Chapter Text
Damian was having a terrible day, no a terrible week.
On Saturday Condiment King set the tone of his week by bathing him with mayonnaise and ketchup,he had to scrub his skin raw to make the smell just a tad bit mild.
On Sunday alfred sat on wet paint of his painting of the chandelier it would not have happened if Todd had not opened the door of the library alfred must have been startled he would never sabotage Damian. It. Was. Todd.
On Monday he got the email that his order for the manohari gold tea leaves will be late and the are sorry , Of course they should be now he have to wait another 3 days for his tea blend.
On Tuesday Drake waved at him at the academy.
On Wednesday he got hit by fear toxin and father benched him for a week (he still have to go to the academy though,they act as if this is perfectly rational logic.)
On Thursday his favourite brush broke he had to search for 20 minutes whole in the store to find a new one of the same brand same size same type it was not the same, why is it not the same
Its Friday the smell of mayonnaise and ketchup have still not left.
Drake happily told him it might not go for another week Damian would have stabbed him but one Alfred had put a strict ban on stabbing anything other than food on the dining table , two Damian is pretty sure drake must taste horrible, three he is vegetarian.
(Brown in her usual stupidity says that alfred had put the ban specifically for Damian so that he is forced to forego being a vegetarian to become a cannibal)
Now Alfred is driving him to the academy its horrible. Not only he have to be in the same car with DRAKE and Thomas.
He even had to face the humilation of seeing all those immature tykes in the gotham academy trying to hold their breathe (literally) while doing their daily ritual of licking the ground the blood son of bruce wayne walks on (metaphorically).
Father wont let him take a few days off as if the those 'teachers' are capable of teaching him anything.
The 'teachers' (read imbeciles) can be divided into two types the first half of them are sycophantic, catering to his every whims wants while the other half see his obvious intellectual superiority as a threat afraid it will exposes their own inadequacies.
He hates both these types what he hate more is dealing with the first type when he wants to actually read the study material, at least while interacting with the other type he can extract some fun productive interaction in letting them see the wrongs of their ways.
But dealing with the second type (when he just wants to get some fresh breath) when he is do not want any part in their stupidity, is especially tiring.
He wants to paint the rough sketch of alfred the cat he started two days ago. Alfred had called him for dinner and he decided to put his painting of alfred for until later.
Later would have only came if he had stolen some moments between his various duties but that is not how he likes to make his art .
He likes to savour the process, keeping each process as a disjointed part makes him feel like he failed and at the end there is No sense in getting absorbed into a piece only to have to leave it midway.
Fortunately his maths teacher belongs to the first category he knows this so he makes a show of getting a stomach ache (he learnt polynomials when he was 7 he do not need this class but father wont listen ).
He takes his bag with him saying that he needs it for preparing for his next class the file containing the sketch is in his bag but Mr. Bianchi finds this as a good opportunity to sing his praises.
When he is leaves the class he is still going on and on to the those kids about how they should be as dedicated to their studies as Mister Wayne is.
Damian is a dedicated person he knows that he is and that is one of the reasons he is still concerning himself with such humiliating ordeals to his intellect .
Instead of the infirmary he takes a left turn and enters the art studio on the opposite corridor.
There is a girl sitting on the far corner of the studio , near the window
He blinks.
She is still there.
She seems absorbed on her canvas. He have seen her a few times.
She is in Drake's Chemistry class (even though she seems to be just a little older then him ,he can also be in the same grade but father wont let him skip grades).
And he knows she usually comes first in her academics class (he do not care about Drake's social life he knows this because he just like to be aware of his surroundings).
It is Friday today Drake have double classes of Chemistry today (he do not care about him he just have excellent memory), she should be there currently but she is not, she is here alone in an empty art studio bunking her class to paint.
He wants to go and complain inform the student supervisor but stops because of the possibility that she could have taken permission to be here. But he is supposed to be in the infirmary.
He huffs release a breath.
He places his chair facing the windows, near the door, he can see her from the corner of his eyes . He opened his kit to unpacks his art supplies and set up the easel for his painting.
Damian dipped his brush to create a slanted visage.
________________________________________
Damian dipped his brush inside the cup of water sitting on the desk by his easel, letting it rest there while he continued to internally critique his unfinished piece.
He frowned slightly, eyeing the dark blotch on the paper. Back in the art supply store, someone must’ve touched the paper with their grubby hands, leaving oils and faint smudge marks on the page.
Unfortunately, he only noticed after he painted a third of it. Next to the layers of cream ink washes, the stain stood out even worse.
The problem demanded an answer. He could try to cover it with more ink or incorporate it into his piece.
His mind began running through various compositions, utilizing the preexisting, half-way finished alfred the cat. As his ideas progressively became more abstract, he glanced at the girl. She has packed up her supplies.
He looks back at his composition piece. The girl has stopped before leaving the studio and turned to face his work. She is holding a canvas and a sheet of paper.
"Can i help you?"
"Ah, I know you are asking me why i am standing here and not what you actually can help me with."
what
"Because my father says i am beyond help"
what
"I also drew a cat like you"
She shows him the canvas it had an appealing acceptable rendition of a three legged calico cat.
He recovers (slightly), he does not want another foolish kid trying to endear themselves to him by the guise of shared interest. (Can't these idiots let him breath )He feels a rage bubbling in his stomach.
"Did I ask?"
"No"
"Then you should-"
"Are you constipated?"
What
"You look constipated"
WHAT
"You looked less constipated when you were painting but you did look constipated. You should eat more fiber."
She handed him the sheet of paper, it had a sketch of him, painting on his canvas.
Yes He looked constipated.
He blinks and the rage is there again.
He looks up, the girl had already left.