Muse

There are days when he walks the hallways by himself, and there are moments when his shoulder would just barely brush Matthew's as they cross paths. The moment, ever so brief, would pass, and then both would continue on their respective ways, never once looking back.

The young, soft-spoken blond is beautiful in his eyes, with hair the purest shade of yellow that he's ever seen, and dark indigo eyes that, whenever he stares into them, make him feel at home. His name is Matthew and Arthur has been in love with him for the past three years.

He inspires him to write - and so Arthur does. He carries a notebook in his hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear wherever he goes and when something strikes his mind, he flips to a fresh page and begins writing a poem.

On most days, he finds himself writing of a type of love that he finds himself cornered with: unrequited. He steals glances across the room at Matthew during class when the other boy is not looking. When he's walking down the hallway, he purposely slows down to admire the mural that Matthew has painted across the wall. When he sees him, he allows his gaze to linger just a little bit longer so he may be able to memorize the face that haunts both his dreams and nightmares.

They have several conversations, mostly about frivolous things like roses and different types of tea, but Arthur wants more. He wants to be able to write sonnets dedicated to a blond angel. He wants to be able to take Matthew in his arms without caring of what anyone might say, hold him, and tell the younger boy just how much he means to him. He wants to tell him that, should there come a time, he would die for him.

The words fly from his mind, to his hand, and then to paper, written in hasty scribbles of black ink. What he originally intended to be a short poem morphs into a confession. He doesn't sign the note.

And when it's finished, down to the last stroke of the last letter of the last word, he folds it meticulously in half. He writes on the top: Matthew.

Then he sets off to deliver his message.

The following morning, Matthew would come into the classroom to find a note dangling precariously from the inside of his desk. He would open it and read it - maybe his eyes would even go wide, or maybe his mouth would even drop open. And when he'll pass Arthur in the hallway in that one fleeting moment, he'll ask the older boy if it was him (because who else can write something as beautiful as this?), and Arthur will calmly say no.

Because when he walks away, Matthew will merely shrug, crumple the note into a ball, and toss it into the nearest trash can.

Arthur would swallow disappointment and move on.

Such is the scenario that he knows will happen.

So when they do meet in the crowded hallway, he does just that. Matthew asks softly, holding out the note, "Was this from you?" and Arthur replies smoothly, "I'm afraid not."

Then he forces himself to turn away, mixed feelings churning in the pit of his stomach. He feels angry - angry at Matthew for being able to make him feel this way, angry at himself for being such a coward - and mournful and hollow. He tells himself that he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up so high - that he shouldn't have written the cursed thing in the first place.

Arthur continues walking his own way, leaving Matthew standing there by himself amidst the business of the hallway. He does not look back once.

But Matthew does.

And consequently, Arthur misses the way the blond stands with his shoulders slumped and his head bowed, and he misses the way those indigo orbs flicker disappointedly to the ground. But most of all, he misses the way Matthew eventually starts walking as well, and passes the trash can without so much as a sparing glance, tucking the note safely in his pocket.