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Dorelion Sidetracks




A quick sketch from the life of two art students in the town of Siriash.

- Written in 2004 (probably). Rated T.


Still Life?

"Don't you go yelling at me!"

"I'm not yelling!"

"Yes you are!"

"No I'm NOT!"

That comes out loud enough so that even he realizes it and shuts up. His cheeks are blazing like they always do when he's upset; that's what you get from being a natural redhead with loads of freckles and skin so white that he gets sunburnt just walking across the street on a cloudless day. His eyes are blazing too, but they aren't red, they are angry blue.

I know I'm flushed as well. And the corner of my mouth starts to twitch, I can't help it. He looks adorable when he's angry.

"See? You were yelling."

"No I wasn't, until you made me," he grumbles and turns away. His face is even redder than it was a moment ago.

The smile breaks through my last defenses and I grin to his back. Good that he doesn't see it, though he'll hear it in my voice for sure if I now say anything. I'm not sure if I should or not. Maybe I should say something, just to let him hear.

"Okay, maybe I got a tad carried away." That's the most I'm willing to give in. "And so did you. You always do. We both do."

He's about to protest, but that last bit makes his shoulders sag from the belligerent stance in which they were squared. He almost glances at me sideways, but not quite.

"So we do," he admits, sounding slightly rueful. "We're too temperamental to be together, really we are."

"No." I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him close, he lets me do that and leans back against my body. His hair smells of linseed oil and paint. "Well, I'm not denying that we're temperamental, but we can take it. Life would be so dull with someone calm and placid."

His head tilts against my shoulder, a still hot cheek brushes against mine. "Hmph. Dull?"

"Yeah. Boring," I tell him and breathe in the scent of paint and, underneath it, him. "I want somebody more capricious, somebody who makes my life exciting."

"By fighting with you daily," he sighs. He's getting over it, just like I am, although he's really the one to bear a grudge much longer. Not this time, though, I hope he won't be sulky tonight.

"Five times a day," I correct. "On average."

"I'm not capricious!" Suddenly he realizes what I've said and turns his head enough to give me a suspicious blue glare. Ahh, there now, just in the position to be kissed.

"Well, do you even remember what we were fighting about, just now?"

He closes his eyes, peers at me through fair, reddish fair lashes, smiles against his will.

"No," he confesses.

I hug him tighter. "Neither can I."

Really, I'm not sure of it any more. What started it this time? Can't be bothered to dig it up any more, just in case I get worked up again. Some trifle it must've been, anyway.

He laughs under his breath.

"You must let go of me, Bayor," he murmurs, arms clasping mine tighter around his waist. "I have that essay to finish by Thursday and I'm not even halfway through the first draft."

"And I could work some on that graphics plate I'll need to turn in by Friday." Yeah, I really could, but right now I have the feeling that the topic I chose for it needs to change. I can't possibly be expected to work on the play of light and shadow on a bunch of onions, when Janel is going to be in the same room, working on his essay.

How about the play of light and shadow on him? He's going to cuddle up in that dreadful old armchair, I know that. That's where he always goes to think and to scribble the first versions. It's in the corner, a little distance from the window, with enough but not too much light falling upon it.

He wiggles free, reluctant but determined, grabs his notebook and pens from the desk and pads away, gives me a little pout. Gods, he's cute. I want so badly to hug him but I need to work, too. Where did I put my charcoals this time?

He pulls his legs into the chair, curls up into an awkward-looking bundle, but I know it can't be nearly as uncomfortable as it appears since he can stay like that for hours. An admirable opportunity.

Scratch the onions... Master Felien will understand even if I don't make a still life after all. He'll sigh and shake his head, give me another assignment later on and sternly tell me to stick to inanimate objects that time, but accept my graphics plate anyway. He's human like that.

Besides, at least for the next two or three hours Janel is going to pretty much qualify for 'still life'. And I'd better get working, as long as he's sufficiently absorbed in how to cover the development of painting over the Late Donjati period in less than five thousand words.



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