Work Text:
“Wrong. You’re doing it wrong.”
The student yanked the sharp needle from the new Fauvist. Inky eyes looked over the rough seams conjoining sheets of leather and hide, a click of his tongue displaying his obvious disdain.
Giving his fingers a quick wet with his tongue, he focused on threading the needle. In his periphery, he glimpsed the fellow student’s hunched shoulders of pitiful dejection; fists clenching and unclenching around the twines of red thread tangled across the table. Undoubtedly the fruits of their futile efforts. Yet another example of a greenhorn running amok with the medium without understanding the basics.
“What my insignificant self can demonstrate… Is merely the orthodox theory that lies behind the beauty of Fauvism. Allow these fundamental concepts to lie as a stepping stone, before you move on to ambitious expressions of the sel-”
“Jeez Louise. Ren, why are ya breathing down a newbie’s neck again?”
The needle jammed dangerously close to the scales of his index finger.
“A greeting would have been appreciated—” He didn’t turn to the source of the sharp voice — there was no need to, really. He could imagine the white-haired student in the doorway behind him, in her ruffled, unironed uniform; purple ribbons wrapped around the patchwork that made up her bear paw, her other hand clutched around the newest Fixer magazine. “—Kira.”
“Yeah, pish posh, you know it’s me. So what’s the point of saying hi then? Plus, this is training to gain some crazy EXP on my sneak attacks!”
“Unlike you,” Ren set the needle down with a soft hum, then turned to meet the twinkling purple eyes — excitement threatening to spill over. About the release of that new video game, probably. He quickly glanced the other direction, watching the afternoon sunlight glaze the windows of the classroom, pooling around Kira’s worn-out shoes. “My humble self has better things to do. Please pay attention for once; and realise that I am in the middle of bequeathing knowledge to an eager student.”
Kira snorted. “Your ‘eager student’ is close to cryin’, bro. But sure, whatevs. The release of Duck Taxes 2: Put it on the Bill gave me crazy inspo. I gotta finish this project, sooo.” He watched as she bit on a needle, produced from the inside of her unbuttoned jacket. She gave her thumb a lick, before shoving the thread through the eye with ease. “See ya!”
Ren heaved an exaggerated exhale.
As he expected, the ‘eager student’ of his excused themself a little while later, making a dash out of the door with maddened haste. Ren stepped out to the corridor, striding over the sun’s rays on the pristine tiles. The classroom was empty, as they usually were during a lazy weekend afternoon. He somewhat missed the hustle and bustle that would crowd the classrooms — the sight of clumsy fingers folding thread over needles, the sound of familiar tinks as they slipped from inexperienced grasps, the scent of iron underneath the heavy aroma of paint.
Why would they run away? They’ll figure it out soon enough. The perfected art of Fauvism — the balance of primary colours, perfected needlework; with the ferocity of an untamed beast.
An expression of the-
The sight of a lanky woman, hunched over the stairwell, stopped him in his tracks. He cleared his throat, making sure his heels clicked against the tiles as he approached her.
“…Sora. It’s nice to see you here.”
If he hadn’t stepped backwards in anticipation, ebony-coloured ram horns would have impaled Ren’s head, as his fellow student whirled around in a frenzied motion.
“E-eh? Aah— Ren!” A ram mask lowered to reveal Sora’s wide, dark eyes, framed behind her round glasses. “I’m so sorry! I-I didn’t mean to almost… Um… Decimate you there.”
Perhaps Sora cannot be greeted from behind at all. He should make a mental note to change his approach.
“It’s alright. My humble self hadn’t seen you around these corridors in a while.” Ren stopped briefly. “Lucio said that your Docent had you working for a prospective auction piece.”
“O-oh, word spreads so q-quickly…”
Ren tilted his head, stroking a strand of his hair between his index and middle finger. “Please forgive my insignificant self for such intrusive curiosity… but are such rumours true?”
