He was a saint with a revolutionary's soul. Blonde hair that was down to his shoulders and his love for the colour red. There was something chaotic in his passiveness and something messy about his organization. He had a way with words like they were his lover. He had a way with words that many others had with maths or art or people. The way he spoke could give even the most desperate hope. He had eyes that gave the appearance of staring into one's very being. His face was that sculptures were made of with the same marble expression to match. He was fluent in French, Spanish, Italian, and German and often swore in them when he couldn't solve a problem or something was going wrong. He met her when he took history of art and she sat next to him doodling whatever image came to her head. His curly haired friend who sat the opposite side often looked out the window, looking for his red haired muse. He didn't have a romantic nature like the rest of those in the class, but there was something oddly intoxicating about the girl so engrossed in her drawing. He found her at a party the following night where he was horribly sober and she was surprisingly drunk. He was not an advocator of violence but when the inebriated sleaze ball had made a move he couldn't help his fist, which flew out. The man had ended up sprawled out on the floor and she was mildly unimpressed by him causing such a scene. However, she helped him patch up his bloodied and bruised knuckles and they got talking. It turned out the girl who doodled sketches all through history of art was really only taking it as a filler too. Her passion lay in healing and medicine like his lay in changing the world with his words. He had expected her to have forgotten the next morning when she walked in with dark sunglasses over her eyes, but she smiled and greeted him by name as she sat. This time when he stole a glance at her doodling she was sketching him like he was a blonde haired god. He held a flag covered in words like he was in the era of the French revolution. When hey left class she had handed it to him, folded in half and addressed to the 'saint with a revolutionary's soul'. He smiled as he looked at it properly. A spark was ignited within him and he stayed up all night with a pen in his hand and a blanket around his shoulders. He wasn't a revolutionary like she drew; he was one like Wilde and Bukowski. There was something chaotic to his fire. The Saint with the Revolutionary's Soul.