Fic: Life Drawing 1/? PG-13 J2

[ladyjanelly]

Life Drawing
SPN RPS
PG-13
Entirely fictional
this chapter beta-ed by unperfectwolf

A fic that got away from me in the first paragraph, and will probably never get finished.  I know I should save it for WIP_amnesty, but I think I'll forget it by then.
Posted just to my own journal (unless some inspiration hits somehow and I do more than these first few chapters).

Jensen ghosts down the art-wing corridor, checking the note from his pocket to make sure he has the right time and room—Life Drawing I, upstairs, 6pm. The teacher’s one he’s worked with before, and some of the students may know him from their previous classes. Three years of this work has taken any edge of nerves off of the job; he’s got it down to a science.

He turns into suite A211, Lucinda Williams on his headphones, her voice equal parts red dirt grit and sensual confidence. She helps him get into the mood, shutting the world out, centering himself down.

He’s the first one into the studio, and he takes a minute, turning on the space heaters near the studio’s central platform, grabbing some pillows out of the cabinet in case he decides to use them later and bringing the wicker chair over from the props corner. He gives the space a careful look-over while he’s still got his glasses on, making sure there are no obstacles to trip him up when he comes through without them.

There’s a flurry of door-thumping and paper-rustling at the room’s entrance. Jensen can’t help but smile at the perpetually flustered Professor "Call me Eric" Kripke arrives in a whirlwind of fluttering drawings and dropped satchel. Jensen turns off his music and stuffs the headphones down into a pocket of his hoodie.

"Can I give you a hand, sir?" Jensen asks, not that Eric ever takes him up on the offer; the words have just become his usual way of saying hi.

"No, no, I’ve got it. How’s your week been?"

And crap, this is what Jensen hates about the art department, the way teachers are so casual about things. "Good," he manages to get out without stumbling over the word. "Did you have anything special in mind for the session today?" Talking business is so much easier for him.

Eric thinks about it for just a second. "I’ll probably have them warm up with a half-dozen thirty-second sketches, followed by four one-minute ones and then slow it down to a couple half-hour pieces." He shrugs. "You always do great, Jensen, I’ll just let you do your thing."

The first student comes in, juggling her portfolio case and tool-box full of supplies. Jensen takes that as his cue and heads to the closet marked "No Students, Models Only."

He slithers out of his hoodie, folds the soft fabric and lays it on the shelf. Next follows his t-shirt and battered work-boots. He takes off the long-sleeved thermal shirt and pulls on the robe he brought for this. It’s freakin’ cold in the closet. He promises himself for the tenth time he’ll buy a heater for this place one of these days, though he knows that books or food or something more important will always come up. He takes off his baggy, faded, blue-jeans, peeling his underwear down with them. Last of all goes his socks. The cheap plastic flip-flops keep his feet clean; warm is a different matter entirely.

He lifts his glasses off and folds them carefully. The last thing he can afford this month is a new lens. Outside the room, he can hear Professor Kripke talking.

Jensen opens the door and steps out into the studio. It’s better that he doesn’t wear contacts for this, he thinks, it’s easier if he doesn’t have to see the artists looking at him. He puts himself into this kind of head-space where there’s a wall of glass around him—they can see in but he doesn’t bother seeing out, and he’s beyond their ability to contact. Even with so many people watching him it’s easier than the catalog modeling he did as a child, Smile for the camera, turn your head a little, perfect, Jensen! Such a good boy. There’s something safe about being in front of so many, a protection given by the peer pressure they put on each other to be professional about this.

At Kripke’s instruction, he steps out of the robe and flip-flops and onto the platform. "Six thirty-second poses, Jensen," says Eric, "Whenever you’re ready."

Jensen drops into a crouch, one leg folded tight under his haunches, the other extended out straight, the sole of his foot flat on the floor. He twists his torso facing the stretched leg, and gathers his fists to his sides. There’s a split-second of stillness and then the scratching of charcoal against paper skitters through the room like a thousand rats on crack.

Jensen loses himself in the pose, count count count, pose count count of it. He hopes he’s giving them something to work with, supposed he must be, since he feels like it’s a good night, and all the instructors he’s ever worked for have always asked for him again.

"Was that six or seven?" Eric asks and Jensen falters.

"I’m—not sure," he says, but he can feel Eric’s reassuring smile without having to see it.

"Doesn’t matter. Give us three more at one minute each?"

