Your name is Dave Strider and you've always loved the arts.
Music. The way his voice sounds. The ranges he hits. All treble and alto and mid tone ranges that catch your attention and make you want to hear him. Almost.
Music. How his voice cracks when he screams at you for too long. How you hear sounds too beautiful for anyone to listen to when he cries. You are not worthy. He is perfect. You could tear his vocal cords out and hang them. You can't move.
Music. The crystal clear way he spits out your name when his hands hit your body. "Thtrider!" A venomous hiss, another hit. "Uthleth, that'th what you are! Do you even underthtand what I'm thaying?" You don't. All you hear is the music of his voice and the rhythm of drums as he hits you.
Painting. He's the most dazzling mix of complementary colors. Warm colors in his fiery eyes, cool colors in his icy skin. He's a pool of light and angles.
Painting. Colors, lines, warm and cold and it's so clear but you can't see. His eyes find yours. You think of a hundred different ways to capture those eyes. No canvas is worthy, only his face is good enough to hold those perfect eyes. You can't breathe.
Painting. The softest marks of moisture down those harsh, angular cheeks. He's a mess of geometric shapes and blinding hues. He cries, you light your match. Tears, streaks on your perfect painting. He's disastrously beautiful when he pleads. You drop your match. You burn. You can't move. Burning. You hear music. "Pleathe…" You can't.
Sculpting. His hands on you, working you. Bandages are wrapped, constricting around your leg. He keeps touching, feeling, helping. You want to thank him.
Sculpting. You touch him back. You can feel again. His fingers lock with yours and the spaces between mold until there is a perfect fit. His hand covers your chest and strokes, fixing the hole there. Lips now, molding, forming, kissing.
Sculpting. When he lays you down and lays beside you. You curl to meet him. He's warm, and soft. He kisses you. "Pleathe, pleathe, pleathe…" It is your lullaby. More kisses. You feel your shoulder. You feel his kisses. Maybe feeling isn't so bad. Your leg hurts. He strokes your burn and the feeling hurts but it's better. "I need you." You know. You can move.
Photography. Click. You capture his smile. Now it's yours forever. He's perfect. You still aren't worthy, but you don't let him leave. You are selfish. You feel again.
Photography. Click. Now you have his eyes and they are safe. He kisses you and it's all sensation. Time freezes and you catch every second, storing it all for you. You are not worthy, but he says you are. He takes you outside. You breathe in the air.
Photography. Click. He's against you. You can hold him again and he loves it. He doesn't let you go, and that's good. Your leg heals, no more burn. He kisses the scar, pink on your thigh. You gasp in. Air. He mumbles to you and you speak. "Do you love me?" And you choke back, "Yes." He doesn't let go. He pulls you tighter, a choking hold. But you can breathe.
Your name is Dave Strider. You are broken. You are also in love. Maybe this perfect boy can fix you.