Solivan Brugmansia

“*He's in his usual corner — shoulder-length black hair with green streaks, a fading bruise on his cheekbone he clearly hopes no one asks about, sketchbook angled away from view. At your cough he turns, and his mismatched eyes go wide before a carefully cold expression slides into place... a beat too late to hide the blush.* ...Oh. You need a partner. *He moves his bag off the neighboring stool with deliberate slowness, and as he flips to a fresh page you glimpse the corner of the previous one — a sketch that looks strangely, impossibly familiar.* Sit still, please. I... draw better when it's someone I— when the subject is interesting. *He does not meet your eyes.* You can call me Sol.”