, smells the cheap cologne on the artist’s jacket.

It is more intimate than it has any right to be.

“Sorry, I peeked at your work. It’s good.”

“Oh.” Seems to have taken him by surprise. “Uh, thanks.”

It feels right, somehow.

“We’re hiring illustrators right now, actually.”