A Lesson in Aesthetics (for asthedrivensnow )

[prettyawkward]

Maybe there was something to be said for less sleep in a twenty-four hour day.  Rabastan hadn't done much to the rest of the house, but his studio was, for the most part, much cleaner than it had been previously.  He had even purchased a new chaise, shoving the other in the far corner as a new storage place for scrap canvases and boards.  The lighting had been rearranged, and he had even managed to paint the walls in solid colours, relieving it of the splattered paint swatches, cracks, and tears that had developed over the last few months of his restless nights.  His room, of course, was still an absolute disaster area, but Narcissa hadn't mentioned needing to occupy that space.  

Currently, Rabastan was sitting in the hall that led to his bedroom, staring at the wall before him.  Several times, he had imagined Narcissa returning, to the point where he had almost convinced himself she had, only to realise it hadn't happened, after all.  His eyelids closed and opened in near slow-motion.  Everything felt delayed, and he wasn't really sure how long he had been sitting there.  There was a mutter, and he responded, but so quietly he could hardly make it out himself.

Comments

[prettyawkward]

"I promise I will," he said, more to the parchment than to her, "I will."

He kept his eyes on his lines until she spoke, again. The question gave him pause, and he lifted his gaze back to her. This time he slowly let them trace her body, before landing on her eyes.

"I see...radiant light. I see brightness, I see shadows, and I see lines and curves. I see beauty in all that, you know. I can see the sharp edges of fabric. I see colour. Deep, and light, contrasting and playing off of each other. I see strands of hair, and smoothness of skin, and...all I see is on here. Or will be, eventually."

Rabastan paused, hoping that he hadn't said anything offensive. He was never sure if anyone understood what his world was like; what his sight, his sound, his sense of touch and taste were. Sometimes he felt like he was living in an extrasensory world, and no one else was.

[asthedrivensnow]

Her skin feels tight as he looks her over, her dress suddenly made of needles for a moment - and then just as suddenly it goes, and she smiles dreamily at him as he describes how he translates her physical being onto parchment.

"You see beauty..." she murmurs, not sure if she's being complimented or not. Indecision hurts her happy floating brain, and she reaches for her glass to drown it out, draining it in a single elegant motion. "S'all anyone ever sees."

Her feet stop swinging.

"Pretty face, pretty figure, pretty hair, pretty eyes, isn't Narcissa so lovely." Her feet begin to swing again. "Do you see me? Or just pretty Cissy Black?"

She hates that name.

[prettyawkward]

That caused him to stop, completely, his eyes moving back to her once more with a rather bewildered expression. Maybe it was a revelation. For so long he never felt like anyone actually saw him for who he is, or understood him at all.

"Well, you are lovely, and I am drawing you with full realism. I do like abstraction, though. You're bold. You're daring. But you're confined. Like me, yeah? Held in rigid walls, trying to break free. But we can't. We're not allowed to..."

[asthedrivensnow]

His expression tells her she's voiced something she usually keeps rather well-hidden. Her scorn for those who don't bother to look past her face and figure is most often disguised as sarcasm, and it's rare that she actually gives voice to her worry that all she'll ever be is someone's pretty trophy wife.

But the potion takes the edge off so many things, and so she stares at him in return, concentrating until he's in sharp focus.

"Rules," she states, agreeing with his comment about walls. "And duty. Proper ladies this, correct behaviour that."

Narcissa hates the confinement of being a dutiful Pureblood daughter... but Andromeda had to go and be an obvious rebel and left her baby sister to pick up the pieces, and there is absolutely nothing in the world that will make Narcissa cause a further rift in the fabric of her family. So even though she inwardly rails against the familial cage, she still allows herself to be kept within it.

"...thank you, though." Because a lady always acknowledges a compliment.

[prettyawkward]

Rabastan paused a moment longer, and then continued his sketch in silence. It wasn't until many moments later that he spoke again..

"I'll paint this, then. I'll paint it in my style. Abstract and raw. I'll make you show up. I can do that."

[asthedrivensnow]

Her head is floaty enough that the silence feels warm, and when he does speak, she blinks at him in surprise.

"I know you can."

She stretches, back arching and arms reaching out wide, before she resumes her position-- and then ruins the pose entirely by bringing her feet up onto the wide sill and hugging her knees. Hopefully, he's captured as much of the initial position as he required, because she's settled into a little ball, quietly and happily rather high.

Although her dress still feels like needles, and she shifts slightly.

[prettyawkward]

He finished without much pomp, he knew he'd use it later for a painting, so he could add more details at that point. With a fleeting, twisted sort of smile down at the piece, he closes his sketchbook and looks back at Narcissa.

"Are you well? Is there anything else I can get you? Is that drink treating you all right? I feel fucking wonderful. I don't know how it affects others, I've never given it to anyone before..."

Rabastan felt a bit more secluded in his brain, which was probably a good thing. He might have even felt lonely, if it wasn't for the fact that Narcissa was right there before him. He hated the noise, but he'd grown accustomed to it, and living alone had some extreme disadvantages. Now he felt buzzed and heady. Creative, but slow.

[asthedrivensnow]

"I feel..." Her voice trails off as she thinks about his question. It's probably not a good idea that she drinks something medicinal created for him and then combines it with whiskey, but it's too late now, and anyway, she does feel good.

Definitely floaty, and hyperaware of everything she touches.

"I feel strange. I feel as though I can fly and as though I can sleep for a thousand years and I like it, I think... But my dress is made of needles and pins and my skin prickles wherever it touches me."

[prettyawkward]

Skin. Well, now he was thinking about that. He took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly.

