[fic] Prevernal
Rating: K+
Summary: You know what's simple? Making an unwritten contract with one's self saying that you're going to soldier through creating a scale model, of the 1:80 ratio type, of the Louvre palace. And pyramid. [Matthew-centric, with mentions of Eve. Pre-BY, set two years before]
Note/s: Written for iu_fanfiction's 39th challenge // prompt:: My White Whale. Dedicated to moonsergeant. Eve belongs to her as well. But again, what is research though. For the fics that're hopefully, just hopefully, going to succeed this, ah. I miss doing multi-parted fics. (And I don't know shit about architecture, so yeah ah---haha so I apologize in advance.)
-
For the first time in what seems to be- he lost track. He fishes out his keys to his rented flat, inserts one, thoughtlessly slams the door open, all the while immersing himself in deep philosophical (and alright, kind of emotional, given the nature of the notion. THE notion) contemplation regarding-
Is she worth it.
That’s the crux of the matter, right. Is Eve worth it.
He figures he’ll be stuck with this partnership until the agency kicks him out, or unless Eve makes a wise decision to sack him- whichever comes first. So maybe she’s going to be, you know, “worth it”. But for the meantime, he’s trying to come up with an excuse that’s more humble. More modest. More on the chivalric side, if that word’s ever been on his book, because this isn’t entirely for Eve; he’s not about to exert a handful of years’ worth of effort for every chick that crosses his life at some point.
Floundering for an excuse.
This isn’t his style.
So, right. A scale model. Of the 1:80 (that kind of a ratio) sort. Scale model of the Louvre palace. And pyramid, because he’s not that cheap to construct a miniature model of just the former.
Ah.
(The Louvre Palace (French: Palais du Louvre), on the Right Bank of the Seine in Paris, is a former royal palace situated between the Tuileries Gardens and the church of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois1 -)
He sifts through the web pages containing possible research materials, fueled by various degrees of interest (from little to none, actually), and tells himself, frankly, to just fuck this.
There’s modernity in there, he must admit, and there’s something a little perfect about that, like there’s something even the least perfect in architecture when architecture means nothing to him, means all the same to him, means everything that’s not worth fishing out and then letting the feeling sink in, sink in into the fickleness of his memory. Like he can dig up a personal reason, a personal answer, a personal anything to back up the simplest of phrases- what does it matter.
(This is why he thinks in present tense. This is why he lives in present tense.)
Ironically, this is also why one drizzly night finds him wandering along the streets of Valencia without an exact purpose in mind, going from shop to shop conveniently strewn in a line- shopping for various materials when he hasn’t even supplied himself enough of a draft of the scale model at the very least. There’s danger in here, too, but nothing of the literal kind. Not much, anyway, but he doesn’t give a fuck about resourcefulness. He can purchase all the wrong materials and he’ll still come back, he can come back, like his wallet hasn’t suffered enough.
(A shitload of cardboards, then, because cereal boxes are for pansies and there’s very little to make out of his flat for shoe boxes and, even lesser, toilet rolls. See if he can do something about those science posters, display boards, and postcards just risking their lives waiting for his- pretty much nonexistent- ire to be wrung out.)
Maybe, just maybe, he’s hoping that history can be furnished out of wastes.
Maybe they’re all history is made of, manifested in every contour, every arch, every vaguest detail present in the facades and insides of a given architecture.
(A few stretches of steel wool, one craft glue, and a span of artificial moss. He’s going to throw in a cheap set of dollhouse furniture, too, just in case. A few sheets of Plexiglas. Little cans of paint and a brush as starters.)
Something tells him he won’t be able to let go of this; he won’t be able to watch this grow out of itself, develop a sense of ethos by itself, even pick itself up every time he leaves it further unconstructed. It’s as if it can set its own pace, like every time he switches the lights off and looks at it, looks at it, and there’ll always be an unsought detail that’s going to stand newer and fresher the next day.
Who is he kidding.
(And twigs. He makes it a point to nip one up every time he encounters one on his way home.)
He hasn’t even begun.
-
He sets to work on the scale model after clearing his table-
Or, more appropriately put, he just hunkers down with his hoodie still on to sit on the middlemost part of this room(turned art studio but not quite, soon), and scans the span of wall before him with narrowed eyes. There’s about a dozen of printed photographs of the architecture’s exterior peppered across the wall facing him, and a few more outlining the facades of the Louvre palace and pyramid, like sorts of blueprints he never really bothered to understand. He flits his gaze from one image to another, inwardly dredging to estimate just how much time will he spend on this for the- possibly- rest of his life.
The notion makes him smile, much more than he can admit.
He knows where to start.
