"Art. Art. Art. It was even nice just to say it. No complicated spelling or unnecessary hidden letters. Just Art. But within the small confines of three letters, contains the most expressive and emotional and varied and individual and creative things that you can make as if you were a god. You don't even necessarily have to be any good at it, take me for example. I used to be shit at art, and even though at times all artistic skill I have just goes completely out of the window, all you have to do is fall in love with art and try to achieve something that makes you happy over and over. Having a natural artistic skill is barely half of what makes you good at art. But looking at a piece someone has created and finding a shard of yourself as if you were looking into the mirror, that is art. Feeling the longing to express a point of view, and being able to put it down on paper, but using a paintbrush instead of a pen, that is art . Seeing beauty and meaning in things others don't, that is art." I stared at my fine art teacher, Mr Scott, hanging off his every word. Most of it didn't make sense to me of course, or at least, he sounded as if he was being melodramatic, but it didn't matter.
He had a mop of jet black curls that shaped over his face and jawline. Diligent blue eyes that light up when he was talking about something he felt passionate about. This isn't one of those Harry Styles/teacher fanfics on wattpad that should never have been created if you were wondering. Everyone thought he was beautiful. Icarus next to me was practically drooling. Especially since the day Mr Scott was caught behind the sports shed with Mr Hamish, Icarus can't take his eyes off him since.
I was doing a portrait that was meant to express the indistinguishable line between my nightmares and real life. The now half-filled canvas was a visualization of every time I closed my eyes. Like war, I was just one person and I couldn't stop it. Like the weapons, the pain varies and takes many different forms and purpose. And like the war going on inside the soldier's head, I felt like I couldn't explain or get others to understand what was happening. Instead of talking, I threw paint at a blank space using a cobweb of hidden meaning to be able to actually get the piece to mean anything to me. Course there's also huge differences between me and the subjects in the painting. Some soldiers are extremely lucky and some extremely unlucky. They have more courage than I could ever have, even if I didn't have to spend all of it on fixing the problems in my own head. But they could still keep faith and hope and a sense of purpose that I wouldn't know how to use if I had any of those things.
But just in case, if anyone asked it was just an oil painting looking at the different kinds of soldiers throughout history, and how a war can change but the conflict remains constant.
"Wow Carmen. That's fantastic. Where did you get the idea from?" Mr Scott asked. I nearly jumped out of my skin, he had no idea of personal space, and I had no idea he was behind me. I explained to him about war and that it didn't matter if they were Native Americans or modern day soldiers fighting in Afghanistan, they still suffered the same fate. Death or physical and/or mental injury.
"That-ts," he choked on his own words. "really moving. Incredible."
"It's barely even half finished yet Sir." I protested. "It just looks like it's more about apathy rather than an emotional, symbolistic painting."
"For the last time, just call me William." Mr Scott was a relatively new teacher here, and had decided that to appear more approachable, he would insist on being called by his first name by all of his students. To me it just felt weird. "And its not apathic, it is already showing the potential to be one of the most tragically beautiful paintings ever produced by this art class." He sniffled his nose and walked away. I looked at Icarus across the desk from me and shrugged. 'What had gotten into him?' I thought 'he was usually a bit odd, but never like this.' Icarus walked over to me.
"Do you not know?" Icarus said to me, trying to keep his voice hushed.
"Know what?" I asked.
"Well, you know about him and Mr Hamish?" I nodded my head. "Mr Hamish used to be in the army before he became a maths teacher. And when Jim was going to Barcelona to play in a football tournament with the rest of the team, apparently when Mr Hamish fell asleep on the plane, he started to mumble about bombs and guns, until eventually he turned into full on night terrors." I smiled in my head at the familiarity. "Jim thinks that when he was fighting, he must have had to come back to England because of the stress disorder. Omg Scottish is canon isn't it?"
I laughed at Icarus' obsession with his favourite gay otp, Scottish (Scott and Hamish) . He showed me a fanfiction he wrote about them once. Needless to say I was traumatized.
**A/N - Thank you so much for the reads and votes and comments. Keep commenting how you want the story to develop and characters you want to see more of e.t.c ... Also, if you haven't noticed yet, Mr Scott is
William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Mr Hamish is Dr. John Hamish Watson
.The only I used them is because I needed to add some more characters in, and I wanted to just have a bit of Johnlock banter. (I'm so sorry) . The idea Sherlock doesn't really have any future involvement at the moment, but I probably will quietly continue those two characters if I need them. Its still a doctor who fanfic, but I'm developing the characters a little at the moment. Love you lots x - A/N**
