Chapter Text
Xavier is off today.
He's seated in front of a wooden easel, the same paint speckled easel I've witnessed him slouched over countless times till the early hours of the morning. He runs his hand through his hair, thin fingers still wrapped around a tattered paintbrush. The paint gets in his hair, and I watch as he tries to wipe it out with the sleeve of his shirt. Unsuccessful, he puts the paintbrush down hastily, knocking over a glass of water in the process. He curses under his breath.
He's been quiet today, too. Fidgeting more than usual.
With another paintbrush in hand, he moves towards the blank canvas. And as blue paint meets white canvas, I can tell that his movements aren't as smooth as usual. His wrist is stiff and rigid, like his mind is elsewhere.
It's well into the winter semester, and we're in his art shed; portable radiator cranked all the way up to keep the chill at bay. For the past six months, this has become very much a part of our weekly routine. An unspoken plan. After last period on Mondays we meet up here with coffees in hand; to do homework, to talk, to commiserate together.
Our unlikely friendship started in our fine arts class.
September
I'm running through the courtyard now, textbooks clutched to my chest, the sound of my quick footsteps echoing off the cobblestone.
I peek at my wrist watch.
Late for class, again.
Though this time it isn't entirely my fault. Enid had showed up at my door at midnight, huffing and puffing - ready to talk my ear off for the next few hours about her new pig-tailed roommate and weirdly enough, a disembodied hand? That last part, I hadn't seen coming.
Finally rounding the corner of the stone corridor, I silently push open the door leading to the second floor classroom. Ms. Penchant, the arts teacher, has her focus on the projector in the centre of the room.
I slip into an empty seat at the back of the classroom, careful not to bring attention to myself,
Success.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Looking around the classroom, I see Enid and her new roommate seated in the second row. Enid admiring her nails, and Wednesday glaring daggers into the skull of the boy seated in front of her.
"Alright," Ms. Penchant addresses the class. "Now that I've gone over the assignment, let's get started and partner up. Whoever's seated next to you will do."
Not knowing what said assignment is, I look sheepishly to my left and meet the gaze of the school's resident tortured artist.
Xavier Thorpe.
Of course I get partnered up in fine arts class with Nevermore's modern day Picasso. Just my luck.
I sigh, readying myself for the embarrassment.
Xavier's somewhat of a celebrity at Nevermore. Everyone knows of him. Everyone has seen his art, lining the courtyard walls. His paintings are often dark, with palettes of dreary greys and suffocating browns, but somehow they almost feel alive - like if I look away for just a second the painted figures might jump right off the canvas. Maybe that's why it's hard to take my eyes off of them.
The artist himself is also a bit of a mystery; Hard to read, aloof.
"Hi, I'm [y/n]." I give a slight wave. "What's the assignment again?" I whisper, as Ms. Penchant passes behind us..
"Xavier," he says in acknowledgment.
I know.
He pushes his sketchbook towards me. "Sketchbook exchange," he says simply.
Its cover is tattered from wear and tear, pages bulging from the use of wet mediums, and it almost seems sacred; an artist's sketchbook.
Though we don't have many classes together, it's common knowledge that this sketchbook never leaves Xavier's side. I've often seen him in the cafeteria sitting among his friends, eating with one hand and holding pen to paper with the other. It's amusing to watch, really.
I grimace as I place my sketchbook on the table and nudge it towards him. Mine looks brand new in comparison.
"Okay, just to set expectations...My artistic capabilities max out at stick figures and..." I trail off, flipping through the first few pages of my sketchbook. "And cats. But only on days that I'm feeling particularly inspired."
Xavier chuckles. "Expectations calibrated."
We exchange sketchbooks, and I start leafing through the pages. Instantly in awe.
Every page is filled almost entirely, some made up of a collage of doodles, some depicting hyperrealistic landscapes and portraits. Each page is marked at the bottom corner with a date, almost obsessively. In the drawings, there's an air of darkness and forlorn on every page, be it in the colours used or in the harshness of the lines.
It's no secret that Xavier's a psychic; that he has dreams that foretell the future. And as I turn to a page of a familiar pig-tailed figure approaching the Nevermore gates dated back to the previous semester, I come to the realization that these drawings depict his dreams —his visions.
The next page shows a man crouching in the woods, a large monstrous figure looming over him; claws out, about to pounce.
My eyes leave the page and flicker over to land on Xavier. His long brown hair is tied in a low bun, strands of hair framing his face.
"Do you-" I pause, trying to figure out where I'm going with this.
He looks up from my sketchbook. His eyes are a shade of green I've never seen.
I continue. "Do you ever have...happy dreams?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Do you?" He asks, his tone sarcastic.
"Well, what I mean is — why don't you put them on paper?" I flip through a few more pages of his sketchbook, all filled with drawings of haunted figures and a nefarious darkness.