Jensen just nods and goes into a pose that looks kind of like the Hanged Man on those cards his ex-roommate’s girlfriend had, left leg straight under him, the other brought up so his foot’s against the inside of his knee. He brings his left arm so the elbow is beside his ear, and leans his body towards the right. He relaxes his face, letting his eyes focus on something in the middle distance, once more becoming just a shape, a figure.

He gives them their poses and then waits for Eric to tell him what to do next.

"You need a break before the longer ones?"

Jensen nods. "Yeah, just a short one."

Kripke goes back to critiquing the work; Jensen pulls on his robe and steps off the platform. One of the guys is there, closer than Jensen had expected. Without his glasses, all he can see is tall, Caucasian or Hispanic and dark hair. For a second, Jen’s stomach clenches with the fear that one of the students is actually going to address him, here in front of everybody. His jaw clenches and he side-steps around the man without a word. He makes it to the dressing room and closes the door.

In the small room’s privacy, he stretches out the kinks and takes a sip from his water bottle. Two more hours of this means a sixty dollar check. Sixty bucks means food for the week and paying his roomie back some of the money he loaned Jensen for that stupid anatomy book that wasn’t available used. He rebuilds the wall around himself, insulating, comforting, and then steps from his sanctuary, back into the studio, to finish the night.

 

 

Comments

[nereem.livejournal.com]

I am a big fan of your Scar!Verse, so this did intrigue me. I enjoy your writing style and fall into it very easily (not to say its a simple read- or anything along those lines- just that i enjoy it and get into the rhythm of it)

I am interested to see where this could go. Your Scarverse still owns me :P

[ladyjanelly.livejournal.com]

Thanks!

For me, simple is never an insult. I really try to pull the reader in with few words and easy images. I'm glad it was easy to get into and feel along with the characters.

Chapter 2 is up, but that's all there is.

Scarverse is being a pain in my ass. Wrote ch 10, but probably need to cut 1000 words of blah before it's postable, and that's so depressing it'll probably be Monday before I do it.

[blueshakko.livejournal.com]

You have yet again created a totally believable AU that is very intriguing. Thanks for sharing!

[ladyjanelly.livejournal.com]

Glad you enjoyed, and that you don't hate me for being a fic-tease.

[embroiderama]

Oh, yes. Oh, Jensen. Just this little tidbit is absolutely enthralling.

[jellicle.livejournal.com]

Your characterization of Jensen is always so powerful and I fall in love every single time, darling! I hope you find the inspiration to continue this someday!

[motorwill.livejournal.com]

This is so believable. Nice job.

[ladyjanelly.livejournal.com]

Oh, broken, broken Jensen.

Glad it worked for you.

[elmathelas.livejournal.com]

I really want to read more of this.

[ladyjanelly.livejournal.com]

Chapter 2 (the last that I wrote) is up. I haven't added more than a few words since early January though. Never can predict my inspiration, so anything's possible.

[skuf.livejournal.com]

OMG PLZ WRITE MORE! Or, damn damn damn, when will I learn not to start reading WIPs, *headdesk*?? Excellent opening, I love your narrative voice! Please write more.

[snookscribbles.livejournal.com]

I love Jensen's isolation and self-objectification in this. Beautiful and achingly sad.

[ladyjanelly.livejournal.com]

This is, by far, the most fucked up Jensen I've ever written.

Glad you enjoyed it, short and fragmented though it is.

[gestaltrose.livejournal.com]

How lovely. *off to read more*

[ladyjanelly.livejournal.com]

Thanks. Glad you're enjoying it.

[(Anonymous)]

I just relived my lifedrawing classes in college reading this.

"There’s a split-second of stillness and then the scratching of charcoal against paper skitters through the room like a thousand rats on crack." Best description ever for that moment!

"Was that six or seven?" Eric asks and Jensen falters.
"I’m—not sure," he says, but he can feel Eric’s reassuring smile without having to see it.
"Doesn’t matter. Give us three more at one minute each?" And how many times have I heard those exact words in class! :D

Overall, just captivating. *G* I just had to tell you how much I was grabbed by this chapter before I went and read the rest. You've definately been there ;)

[realpestilence.livejournal.com]

Someone mentioned this in a fic search, and I had to come read it again. You write some of the best sweet, damaged Jensen out there.

[coffeegirl18.livejournal.com]

This is just awesome. Accurate and all, I actually drew a couple life drawings at the end of high school (it was a clothed model though). I think that's when I got into graphite drawings. They look so much softer than pencil. I love art but am strong in photography...I was actually looking at a class to take near the end of summer.

I honestly have a thing about models/artists. :p