#p012

Early morning suited him. The quiet lull when rays streaked the sky in brilliant shades of gold and pinks as dawn made its steady approach. Well after the late, late hours of 3AM, the time his father always used to say was for folks up late for work, or for folks up to no good. Sam liked to think it was a mixture of both in his case.

Usually, this would be the point where he’d roll of out bed, fingers feeling blindly around for his sneakers and the other elements of his workout gear. Moving to California, he discovered a thing for running in the hills and this was usually the best time, since most people were sleeping off whatever fun they’d had the night before.

Sam supposed he should have been one of those people. The party for the Rose sisters had been a nice way for him to get out and mingle with his coworkers, and he put in an appearance, wishing both ladies of the hour a happy birthday and made several laps around Sebastian’s penthouse to chat.

But this time, when the city was beginning to stir and shake out the sleep, this was all his. The energy that buzzed under his skin didn’t seem suited for a jog, no matter how invigorated he felt afterwards. The thrum of restless was familiar but as of late, seemingly hard to come by, though not for lack of trying. Multi-tasking had never been his strong suit; he needed to be focused on one thing at a time in order to get things done but he realized that it was difficult at NDHQ. Something was always going on. There was always people to meet, to interact with, sometimes he got a little too caught up.

Maybe if he lived in a different setup, away from his job and the fellow creators he ran into it wouldn’t seem as if everything around him was a distraction. Or not as big a one, at least. But this was typical for the blond. The need to create would take over eventually. Not so much as creeping up but more like smacking him in the face, as if to say ‘I’m here, dummy. Attempt things while you can.’

Today was one of those days.

Sam shifted out of bed and grabbed the plaid pajama pants he’d stepped out of the night before, tugging them on and heading out, stopping long enough at the bathroom to brush his teeth. The timer was set on the coffee maker, the move practically ingrained into him, and necessary as it would probably be the only thing to drag him out of work mode.

Not that he minded. Maybe he was just happy to have that feeling again. The sensation of brush meeting canvas. Mixing colors and engaging in a different kind of stroke, though the high of sex was on par with the rush of finally (finally) diving back into the creative pool.

With the last of the boxes he’d finally (ugh, finally) stopped avoiding had been unpacked, the space they’d been taking up made for a good art corner. The spot was a bright little alcove near the bank of windows that covered one of side of the general living area. It was the next best thing to painting on the small patio, but without the noise and activity that would surely shift his concentration.

Music, he liked. A playlist of songs he cultivated to keep him motivated but wouldn’t yank him out of the moment. It was amazing, how much one could accomplish by being incredibly self-aware, and Sam knew his limits. He supposed that was essential, considering his penchant for recklessness.

These thoughts faded once the music was on and he was staring intently at the wide canvas, brush between long fingers, hovering in blue in front of the empty space. Most of the time, there was no rhyme to it, no method more than the methodical sweep of the brush to fill in the white space, to add vibrance, a melody of hues that would satisfy the restless energy.

There, in the early morning, the only expectations were the ones of his own design. No need for talking, no need to be ‘on’, to quell the weariness of needing to be something to someone, depending who he was charming at the time.

Most of this was self-imposed; he was a people-pleaser by nature, and sometimes, sometimes it was a burden that sat heavy in his chest. This place wasn’t the cause, but it certainly enabled when everything relied on a crafted image and living a life steeped in half-truths and fantasy. There was a certain expectation, maybe of his own design, maybe influenced by his surroundings, to make himself available. To play into the part. Like Newman in Sweet Bird of Youth, devilishly handsome, old-school swagger sipping from highballs of scotch and romancing beautiful blondes.

Art, there was a balance. Giving in to the energy yielded something tangible, a finished piece that no amount of views or a rank could compare. It was just for him, a small part of himself he could keep in the early mornings, free from the hub of activity that would no doubt steal his attention later in the day.

No matter what, he could always come back to this, find solace in the craft of creating, in losing himself in the lines.