Docents rarely approach mere students for auction pieces — Docents themselves getting an opportunity to auction off their artwork was a rarity in itself. Even though the five of them had enrolled at around the same time; from what he had heard among his other classmates, Sora is exceptionally capable. The gospel that she will rise in rank soon are copious.
And much like what happened with her, most rumours don’t crop up without reason.
“…L-Lucio’s right. I’ve been working on improving it with every piece of critique offered, but I think it will get a-approved soon! My first auction piece.” Sora giggled, her cheeks reddening as she clutched the ram mask closer to herself. “My D-Docent says… It’s an astounding piece of artwork, too. That they’ve never seen such a… such a powerful expression of the self before.”
“Is that so.” Ren closed his eyes with a hum. “My humble self looks forward to seeing it for myself, when it is ready.”
“Do y-you promise?” Sora blinked at him, a smile twitching on her lips. “…Ren, I-I can’t wait for you… For everyone to see. It w-would be such the monumental occasion.”
“Mhm.” Ren nodded halfheartedly. “…Sora. How do you manage to-”
Ren’s eyes met her curious ones for a moment. Her ivory-coloured uniform almost radiated under the sun’s golden rays that blanketed her; her ruffled hair formed a bright halo around her head.
Sora was painful to look at.
“…Never mind. My humble self apologises for taking your time. See you around.”
He walked off before the bewildered woman had a chance to reply.
It wasn’t long before Ren heard the rhythmic click-clacking of someone’s shoes - no, talons, rather, behind him. The sound was quiet enough to tail him like a shadow; yet intentionally and meticulously crafted to be audible, barely so, to his ears.
He closed his eyes.
“…Albina. If you have something to say, say it to my face.”
The clicking echoed closer to his ears, before it came to a screeching halt.
“Greeting an old friend like this… How crude, Ren.”
He forced his eyes open, lifting his head to meet, to his surprise; the direct, unfiltered gaze of the white-haired woman. Ren stumbled, immediately biting his lip to stifle his yelp of surprise.
“Ah. My humble self incorrectly assumed you would have your mask on.”
“Hm? Isn’t the unpredictability of the human psyche just so exciting?” Albina raised her feathered wing of an arm to stifle her soft laughter. Her white jacket was unbuttoned to show her black suit shirt underneath — unusual for Albina. In the afternoon sunlight that crept through the windows, she was blinding.
Ren took a step back and lowered his head, taking a sudden interest in the hint of a crack in the ivory tile, right next to Albina’s left claw. “If this is about what happened last week…”
“No no no, not at all!” Albina’s mouth widens. To an unexperienced eye, it would seem she was truly taken aback; but recognising her feigned emotion came as a second nature to him.
Ren stole a glance at the feathered arm poised over her jacket — very much pointing a giant neon sign over the bandages on her chest, peeking out from behind the black shirt she wore. Back when they were both students, she was always one to emphasise on contrast, framing, chiaroscuro, or whatever she liked to call it. Some things never change.
As much as every muscle in his body begged to turn tail and run, there was no escaping from it. Crossing paths with her was ought to happen. Ren bowed his head, already feeling the heat blossoming in his cheeks.
He felt like a child.
He felt disgusting.
“My humble self would like to apologise again for my unwarranted outburst; and the subsequent injuries it caused. It was in defense of my Master’s name-”
“Cut the bullshit, Ren.” The soft chime of her voice cut him off.
Ren maneuvered his arms behind him, biting on his tongue before anything could spill out.
“You and I both know that’s not true.” Albina’s gaze was fixed on him, yet he vehemently continued staring at the floor. He saw the sight of the crimson pooling; painting over the perfect ivory sheen of the tiles with a bright sanguine hue. The fine white fabric of her shirt soaked in the same scarlet, formed from the ugly, open gash that ripped down her chest. The very same scarlet was coated on the antlers that jutted out of his left arm.
“At least I’m being honest here. That I’m not angry at you. I haven’t told a single soul, not Maestro, not even our dear friends, about this.”