-
Note:
1. Source: wikipedia.
Summary: You know what's simple? Making an unwritten contract with one's self saying that you're going to soldier through creating a scale model, of the 1:80 ratio type, of the Louvre palace. And pyramid. [Matthew-centric, with mentions of Eve. Pre-BY, set two years before]
Note/s: Written for iu_fanfiction's 39th challenge // prompt:: My White Whale. Dedicated to moonsergeant. Eve belongs to her as well. But again, what is research though. For the fics that're hopefully, just hopefully, going to succeed this, ah. I miss doing multi-parted fics. (And I don't know shit about architecture, so yeah ah---haha so I apologize in advance.)
-
For the first time in what seems to be- he lost track. He fishes out his keys to his rented flat, inserts one, thoughtlessly slams the door open, all the while immersing himself in deep philosophical (and alright, kind of emotional, given the nature of the notion. THE notion) contemplation regarding-
Is she worth it.
That’s the crux of the matter, right. Is Eve worth it.
He figures he’ll be stuck with this partnership until the agency kicks him out, or unless Eve makes a wise decision to sack him- whichever comes first. So maybe she’s going to be, you know, “worth it”. But for the meantime, he’s trying to come up with an excuse that’s more humble. More modest. More on the chivalric side, if that word’s ever been on his book, because this isn’t entirely for Eve; he’s not about to exert a handful of years’ worth of effort for every chick that crosses his life at some point.
Floundering for an excuse.
This isn’t his style.
So, right. A scale model. Of the 1:80 (that kind of a ratio) sort. Scale model of the Louvre palace. And pyramid, because he’s not that cheap to construct a miniature model of just the former.
Ah.
(The Louvre Palace (French: Palais du Louvre), on the Right Bank of the Seine in Paris, is a former royal palace situated between the Tuileries Gardens and the church of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois1 -)
He sifts through the web pages containing possible research materials, fueled by various degrees of interest (from little to none, actually), and tells himself, frankly, to just fuck this.
There’s modernity in there, he must admit, and there’s something a little perfect about that, like there’s something even the least perfect in architecture when architecture means nothing to him, means all the same to him, means everything that’s not worth fishing out and then letting the feeling sink in, sink in into the fickleness of his memory. Like he can dig up a personal reason, a personal answer, a personal anything to back up the simplest of phrases- what does it matter.
(This is why he thinks in present tense. This is why he lives in present tense.)
Ironically, this is also why one drizzly night finds him wandering along the streets of Valencia without an exact purpose in mind, going from shop to shop conveniently strewn in a line- shopping for various materials when he hasn’t even supplied himself enough of a draft of the scale model at the very least. There’s danger in here, too, but nothing of the literal kind. Not much, anyway, but he doesn’t give a fuck about resourcefulness. He can purchase all the wrong materials and he’ll still come back, he can come back, like his wallet hasn’t suffered enough.
(A shitload of cardboards, then, because cereal boxes are for pansies and there’s very little to make out of his flat for shoe boxes and, even lesser, toilet rolls. See if he can do something about those science posters, display boards, and postcards just risking their lives waiting for his- pretty much nonexistent- ire to be wrung out.)
Maybe, just maybe, he’s hoping that history can be furnished out of wastes.
Maybe they’re all history is made of, manifested in every contour, every arch, every vaguest detail present in the facades and insides of a given architecture.
(A few stretches of steel wool, one craft glue, and a span of artificial moss. He’s going to throw in a cheap set of dollhouse furniture, too, just in case. A few sheets of Plexiglas. Little cans of paint and a brush as starters.)
Something tells him he won’t be able to let go of this; he won’t be able to watch this grow out of itself, develop a sense of ethos by itself, even pick itself up every time he leaves it further unconstructed. It’s as if it can set its own pace, like every time he switches the lights off and looks at it, looks at it, and there’ll always be an unsought detail that’s going to stand newer and fresher the next day.
Who is he kidding.
(And twigs. He makes it a point to nip one up every time he encounters one on his way home.)
He hasn’t even begun.
-
He sets to work on the scale model after clearing his table-
Or, more appropriately put, he just hunkers down with his hoodie still on to sit on the middlemost part of this room(turned art studio but not quite, soon), and scans the span of wall before him with narrowed eyes. There’s about a dozen of printed photographs of the architecture’s exterior peppered across the wall facing him, and a few more outlining the facades of the Louvre palace and pyramid, like sorts of blueprints he never really bothered to understand. He flits his gaze from one image to another, inwardly dredging to estimate just how much time will he spend on this for the- possibly- rest of his life.
The notion makes him smile, much more than he can admit.
He knows where to start.
-
Note:
1. Source: wikipedia.