"That doesn't sound good," he sympathised, knowing exactly how she felt. There were moments where everything felt wrong around him. He had to move, or do something differently, or face a different way.

Remove something.

"You could always--you know, if it's bothering you..."

[asthedrivensnow]

"I wish you didn't live in this apartment," she says, suddenly sitting up straight. "I want to go stand in the rain, and you've only got a courtyard and all your neighbours."

Her hands rub unconsciously at her arms, though they're not covered, as if to soothe the needle-like feeling she's experiencing elsewhere.

"...if what's bothering me?"

[prettyawkward]

There was that wonderful experience of him mentally berating himself for his lack of a private garden. How he'd love to see her running about in the rain, free-spirted, and uninhibited. Now that was something he'd love to paint.

"Ah...your dress. If it's bothering you. You could...rid of it. You're safe here, of course. Like before. I'm only saying..."

[asthedrivensnow]

All her movements feel slow, even though she's moving at a normal pace, and she laughs in delight at his suggestion.

"Of course! You'll hang it up nicely for me, won't you?" She stretches long legs down to the floor and pushes away from the sill, floating over to him on tiptoe and presenting her back.

Long blonde hair falls in thick, heavy waves to her waist, obscuring the line of buttons holding her dress closed.

"Can you get my buttons, though? I don't want to touch them - I can feel them on my spine."

[prettyawkward]

"I will!"

He wasn't exactly sure why he was surprised, she had spent an entire afternoon with him completely nude, after all. Maybe he had been starting to think it was all in his mind; a strange memory that he had come up with that seemed incredibly real. It wasn't unheard of in his own little world. It had been more and more common place.

Either way, when she turned her back to him, he gladly complied. His fingers fumbled to undo her buttons as quickly as he could.

[asthedrivensnow]

"Mind the needles don't prick you, too," she sighs, a little dreamily, as he slowly exposes her back and the peach silk camisole she wears beneath the dark green dress.

The buttons run all the way to the cleft of her bottom, though that's hidden from him by matching silk shorts, held on at her hips by velvet ribbons.

She shrugs her arms free and lets the heavy fabric fall, trusting that he'll catch it.

[prettyawkward]

That he does, his hands full of the fabric when they'd rather be somewhere else. He held up the dress as though he was afraid touching it too much might damage it somehow.

He glanced around for something, anything to hang it up with, finally locating a twist of wire that he can form into a makeshift hanger, and perch atop the open door.

"Does...that feel better, Narcissa?"

[asthedrivensnow]

She's standing at the window again when he asks his question, about a metre or so from the sill. Still on tiptoes, she turns once in a slow circle, the wan sunlight creating shadows as she moves.

"Yes. It does."

Then her eyes spy her glass and she flits over to it, picking it up with both hands and facing him with a guileless expression.

"Shall we have another?"

[prettyawkward]

Rabastan took a moment, his eyes distracted by smooth silk and what it hides. He snapped out of it soon enough.

"Ah...you won't fall asleep on me, will you?"

[asthedrivensnow]

Normally she'd have a snappy reply ready, but she's already pleasantly buzzed and floating. So she thinks about it.

"...probably not?"

[prettyawkward]

It was her reaction that caused the muscles in his face to pull tight into a smile.

"All right, then," he said, motioning for her to follow him back to the kitchen, "You'll join me, yeah?"

Maybe in the back of his mind he thought she might disappear if he went by himself. All these once strange thoughts sometimes seemed so reasonable, but at least he wasn't feeding off of them as much as he usually would.

[asthedrivensnow]

Nodding, her smile echoes his - but hers is much more relaxed, and she doesn't so much as walk with him as meander slowly behind him, staring into her glass.

He may have to remind her to hurry if he doesn't want to turn around and find her in a room she shouldn't be in.

[prettyawkward]

He kept an eye on her, guiding her all the way there. As much as a part of him would want her in his bedroom, there's a much larger part that would be terrified of what she'd see. Walls covered in carved words, painted words, slashes and marks everywhere. A gateway into his brain, for the most part. An absolute, horrific mess of abusive and terrifying words that he hears on a regular basis.

But enough of that.

He led her into the kitchen, pulling out the firewhiskey, and the small vile of potion. He quickly, haphazardly mixes up the concoction, handing her the glass back, and taking a large gulp of his own.

"Haaaa, fuck...I hope I don't get too out of hand for you!"

[asthedrivensnow]

She'd be horrified and fascinated, and frankly, she's in the frame of mind where she'd crawl all over everything and ask invasive questions.

Leaning against the table as he mixes their drinks, she takes her glass back and stares at the amber liquid. Narcissa has absolutely no way of knowing what the correct dosage is of that potion, nor does she care at this point. She has another mouthful, licks the remnants of liquor from her lips and says, "Fuck is a very vulgar word, Rabbie."

[prettyawkward]

"Hmm? Oh. I suppose it is. Sometimes I say it so often I hardly realise it."

He looked down at his drink, rolling his glass around so the liquid swirls around the edges.

"Sometimes I forget what it means. I'm sorry if it offends you..."

[asthedrivensnow]

Her head tilts, and she stares at him for a moment that's almost too long as to be uncomfortable.

"I didn't say I was offended, though, did I?"

Many words are vulgar. And she's a lady, in her undergarments, high in his kitchen.

[prettyawkward]

It did make him feel slightly uncomfortable. Enough that he broke his eyes away from hers and stared at the ground with a shrug.

"No, you didn't. Mum always thought it was inappropriate. She'd slap me for it, often. I just kept doing it. She finally gave up.

Haaa, that's a downer. So you're all right with me saying it, then?"

He took another sip of his drink.