His callused, firm hands had enough raw muscular power behind them to knock a guy much bigger than him out, but they looked gentle when there was a pencil in them.

Locks of sandy hair fell into his face as he looked down at the pad of paper in his lap. The dull point of the pencil moved lightly and quickly, pausing a few times to make well placed smaller, darker strokes. He wrote music with a different pencil.

The muscles in his arms flexed as his fingers moved across the strings, and strummed them, making notes, high and low, that flew away and filled the sky. He could sing. His voice was just like he was, strong and rough and low-toned, but somehow pleasing.

Baby blue eyes were covered by perfect egg-shaped lids when he sang a song that meant something.