i.
"Carswell's writing in his diary again!"
At only thirteen years old, the young Carswell Thorne had quite a knack for sketching and drawing. Even though he was taunted by his classmates (who thought the leather sketchbook was some sort of a prissy notebook), he refused to stop.
Until he finds it.
His father, voice booming and sharp, calls his name.
Carswell cringes and walks to where his father is, hiding his grimace with a well-practiced painted on smile.
"You do not have time for such stupid things as art," his father spits out the last word distastefully, dropping the sketchbook into the young boy's open palms with a stiff hand.
"Focus on your studies, Carswell."
He marches off, years of the military still in effect even after being discharged and his son gazes angrily after him. Tears start to build up in his eyes, and he looks up, willing them to leave.
Carswell Thorne rips his sketchbook to shreds that night.
ii.
Thorne must admit- the silhouette of the naked lady he painted on the Rampion isn't exactly his best work. But he figures it doesn't exactly need to be of the best detail, as everyone will be too in awe of his handsome face and smooth flying to even notice it.
That's what he tells himself, anyway.
A day after he steals the ship, he gets a gallon of black paint used to paint the interiors of houses and a synthetic brush and sweeps it back and forth until he is satisfied with it.
He likes it. It's very… Thorne. It's definitely his ship now.
(Even though he stole it.)
He hasn't painted in years and it's a bit rough, but he doesn't care about that. He figures that's all the art he's going to do for the next ten years.
But as he's looking through his very meager baggage, he sees a blank book.
And not just any blank book. It's a sketchbook.
He ponders of throwing it away but instead places it on the table.
(He picks it up and starts doodling an hour later.)
The stylus feels strange in his hand and he's nowhere near as good as he used to be, but he admires the sketches for a second before he remembers that he has other things to do.
Drawing can wait.
iii.
He doesn't even realize he's doing it until Cress looks up at him and giggles softly.
"That tickles!"
He retracts his hands and becomes conscious of the fact that he was tracing a drawing on her stomach. They're laying on the sofa, her back to his chest, and his hands on her waist.
He feels her shift and opens his eyes to her blue ones.
"Did you draw before?" This is asked by her in a whisper.
He nods, closing his eyes again and nuzzles his face in her neck. He feels her giggle vibrate through her throat.
"Why did you stop?"
He freezes for a second before relaxing. This was Cress. If anyone could know, it was her.
"My- uh- my dad told me studies were more important, and- I don't know. I never really picked it up again later."
"But you painted the lady-"Cress's face flushes and he is deeply amused- "on the front of the ship."
"Oh," he stretches, raising his arms above his head. "It was there until Cinder painted over it." He scowls for a second before glancing up at her.
"Why?"
"Oh, it's nothing," she smiles up at him, cheeks flushing more, matching the soft pink of her sweater. "I just have a feeling you would be really good at it."
Little does she know of the countless sketches of her in the sketchbook under Thorne's bed.
Until she finds it.
(He thought he had hidden it well.)
iiii.
They had been cleaning out his room to make way for her things. She was putting on new sheets (they were baby blue and he thought of her eyes every time he saw them) and noticed something under the bed.
"What's this?" she asked, crouching next to the bed to reach it.
"What's what?" Thorne's head whipped around and he saw where she was.
His face flushed.
"Oh- uh- nothing, I was just-" he cringed. "It's really old- don't open it- Nevermind," he sighed, face turning even more red. He felt like he was going to explode from embarrassment.
She flipped it open and her eyes widened. "Is this me?"
Thorne scratched the back of his neck, looking up at the corner in the wall (it was really interesting), the crack on the ceiling- anywhere but Cress's face.
"Yeah." This was confessed as a whisper, and Cress had to ask him to repeat it two more times before he admitted it audibly.
Putting on his false swagger, he smiled at her- her favorite smile, the one with the dimples- and ran a hand through his hair. "Turns out you're quite fun to draw."
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