Ask Nightstar

Born and bred for perfection, it had not been any surprise that when he picked up the hobby of drawing in his sketchbook, that his technical skills as an artist would be above par even at the start. Through natural progression his skill eventually came to match his talent; he could draw anything. It did not serve a greater purpose except maybe as proof of his finesse on paper, but the sketches were for his own benefit. He put this skill to use to draw what pleased him. It was his 'creative outlet'.

His tool was pencil, usually. He'd use the coloured variety too, and did experiment with options, but the private sketchbook was mostly uniform in medium. He'd sit somewhere, alone and at a distance from his interest, and the only sound would be the scratching of lead on paper. Sometimes, it was fervent, with his eyes darting quickly as he gripped the wood of the pencil tightly between his fingers, needing to get down what was in his head as soon as he was able. Other times, he seemed at peace.

Damian was very careful about who saw his sketchbook, especially since he started drawing her. It was embarrassing. He didn't like to introspect as to why he did it; he had an excuse ready made for himself and if she ever saw. He drew her the most out of anyone else, because she was the one around the most for him to practice on. There was nothing pressing or important that she was attending to, and she did not possess Alfred's many, unflattering lines of the face—which didn't mean to say that he thought she was pretty! She just wasn't as old.

So, in his own space, away from prying eyes, he would pencil in their features with the detail expected from an artist, but not of a boy who kept others at arms reach. He'd draw the lines and subtle details of tiny hands he would never take; draw in a smile that he'd mind not to stare at too long, the smile it wasn't likely he'd put there even if he secretly wished he had. Some keener minds might say it was his way of compensating for what he kept denying.

He'd flip through his sketchbook before sleep, in the dark of the night after doing the routine checks that he wasn't being watched or otherwise monitored. It might be odd, to view one's work in such lighting conditions, but it was a specific drawing he was searching for. Unlike the others, rendered almost invisible in the night, one lit up and was seen quite clearly. He had found a pack of glow in the dark pencil crayons at the art supply store once, and bought them out of the same intrigue most children had with glow-in-the-dark products.

He'd seen her glow in the dark before, when she insisted on a sleepover, beneath the strange fort of pillows and blankets they built in the livingroom as she prattled and he was forced to listen. Even when she didn't do it intentionally, her eyes always caught what little light there was to be had, and they were very green his favourite colour. So he drew her, in the garden at night, with flowers which were her favourite, he liked them too that glowed with her in pinks and purples, while she sat on the white alabaster bench with a halo around her and her florescent green eyes looking right at him as she smiled, and the dark sky above her wasn't usually filled with stars like that, but neither did their garden flowers glow.