The image was seared into his mind — of her lying there, that unchanging smile plastered on her face. She was mesmerised by the very same sight he had run away from. A panicked deer confronted with the gaping maw of a vicious wolf.
“Imagine how they would react, Ren. A student lashing out at a Docent to this degree-”
“What do you want?” Ren snapped.
“There it is. What I wanted to see. That fiery spirit!” Albina giggled. “It’s funny that you ask that, really. I know what you want. And how you can achieve it.”
“If this is going to devolve into crude jabs about my Master’s tutelage again, I’d rather not-”
Her tone flattened. “Ren, you preach orthodoxy more than any other student here. You know the very basics of Fauvism off the back of your hand.”
Ren tugged on a strand of his hair with his fingers.
“Look. The carrion crow, the black vulture, the red-tailed hawk. All gorgeous pieces in their own right; overlaid on top of the beast which took my breath away in the very first place.” The Docent runs a finger over the multicoloured feathers of her arm, before stopping at the black-and-white hide on her forearm. “Every beast has a purpose behind baring its fangs. Every shuddered breath and contracture of the corpus has meaning — that, in on itself, is beauty. Do you understand, Ren?”
He met her gaze, at last.
The seething look of pity in her eyes stung.
“Ah. Ren. I wasn’t expecting you to drop by tonight.” He was seated in his favourite couch, fiddling with the stitching on the wolf paw that made up his arm. The woeful eye of a deer glittered from the darkness.
Ren couldn’t recall how he had gotten here.
“…Lucio.”
He hated how his voice quivered.
“You look tired. Long day?”
“Probably.”
Perhaps he wasn’t satisfied with Ren’s answer, but Lucio nodded anyways, patting the couch next to him. “Come have a seat, then.”
Ren’s legs moved before he could register it; he sat down with a hum. Outside the paneled window, the last crow of the evening imparted a mournful caw. Moonlight bathed the room with a melancholic silver glow. The lights were off, as always; for some odd reason, Lucio had vehemently protested against basking in the golden cast of the room’s lights.
“Lucio.” His own voice sounded distant. His throat was dry; his thoughts entangled. A jumbled clew of thread which could neither reach a beginning nor an end. Yet, he tugged at the words until they were forced to spill out of his mouth.
“Does the absence of light bother you?”
“I quite like the darkness, really.” Lucio’s voice was deadpan, as usual; but Ren caught the slight tilt of his head, indicative of his curiosity.
“Art is… Art is about bringing things to the light, for the audience to observe and evaluate.” Ren hugged a pillow to himself; the semblance of comfort was good enough. He kicked his feet and watched his shadow echo the motion. “If something is left in the dark, how would one know whether it existed in the first place?”
“…” Lucio tugged on a strand of his silver hair, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Even if it isn’t observed by an audience, it doesn’t erase its existence.”
“There lies no value in art that can’t be seen.”
“Yet it is the struggle behind the art that gives it value.” The other man leaned forward. Lucio placed a hand on his arm; Ren froze. He could only watch his hand, littered with countless scars, run through the ridges of the gemsbok’s antlers, to the junction where it meets the coral snake’s scales. Hides of multiple beasts, entangled into an amalgamation of rough stitching and colour. Some said it was a bold expression of unorthodoxy; some said it was the unfiltered, naive work of an amateur.
“Even if it isn’t comprehended by the artist or the audience, there must be some semblance of thought behind the artwork upon its creation.” Lucio shifted his deer mask onto his lap, a hand tracing down the rough stitching, to the empty socket of its right eye. In the dimming moonlight, Ren saw the semblance of a smile on his face. “Those experiences which made you who you are now, turned into artwork… It’s an immortalisation, isn’t it?”
He think he nodded.
“…It’s okay if you don’t agree. Like you said, you must’ve had a long day.” Lucio shifted, tugging Ren’s head onto his lap with an odd familiarity. Maybe it was something they used to do often. He didn’t resist.
His head felt heavy.
In the dying light, Ren closed his eyes.