He took notice in the lack of her spoken word, the absence of answers. There was the deep seeded and illogical pull of guilt in the knot of his guts, wondering if not using one's voice was an inconvenience. Did it hurt to cut oneself off? Dry leaves and clipped wings crumbled on a fettered tongue, because he could only imagine. Even so, Lukas was distantly aware that he was being ridiculous.. maybe she wasn't the talkative type, maybe she didn't realize he could read lips, maybe it didn't even matter.
She vanished behind the wizard's curtain when Lukas dropped his eyes with determination, picking up a half of his cheese sandwich and savoring it in two bites. The crayons clattered, prisoners rattling their bars, when the waitress dropped the pack and escaped again. He picked at a fry and chased it with an acrid swallow of black coffee.
The crayons made their way out eventually, and he did finally add a heavy handful of sugar to his mug. But as for his art project? That was a well kept secret. If she glanced over at the right moments, she might catch him coloring diligently with a yellow or a green. But if she ever ventured near enough to refill his cup, the drawing was slipped beneath his glass plate, and the only clues left out in the open were a few test strips of color left on the open page of his notepad. A trio of blues and reds, tested to find the ideal hue.