A strange look blooms across his face; a combination of confusion and bewilderment, like he's never been asked such a question.
He doesn't answer right away, thinking.
"I suppose it's the same idea as not telling people what you wished for on your birthday." He looks away, picks up a pen and twirls it in his fingertips. "Might not come true."
"Hm," I consider.
It makes sense, the superstition. I've read that precognitive dreaming isn't fully understood. It's nearly impossible for the dreamer to know what part of their visions will become reality. At a certain point, it's torturous to scrutinize over every dream for even the smallest morsel of truth. The tortured artist label is starting to make sense now.
"Maybe I'm overly optimistic," I start, tapping my pen on the edge of the desk we're sharing. "But I'd like to think it would be the opposite."
He glances up at me, eyebrow raised in question.
"You know, put it on paper and will it into existence?" I shrug.
"Maybe I'm a glass half-empty type of guy."
"Well, it's a good thing there's a water fountain on every floor then, isn't it?" I respond, I grinning.
The corner of Xavier's mouth twitches. He drops his head briefly, shoulders shaking, before his gaze flickers back to me, breaking into an unexpected smile.
He's laughing now, and for a short moment in time, I can't bring myself to look away.
At this point, Xavier has painted over the canvas three times, unhappy with what he's created.
Strange.
He usually sits down in front of the easel with an image in mind, with purpose.
"Hey," I start, voice laced with concern. "You okay?"
He doesn't hear me, distracted; headphone in one ear, thoughts in another dimension.
I wonder what's on his mind, and it occurs to me that this could have something to do with the argument he had a few days ago with Wednesday Addams. I don't know what happened, but I had witnessed the tail end of it; seen Xavier storm past Wednesday, shoving her shoulder and knocking her off balance as he left the cafeteria hall.
Holding off my curiosity, I decided not to pry. But I didn't need to ask to know the answer. I had heard the rumours floating around the courtyard during lunch hour; rumours about the two of them, in love, sneaking back from the woods together in the dead of night. I had scoured Enid's blog enough to know that he had been asking about her.
Only, I know it's more than a rumour.
Xavier is in love with her.
In fact, I had seen the proof one Monday afternoon when I had arrived at Xavier's shed earlier than usual. My last period botany class had been cut short after a student had fallen into a tray of exploding nettles. Pure chaos ensued and the student had to be taken to the infirmary.
Remembering that Xavier had given me a key to his shed, I let myself in to hide away from the frigid January air. The walls of the shed were lined with canvases, stacked haphazardly against each other. And while Xavier's paintings were on display all over the school grounds, I always found myself admiring the art he kept stowed away in the shed. It looked and felt more personal, more raw; like he hadn't primed and prepped it for the public's gaze.
With time to kill, I had thumbed through a stack of paintings next to his workstation. There was a sheet of white linen pooled on the floor nearby, almost like it had previously been draped over the canvases. The painting at the very front was of two figures, fencing, one dressed in all black. Strange, I had never seen all black fencing gear. The second painting depicted another figure, sitting behind a crystal ball, entranced. I couldn't be certain, as the glow of the crystal ball obstructed the subject's face, but I could swear their hair was styled into what looked suspiciously like braids. It wasn't until the third painting that I started seeing a pattern, and the sour taste of understanding formed in the back of my mouth like bile. The third painting was unmistakably of Wednesday. She was seated in front of a familiar half coloured glass window, a cello positioned in front of her. Though the palette was dark and Wednesday's face pale and stoic, I could almost hear the emotion behind the chords come alive through the paint. Xavier had put his heart into this, and it almost broke mine to look at it for any longer.
Without much of a chance to process what I had seen, I positioned the paintings back against the wall as I had found them, draping the linen sheet over them as if it had never been disturbed. And silently and inexplicably, I slipped out the shed door and left, returning to the stillness of my dorm.
Xavier had sent me a text message shortly after, wondering where I was; asking why I hadn't met him at the shed like we had without falter for the previous few months. I cried, tempted to admit to him that I saw the paintings and knew about his feelings for Wednesday; considered asking if it was true. But I already knew. And even if it wasn't true, it didn't make a difference.
Accepting reality, I had wiped the tears off my face with the sleeve of my uniform and typed a hastily put together excuse to Xavier, claiming that my roommate needed help with an assignment and that we'd meet up tomorrow instead.
That was two months ago, and it still hurts, but I've since come to terms with keeping my feelings for Xavier at bay. Being close to him, laughing with him, and understanding him is enough — which is why Xavier's silence and nervous behaviour today is hard to bear.
Instinctively, I bring my hand to the thin gold chain resting on my collarbone.
He deserves to be with someone he truly wants; someone he trusts. And after hearing about the fallout between Xavier and Bianca at the beginning of the semester, it's since become abundantly clear that trust for him means no sirens.
As I watch Xavier intently from the couch, my fingertips follow the chain downwards, landing on an amulet.