My name is Weldon. (Cam.)

Weldon wasn't a person to settle on things. He was slightly antisocial, a tad bit insecure, a whole lot of gaudy clothing piled onto a slim frame, a brown haircut that created alot of time for him, brushing through the caramel colored locks.

I am comparing his settling to his hair, as we would put it. His perfectionism. Ah, a better word.

He had a thing for his hair.

Each and every strand had to be expertly placed in just the right spot, each strand had to gleam. He would comb through it until it got just the right effect. Then, he would spray water over it, and sit still for a good moment, making sure nothing went wrong with the mop top he considered his hair.

His complexion was pale, so he scrubbed it and tried to make it look more... elaborate. Adding pinched cheeks and a cocky smile.

He was ready for his day, just by the simplistic means this presented. Just by slipping on the glasses that he had saved so much for, he felt more secure. He bundled his plum colored scarf around his neck and looked into the mirror, appreciating the effort it had taken for him to project the image.

Of easiness, of credit. Of sensualality.

Well, now, you must be wondering.

Of couse, Weldon dosent sound like the typical teenage boy, who barely brushes their locks, throws on a shirt that smells clean and a pair of jeans they've worn twice before.

Weldon likes men.

Not that much of a suprise, is it?

The faint reality of his grasp, he does enjoy his men. Which could be why he is preening infront of a mirror before running an errand for a bar of soap and a few loaves of bread.

You never know who you'll run into. A potential friend (if a girl, of course) or a potential partner (vice versa)

But, noneless, with a dramatic flick of his wrist, Weldon cautiously made his way out of his house, a small brickstone building painted a dull shade of gray.

His district was relativley gray. Trading industries were always this way. A river was two or so blocks away, but he rarely made his way farther than the grochrey street that was half a block from his home.

Work was at the docks across the street, basically pools of water that had been dug.

Sometimes he would be reported to go pick up a few things the local street didnt have. A sweater, a pair of toenail clippers, a magazine, out of stock.

Today, though, he strictly intended on getting the things he needed.

He made a galloping-type of pace, his head bobbing as he walked along the gray streets. Gray, gray, gray. It was so pale, average. The only color that came was usually a little bed of tulips, trying to arise from the small brick enclosures that were laid out with soil in them, barely. An occasional red hat, a flag of peneum waving.

Sighing, he opened the door to the clean grochrey store. It was small, had humming lights and a few aisles. Soap and bread. He gathered these things from the countertops, then finally checked out.

Making his way out of the store, he stopped dead when his soap went tumbling out of his bag.