St. Peter's Asylum discussion

On a hill, there sits a peach tree. It's in view from the Asylum, but it's the farthest from it. Low, sturdy branches provide easy climbing though you're not supposed to. It's a nice viewpoint to look out on the abundant forest around you, but only low-security patients are allowed her for it's so far away and it's fence is only a 5 foot wire fence.

Thank God he was a low security patient. Timothy needed the fresh, open air and the surrounding flora and fauna. Not only was it the change of scenery needed, but sometimes it was hard to be cooped up. Timothy surely didn't enjoy it.

Flaxen locks fell in front of stormy eyes as Timothy drew. It was charcoal he was using today, and so the entire side of his left hand was stained a metallic black. The lighting underneath the peach tree was beautiful, providing the perfect getaway for the artist.

[Holy crap, these two have so much in common, and I haven't even replied yet!]

How nice it was to be away. To be alone, to be free. It was so relaxing, yet so rare. Peter knew to cherish moments like these, where he could just look around him, pen in hand, and wait for inspiration to hit.

((XD I'm picturing opposite sides of the tree, yes?))

A slight sigh escaped Timothy's lips as yet another demon became featured. He had no control over his hand when he drew; it was as if it had a mind of it's own. He was a simple onlooker, and he didn't like what he saw.

The same one as always. Neither man, nor beast. Somewhere in between...

[Of course, it's more interesting that way. :) ]

The pen tip had just touched the paper when the small sigh frightened Peter. The line escaped him, dancing away from him with the wind. He looked down on the dark mark on his paper with an expression of sadness.

Curiosity took over in his mind, quickly replacing his itching urge to write. He turned his head around the trunk, slightly frightened to meet whomever was on the other side. Of course, it couldn't be someone as scary as Dessy, who wasn't allowed at the Peach Tree anyway, but Peter knew that someone who was sad could be more frightening than a High Security patient.

And there sat Timothy, innocent and naïve as ever. He wasn't aware of the boy on the other side of the tree, nor was he aware that he was being watched. Grey eyes rimmed by bright green stayed focused on his flitting hand.

Peter watched the boy with interest. He didn't look ready to wrap his hands around his throat, which was always a good thing. He glanced down as movement caught his eye. He took a sharp intake of breathe as he saw the dark black of his hand. Was he burned? How can he use it still?

The sudden gasp caught Timothy's attention, and as his left hand drew he glanced over his shoulder with his peripherals, not turning his head.

"Enjoying watching?" he murmured, used to having people look over his shoulder.

He suddenly realized that the black on the boy's hand was not burned skin, but charcoal from his drawing. A rosy pink blush appeared on Peter's high cheekbones in shame of being so naive, and because he had been caught snooping.

"I just hadn't realized I wasn't alone," Peter explained in an apologetic tone. He made a move to leave the boy to his drawing.

"I don't mind," said the older boy with a small smirk. "But snooping isn't exactly the greatest way to start a conversation."

"No, you're right. My apologies." Peter gave the gray-eyed boy a small smile, looking up at him from under long, tangled blonde lashes.

"So if you don't mind me asking," Peter began, pointing at the drawing. "What is that?"

Timothy finally turned his head to look at the boy dead on. Hand continued to draw, and occasionally his cloudy gaze would flit back to his sketchbook. "I'm never exactly sure. A demon of sorts, I've been told."

Confusion flickered through those pools of sapphires as he glanced at the boy, seeing his full face now. He set his notebook aside, and slid next to Timothy's drawing.

"How don't you know? You're the one drawing them, right?"

A slight flush at close proximity-- Timothy had never been good at hiding things-- and his hand stumbled. For a moment the charcoal remained still, and then it danced once more.

"Not exactly. I don't really control it."

Peter had not noticed the flush, he had focused on the smooth motion of the boy's hand as he drew the monster that stared at Peter with cold eyes. The hair on the back of his neck raised, and he felt goosebumps appear along his light skin.

"Well, whether it's Techniqually you or not, the drawing is... Amazing."

A small smile. "Thanks. You're not the first who's looked at a demon and called it amazing. I don't know whether to feel honoured or frustrated."

"To be honest, I'm not sure what to tell you you should be feeling."

"A demon? What kind of demon is it, or don't you know?" Lips pulled together in their natural partial pout, Peter stared at the drawing of the demon. It was amazing, all right. But just plain old scary, as well.

Another flit of those grey eyes, and yet another flush. The hand stumbled once more, and it took a few minutes to pick up the rhythm once again.

"Not sure. The same one controlling my hand, probably."

Ok, definately scary. A little terrifying, actually.

Eyes now wide, mouth fully ajar, Peter turned toward Demon boy in wonder, fascination. "Demons can control you? Can't you ward them off with garlic?"

((get a little angry with the post button? XD))
Timothy smirked. "That's vampires, hon."

The unknown boy was entirely curious, and to be honest, Timothy found it both flattering and kind of funny. Something entirely normal to him was considered amazing to someone else.

[Very angry. Damn thing's like kids, it don't f*cking listen to me the first time. :) ]

The totally laid-back, casual use of the word 'hon' brought blush to Peter's cheeks once more. Not many people called him hon.

