I was a freshman at Seattle University, aiming for a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree to prove to my father I was better off being an artist than a businessman.

Meeting Kade more than ten years ago wasn't love at first sight, nor had I been struck by a lightning revelation that I was into guys. My artist's eye simply picked him from the campus crowd and started drawing sketches of him to fulfill my homework. He wasn't the only one with a well-toned body and an expressive and handsome face, but his confident smile and captivating charisma drew me in the more I got to see him.

My fingers took a liking to Kade. During spring quarter, he and his mates would lounge on the grass during breaks while I sat on a nearby bench, busy with my pencil. I had accepted that this stranger with short light brown hair and pale grey eyes was my first real muse. It was a no-brainer, really. The easiness and joy I felt when drawing his lines were not as profound when other people were my focus, nor did it feel as inspiring.

Kade and his friends didn't mind my silent presence a few feet away. Among many snippets I had overheard while drawing, I knew Kade was gay. The fact that the man I was drawing wasn't hetero didn't bother me at all. On the contrary, I was grateful he had friends in his class who allowed him to be himself.

Our dynamic, however, changed one Thursday in April.

I had just started to pencil the contours of him lying on his side when Kade jumped up and hurried towards the closest campus building. He had left his backpack behind, and three of his friends were still lounging on the grass, so I figured he'd come back. How long would he be gone, though? I dropped my earphones, pondering if I should leave for the library earlier today. There was no point for me to sit around if my model was missing.

“Don't worry, Kade will be back in a minute,” the sexy blonde, whose name I had overheard to be Diane, informed me with a wink.

I thanked her for the intel and used the time to leaf a couple of pages back in my ‘Kade Book’ to appreciate my favorite drawing so far: Kade slumbering on his back, one arm resting on his forehead, the other on his stomach, one leg outstretched, the other bent; dressed in faded blue jeans and simple champagne-colored shirt, his brown jacket working as a mat for his back.

Even if the picture was produced with a mere black pencil, the colors were vivid in my mind. This page had so many interesting shades created by his arms, legs, and the creases of his shirt and jeans. I also loved the tone of the picture—how relaxed Kade seemed, at peace with the world yet confident to stand up and own it.

I was brushing a small shadow on his leg to make it a shade lighter when I heard footsteps and a low, amused voice to my right.

“Not bad at all.” Kade smiled, looking at himself on paper. “Can I see more?” he asked, seeing I didn't hide my sketchbook.

Some artists weren’t comfortable showing their work to others; for some, their sketchbook equaled a personal diary. I was the exact opposite. My mom had been an art teacher in our hometown high school. She had not only taught me open-mindedness, but also to be proud of my work at all times, even if it wasn't perfect or finished. I probably would have followed my father's footsteps and become a businessman if it wasn't for my mother and her inspiring influence.

I hoped to become a good enough artist to be able to support myself and if I succeeded, I'd be honoring her memory as well. This was the only reason why my father conceded and gave me five years to prove I could reach my goal.

“I've managed to do only a few simple sketches and drawings, so don't expect anything fancy.” I closed the sketchbook and passed it to him with a nod.

Kade took it and sat down next to me. His friends didn't seem to mind his sudden interest in my book as they continued to chat without him. Kade, in the meantime, checked every page, commenting that my sketches were anything but simple, praising me for the realistic and detailed drawings. The book entailed six sketches and two drawings of him, with the ninth page barely started.

“This is your favorite, isn't it?” He returned to the one I was working before he interrupted me.

“Yes, it was the hardest to draw so far and most fun. It has some beautiful and challenging shadows, and that's also why this drawing appears more alive than others.” I grinned, catching myself from talking further. I could go on about my drawings for a long while, but it didn't mean others liked to hear it.

“You have an eye for detail. There's even a tear on my backpack and a smudge on my jacket sleeve.” He was about to touch his index at the spot in the drawing, but he stopped himself at the last moment. “Huh, even the scar on my forearm …” He marveled absentmindedly. Yeah, the angry and deep scar on his right arm was hard to miss.

I quietly waited for him to continue, gauging his reaction.

“One girl drew me a year ago as well, and when I checked her drawing, I was surprised to see only random shadows, hard lines fused with circles and whatnot. She explained it was abstract art and that was what she felt when she saw me.” He looked at me and pointed to my sketchbook. “This is so much better. I can understand and appreciate what I see. I'm Kade Ellis, by the way.” He extended his hand in greeting.

“Evan Harrison.” I returned his handshake. “Do you mind if I continue to draw you?” I didn't beat around the bush and was glad to receive a carefree shrug.

“Not if you don't mind guys who aren't straight.” Kade lifted one questioning eyebrow. I assured him I didn't. “But you're not into guys yourself,” he stated after carefully eyeing me. It seemed we had frankness in common.

“Exactly.” I smiled.

Jase, my gay friend from high school, predicted—or hoped—that someday I might grow tired of girls and become bi-curious, however that was yet to happen. In theory, I didn't mind either way as long as I got laid, but so far, no man had picked my interest. Women, on the other hand …

“Shame,” was all he said before I was invited to join his group and draw him from up close.

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