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He sat in a way so still the only indicator of life was the rise and fall of his chest. It wasn't out of fear or a need to melt to nothingness—rather, he was on display and meant to be valued, maybe even revered.
Light bathed his body, and the shadow cast on the ground was carefully tailored to accentuate the lonesome nature of something raw and alive, someone that admired the sun from only a distance. He was a man who lived deeply infatuated with the light, yet his head was tilted down, shadows covering his eyes and ensuring his own identity went on unknown.
This was a carefully crafted environment, one meant for a camera to behold.
His clothes were pre-picked, simple and plain. A black, billowy shirt rested on his frame. The collar was unbuttoned. His pants were long and dark purple. He kept his expression to a look of quiet resolve, his mouth balancing carefully on the line of a frown. Carefully sculpted into the form of a human being, he remained a fly trapped in amber—preserved through time, his life never ending, yet never truly beginning.
This man did not have a life in the eye of a lens.
He was only an accessory involved in a story, one that people would find in amateur art galleries, and he knew it. It wasn't something he could have an opinion on, because this form did not hold a mind, only compliance.
Hair jet black color, eyelashes long and pretty. Dusted on makeup for his cheeks. Eyes a clear, icy sort of blue, the reflection of the ground visible in what his half-lidded eyes allowed to show. A sister of this body would tell him later on how eyes were the mirror into the soul, but the brain to receive such words had carefully flicked the connection off, so he would not anticipate getting told that until later.
Part of him was thinking ahead to her reaction. No, he wasn't.
And his heart was still beating, wasn't it? He made sure not to pay it any attention, or allow his eyes to flicker elsewhere—the chair was beginning to feel uncomfortable. There was a slight itch running up his wrist, he wanted to scratch it. Hm.
There wasn't enough air in his lungs. Through his nose, he drew in a breath, machine-like and shallow with it.
"Nox," a voice said. Violet's voice. She was the one holding a camera. "You can move if you need to, okay? I got some pretty good shots, and it's a bit scary how still you can make yourself."
A gasp came out of his mouth, loud and sloppy. He blinked. Tried to breathe in again like something undead instead of alive. It didn't work, and he drew in another heavy breath.
She was crouched down, putting the camera back around her neck, eyebrows knitted in worry for him.
"Are you feeling alright?" No, he lost control.
Another merciless breath. His sides were beginning to collapse, he was bending in on himself. "Nox, you're hyperventilating. Try to calm down—breathe deeply."
He wanted to be still. He wanted to be a statue, inanimate and beautiful for the shutters and eyes. Would Violet let him be that? Something was pooling in the corners of his own eyes, his vision going blurry and wet like a watercolor painting. He wanted to be art.
Not a human.
"Noxxy, can you please talk to me? What happened?" Violet asked, her voice decorated with an elegant worry. She was getting closer to him, about to place her hand on one of his wrists, and all he did was squeak out a sob.
A tear ran down his face, landing in his lap.
She knew he was crying.
"We'll be done for the day." That was care from Violet. She wouldn't overstep, wouldn't push.
And she stepped back, never connecting with his body in any way that could remind him that it was okay for him to cry. So, he remained hunched over and sniffling in place, choking on his own snot and tears long after the lights were flicked off. He was left alone, sitting on a stool, no longer a gallery piece and instead the nervous breakdown of a man who longed for a hug.
—
Eventually the time came for him to wipe his tears off with the back of his sleeve and unfold off of the chair, blindly making his way over to the door. In his stomach, he felt empty, and faintly remembered he hadn't eaten dinner.
That was a chore he didn't want to take care of, but knew he had to. There wasn't anything good to eat in his fridge, and misery eating spoonfuls of Nutella was what he had done yesterday, so he didn't want to do it again. Actually, not wanting to was a bit up for debate, but regardless, he shouldn't.
So, he dragged his body over to the nearest still open restaurant, which was a warmly lit pub that was nearing its last leg of the night.
He sat down at a chair, slouching in on himself yet again, sighing. Nox just wanted to sleep. He only had to get some food into him, then he could go back to his apartment and collapse into a twelve hour's worth coma.
The sounds of the pub weren't too bad—the soft clinking of glasses and conversations turned sleepy and soft—for not many people were in it. Maybe the food was terrible. He couldn't find it in him to care.
—
"Hi, uhm, I have your order right here!" the server, who Nox barely paid any mind to earlier, said, setting down a plate of kids menu macaroni. "If you need anything else just call for me, name's Chase. Promise you won't hafta chase me down though, hah!"
Nox raised his head up to look Chase in the eye, finding the man smiling nervously at him. In this light, there was almost a halo around his blonde hair, and Nox was taken by it. With his sleep-deprived, just done crying to himself, mess of a person—he was in awe because of this man. Stunned, he nodded.
Of course he had to be agape in front of this gorgeous man like a fool.
Chase's smile widened, expecting him to talk.
"I— uh, my name. It's Nox." Why in the world did he say that. Why was he opening his mouth again. "Uh. Just so you know."
"Oh! Cool, cool," Chase said, nodding in understanding. "Awesome. Hm. My shift's gonna end in like, thirty, cause we gotta close up. So…"
This was probably the easiest way Nox could ever get murdered, by trying to go along with what he was suggesting, but he was nodding back at Chase, humming an agreement to wait. Just like that, Chase spun around on his heel and walked back to check up on other people there, leaving Nox to stare at his small plate of macaroni and cheese in shock.
Oh, Violet was going to kill him.
—
Nothing much happened between the two of them that night and morning, actually.
They had walked to Chase's place, chatting about their lives, funny stories, everything in between. Nox told him about his sister, and how he modeled for her photography—which Chase had been impressed by, even wanting to see pictures. He agreed to share those another time. He'd also learned about Chase's dream of stardom, which had been very animatedly explained and left Nox smiling along.
When they got to the door of Chase's apartment, Nox watched him fumble about with the keys, dropping them with an embarrassed laugh. But then the door was open and Nox was inside, watching Chase flick on the light and shuffle about the space with easy familiarity.
It smelled different in Chase's apartment. Maybe lightly scented by some sort of air freshener—clean and almost floral. That was somewhat comforting for Nox.
"So, I was thinking we could just watch a movie together and, I dunno, like, hang out? We don't have to do anything more if you don't want to, I promise I'm not a weirdo and this was like, super random anyways—kind of surprised you even agreed, honestly. No offense. Just, like, wow! Hah! Super hot guy. In my apartment! Crazy!" Chase exclaimed, doing some nervous-excited jazz hands. "Oh. You can pick the movie, by the way!"
—
In the end, Chase was tucked into Nox's arms, the two of them forming a comfortable, half conscious blob on the couch. The movie was still playing, but their attention had drifted into a soupy state of incoherent thoughts and shared warmth—both treating each other like lifelong friends instead of just met acquaintances.
There had been, of course, a lot of questions before they ended up like this.
"Could I lean on you?"
"Is it okay if we lay down? I can get a blanket."
"Can I take a nap on you, Nox?"
And Nox did not know where this moment would take him in the future, but right now, he was relieved to feel someone else's arms around his waist and the beat of another person's heart. It reminded him of his own self, and how maybe that was to be cherished.
Eyelids heavy, he allowed himself to drift off into the warm haze of sleep, thinking about how it was okay this moment wasn't on camera; that it was nice to be something human, too.