"Oh. Well, you can still ward them off, can't you?" Or, as he was hoping to get at, he wasn't going to start drawing his posessees, right?

"Nope. Absolutely no control."

Timothy smiled at the frightened expression. "Don't worry, though. There's a reason I'm allowed outside. I won't kill you."

"Good to know," Peter muttered, returning the smile while biting back a bark of laughter.

"I'm Peter, by the way. Peter Parker."

Right hand was offered, spreading across his chest to reach where Peter sat. "Timothy Bailey."

"Pleasure." He shook the hand, then let his own softer one drop. He offered Tim a polite slightly larger smile than the one he have him beforehand.

The smile was returned, and his stormy eyes returned to the drawing. "So, Peter, if it isn't too personal, what're you in for?"

[Timothy? :3]

Peter shrugged, his fingers finding the grass beneath him. Smooth, silky, almost sharp. He started to gently pull and rip blades apart. "Um, icit myself, among other things. I'm guessing this," he gestured toward the drawing of the demon. "Is why you're here?" He had always been good at steering conversations away from him, as he had done now.

((.... Fuck. XD Just ignore that....))

An arch of one eyebrow at Peter's answer, but Timothy nodded. "Mhm. Mum got worried and... Here I am."

[LOL KK xD]

"Hm." Peter couldn't say he blamed Timothy's mother. The pictures were definately... Creepy. He shuddered.

"So is this all you do? Draw?"

"Mhhhhhhhm." Timothy dragged the word out as a long stroke of charcoal added the demon's tail. Taking a quick scan over the drawing, the boy pouted and closed the book, setting the charcoal on it and immediately moving to rub the black off of his left hand.

"But that must be boring. Doing nothing but drawing? Not to mention you'll probably get arthritis with all those hand cramps." Nevermind that Peter was being hypocritical, for he was always writing and massaging away hand cramps as well. He just wanted to keep the conversation going. He had taken a small liking to the gray-eyed artist.

A nod, and flaxen hair went flying. "Both of those statements are true. It's just something I've gotten used to, I guess. I ignore the fact that my drawings are always the same, and I ignore the cramps."

"But if you draw different demons, how are they all the same?" Dark blue eyes darkened with confusion, his full lips sliding into the '"thinking pout". He was thinking again. Thoughts swirling around his head as he tried to Mack sense of this phsycho's obsession.

"The face."

A darker tone overtook Timothy's voice, and he picked up his sketchbook and handed it to Peter. "Flip through and look at the faces."

With a tender feel, Peter reached for the sketchbook, gently placing it on his lap. Slowly, he flipped through all the pages, studying them carefully.

They were all beautiful, heart achingly beautiful, yet that seemed to make the drawings even more terrifying. If they could look so beautiful, so detailed, then they had to be real. Two blonde, perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitted together, meeting in the middle. Not all of the drawings were charcoal, but most of them were. True, at a glance, the demons looked like several different ones. No bodies were exactly the same. But the faces, the dark, evil faces.

They were all exactly the same. The same, menacing snarl so detail that Peter could almost hear its shrill screech. Two black eyes of pure hate focused on him from the picture, seeming to stare him down. Peter shuddered.

Timothy, who had been watching Peter, nodded. "See what I mean?"

"Yes." Peter murmured, turning the sketchbook back. "That's terrifying. How can you sleep? With that always in your head?"

A shrug of his lithe shoulders. "It's just something you get used to."

"Yeah, I guess so. But I don't think I could." He went back to the grass, pulling and ripping gently, with slightly shaking hands.

"How long have you been drawing your friend?"

"Since I was about five."

"And you've been here since?!" Peter gasped, eyes widening in surprise.

"Mum sent me two years after it started showing up. So, about ten years for me."

Timothy glanced down at his drawing, and then remembered his manors. "And yourself?"

Peter shook his head. "Not nearly as long as you. I've been here since I was twelve. I'm sixteen, so that's four years."

Only four years? It seemed like so much longer. And now, he kind of felt shameful. He always complained about being here, had to get out, when this demon-drawer had been here for ten years. Where had the freedom gone?

As if reading his thoughts, Timothu uttered: "It seems so much longer in here than it truly is."

Peter sighed, placing his head against the soft bark of the tree. "It sure does." He glanced up and inspected the peaches. In the soft breeze, they were fighting against the wind, struggling to break free.

I've seen the peaches, fighting with the tree for their life
And I can't help but think, I'm sure I've done the same, at least once or twice

With a small smile, Peter turned to grab his notebook, pen in hand. He jotted down the lines in his neat scrawl. He'd work on it more, later.

An arch of one eyebrow, and a nudge with his shoulder. "Seems I'm not the only artist* here?"

((*meant as in "the arts", not literally a drawer.))

[ I got it. :) ]

Fighting a grin, Peter slowly bumped him back. "Yeah, I write a little, nothing big. At least, it's not anything like that."

"Says you. Lemme see."

"Fine." Seeing as it was only fair- after all, Tim had let him see his photos- Peter offered over his notebook. The binding had gone to hell, and the pages were all folded, faded, well used. There were a hundred scratches in the cover.

A slight cock of his head as Timothy gingerly handled the breaking book. Scanning through, he read excerpt after excerpt of writing from the boy.