"Everything's art, Dave. Nobody's 'good' at painting... or drawing even. We all just give it a different definition."
She's deep charcoal and Dave's watercolour.
He runs along the pages, filling in the cracks with his colour and flowing wherever he pleases. His pigment isn't bright; it's boring and light and he kind of hates it.
Her lines on the page are straight and narrow like the one separating her lips when she concentrates. She's blood and earth, taking the world by her own storm and conforming society to what she wants. She's deep charcoal lines and bright acrylics, her colours popping from the page. Dave's jealous.
He hates Mr. Johnson's art class. He's okay at drawing, and yeah, he gets a relatively good mark but something feels off about it. His sketchbook is filled with doodles of mindless things, and he has a good feeling he won't be achieving an 80 this time. Not when she sits across from him and 2 tables down, by herself when her headphones are stuck in her ears (and he can hear her music from where he's sitting.)
He watches her hands glide over her sketchbook pages and her teeth hold her lip back as hostage when she fucks something up. Her hair is dark and he wonders if her soul's like that too. Judging by the things she draws, he'd think so.
It's not like he has a crush on her really, they've never even really talked. She's got her group and he's got his, and despite art class they don't make eye contact. She's offered a half smile and he's felt too awkward and struck to muster one back. But he studies her; the way her hips swing when she walks and the way her hair's cut kind of unevenly. It doesn't matter though.
He doesn't have a crush on her.
-
Days pass in the art class and he's procrastinating getting anything done on account of her. He'd rather sit and observe for the 60 minutes than do anything, and he really doesn't have all that much motivation anyways. His sketches are shit and he doesn't know what to draw.
She goes to Mr. Johnson and he sends her back to her table, and he can hear him muttering something about a second opinion and how the lines were too dark. He must be a fool not to know she was never one for shading.
She puts the piece back on the table and looks it over, picking up her sketchbook and making her way to Dave. His heart speeds up and his face is probably a bright shade of cadmium red. He tries to hide it, but she sits.
Her hair's tied up today. She's got about 12 freckles peppering her cheeks and bright inviting eyes, that he could totally get used to looking into every day. She's gorgeous, and Dave's at a loss for words once again.
"What do you think of this?" She asks blatantly, watching his hands pull the sketchbook towards him. He studies the drawing; a side portrait of a girl's face against a moonlit window. He doesn't know how she's managed to make it look moonlit when it's in black and white, but she does.
It's beautiful.
"I... uh... it's good. Yeah." She sighs a smile and pulls the sketchbook back to herself. "Do you think I should shade it? Like right..." She pushes it back towards him and he catches sight of her hands, covered in charcoal grey and cadmium red. "Here?" He studies it again, the words forming in his throat but feeling choked when he tries to get them out.
"I actually like the lines... the uh, the way they are." He looks at her again and oh god, she's still beautiful and he's still such a fucking dweeb and he wants to slap himself. "That's what I thought!" She exclaims, locking her own eyes with his brown ones and flashing a smirk. "Thanks, Dave."
Butterflies erupt in his stomach and she's pushing back her chair and oh god dan, say something for the love of god say something. "Why do you ask?" She sits back down across from him and runs her fingers along the lines. "I like dark lines, and separating the light from the dark. I think it looks way cooler when you look at it, like, visually I mean."
