[FIC] 8059 Drabble 1
Hey guys. I've been kind of quiet and quiet = drabble. I went life drawing the other day and this is the first thing I did as soon as I got back. Cool.
(Also if anyone has any drabble requests, that'd be awesome.)
It had been a joke, a dare, something different. Takeshi and his friends were only just past that age where the naked body is a source of great hilarity and mystery. So the poster advertising life drawing sessions at the local art centre had drawn them like moths to flame. Or more accurately, like teens to nudity. "Come on, come on," one said. "It'll be fun!" Takeshi was an athlete. His hands were rough from gripping bats and catching the smack! of baseballs. They were callused in all the wrong places for art.
Still he went along. The game: If it's a boy: don't laugh. If it's a girl: Don't get hard.
Takeshi felt like he'd probably have more trouble with the laughing thing.
So they go, armed with cheap paper and writing pencils and they're out of place: they're only artists for the day.
They're all grouped together, nudging each other and already scribbling cartoon boobs and penis shapes on to the paper. Takeshi feels discomfort whispering inside him and grins to make up for his quiet.
The model finally arrives. "Ah." Someone nudges Takeshi, his disappointment clear. "It's a guy." He's foreign; a silver creature with rings and bracelets and a scowl. His back is pulled straight and taut and he stares straight ahead, as if he's not about to reveal his skin to them. The artists stare at him greedily, pencils and charcoal twitching like live wires in their hands. His eyes are sharp and green and he is so very white, so everyone's too scared to laugh when he finally does drop the towel.
Suddenly Takeshi is mesmerised.
He doesn't want to draw.
He touches the paper with his pencil maybe two times. He pretends that the paper is the model and that the pencil is a fingertip.
The model is made up of clean lines, of jutting elbows and meandering calves and a sweet curve of a neck. Takeshi can see that the serious sketchers are delighting in drawing him; they make wide sweeping movements and curling lines and it's not about the result, but about the joy of leaving a mark behind.
The hour is over too quickly and Takeshi's pages are near empty; clean expanses of white where he etches his longing only in his mind's eye.
(Does he still lose the game if it's a boy and he breaks the girl rule?)
(Also if anyone has any drabble requests, that'd be awesome.)
It had been a joke, a dare, something different. Takeshi and his friends were only just past that age where the naked body is a source of great hilarity and mystery. So the poster advertising life drawing sessions at the local art centre had drawn them like moths to flame. Or more accurately, like teens to nudity. "Come on, come on," one said. "It'll be fun!" Takeshi was an athlete. His hands were rough from gripping bats and catching the smack! of baseballs. They were callused in all the wrong places for art.
Still he went along. The game: If it's a boy: don't laugh. If it's a girl: Don't get hard.
Takeshi felt like he'd probably have more trouble with the laughing thing.
So they go, armed with cheap paper and writing pencils and they're out of place: they're only artists for the day.
They're all grouped together, nudging each other and already scribbling cartoon boobs and penis shapes on to the paper. Takeshi feels discomfort whispering inside him and grins to make up for his quiet.
The model finally arrives. "Ah." Someone nudges Takeshi, his disappointment clear. "It's a guy." He's foreign; a silver creature with rings and bracelets and a scowl. His back is pulled straight and taut and he stares straight ahead, as if he's not about to reveal his skin to them. The artists stare at him greedily, pencils and charcoal twitching like live wires in their hands. His eyes are sharp and green and he is so very white, so everyone's too scared to laugh when he finally does drop the towel.
Suddenly Takeshi is mesmerised.
He doesn't want to draw.
He touches the paper with his pencil maybe two times. He pretends that the paper is the model and that the pencil is a fingertip.
The model is made up of clean lines, of jutting elbows and meandering calves and a sweet curve of a neck. Takeshi can see that the serious sketchers are delighting in drawing him; they make wide sweeping movements and curling lines and it's not about the result, but about the joy of leaving a mark behind.
The hour is over too quickly and Takeshi's pages are near empty; clean expanses of white where he etches his longing only in his mind's eye.
(Does he still lose the game if it's a boy and he breaks the girl rule?)