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+---- Thread: like a dead horse • still-life class, wt (/showthread.php?tid=5703)
like a dead horse • still-life class, wt - ISIDORE. - 08-27-2018
[div style="margin: 0 auto; border: 0%;width:60%;text-align:justify; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13.5px;"]ooc | this is a human au i can’t believe u would think it would be anything else
Pens and pencils spilled out on to the floor with a soft clang, shaky hands scattering and picking through the sort haphazardly. ”Arrête, arrête ... god.” He was mumbling to himself, flipping his palms and gazing at them as they twitched and stammered, so he flexed his knuckles, rubbing them against the fabric of his shirt. His hands were shaking to no end, and though he did his best to beckon them, just will them to stop, they wouldn’t give in. Sometimes he would wake up and it would scare him how badly they tremored, barely able to support him as he rose out of bed, nearly brought to tears of frustration because he couldn’t do the most mundane things, like put in his contacts or eat his breakfast or draw.
But he was trying to anyway, because that’s what Moon had put him up to. Host a drawing class, simple enough, try to have some fun with it. But it was the shaking that was getting in the way, and he couldn’t figure out why. Did he have a nightmare last night? No. Did a noise set him off? No. Had someone said something or done something ... still no. But then he remembered it, how Fleur had once traced the line of his lips with her finger and praised his drawing, remarked how great of an art teacher he would be, that he should’ve ditched the army man, the life of luxury he’d been raised in, and become a brooding art teacher at a boy’s school in the next town over. It would’ve been a dream to do something like that, but her words hadn’t been encouraging, they’d been mocking, as if she’d been dangling all he ever desired in front of his nose like he was some dog. Like it was a foolish fantasy, that it would turn him into a failure, just how his father always anticipated.
So that was it then. That’s why his fingers were fidgeting as he adjusted the rows of canvases he’d set up, all ready to go. But once the realization of where this was all coming from, he was able to breathe, calm, and allow his wet palms to relax. Wiping them against the sleeves of his sweater, he walked to the front of the canvases, where his own was, and where an assortment of plants were displayed on a table. He didn’t have to worry about the mockery of his loved ones anymore, any judgement he received here was ... was different. So, he looked ahead through the observatory, and called out deeply, ”I’m holding a still life class, and ... and anyone’s free to join.” Dory scooped the pens and pencils, the ones he had picked out that weren’t all leaky or broken, and put them back into the mug they’d come from, setting them on the table in front of him for anyone to come grab and claim a small canvas.