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He wanted to make masterpieces.
As an adult, he told himself that art was the only escape from his family. Being the brother that was forgotten so often– art was the only exit from this hell world. He spent his days listening to Gymnopedies sculpting beautiful foreign women to keep him company. They spoke to his soul more than his mother ever had. Working fine marble into beautiful sculptures became something he did in passing. Most of the time he sold them, but in some cases he did not.
No one told him that one of his masterpieces would one day be staring back at him.
She sat upon the fat column. Her body was angelic but not in the case of skin and bone. She had curves, every foll of fat and swell of her hips or breasts is etched in the forefront of his mind as he draws. As he commends her natural beauty to the finicky white paper and the graphite that commended her to his memory. Except he didn't need to draw her to know her curves. He already knew them.
She is as real as the statue he etched in exquisite marble; once upon a time.
The flight of Aphrodite, he had called the sculpture. A feminine shade for a great purpose. His family asked why he would spend so much on a chunk of rock. Ivar especially did not understand why he spent time holed up in his art room, chipping a body he would never feel on his. Eyes that would always be as still as the stone he carved. With the flow of the fabric he cut, he tried to explain. This was what it meant to be alive.
There his masterpiece sat on the pedestal. Her hands just under her chin, eyes mesmerizing every time he looked up. He knew this body, too familiarly. But when his graphite met the job of capturing the passion in her eyes... that was something else.
He thought he knew what it was to be alive when he etched her into marble. Were her eyes cold and demeaning? Surely the facial expression in his statue was sexy and sensual. Lips parted into a love kissed 'o' and eyes barely ajar in her flight.
The moment her eyes caught his, he knew he was done for. He knew everything about her body. He came to her in visions at night but none so passionately as the small, smile upon her puffy lips that echoed the glee in her soft eyes when he caught her passionate ones. Flirtatiously you modeled for him in wispy fabric and by his gods, she was looking at him.
In a room full of men and women, she made him the focus of her attention. It made his heart clench and hair fluff when he ran his fingers through it. His wrist strikes the paper soft and gentle, dragging out her long eyelashes to go with her flushed cheeks. His final piece of the semester– and his heart was racing.
"Time is up!"
The students filter closer to the desk to turn in their work. The only one who didn't was Sigurd. He sat where he was, a man that aspired to do better than best. These were not classes for him but mere sessions to sit in and perfect the art of drawing in hopes to translate that to the work he did with his hands.
"Thank you so much, Miss (L/N)." His old teacher came forward with her dress. Flowy rosy fabric covers her nakedness as she dresses.
"It was no problem. I enjoy being the center of attention." She responds and as the old man banters of how unafraid she is of being in the nude and the beauty of it, she still looks to Sigurd with playful eyes. Then she steps off onto the ground. Her feet were graceful and sweet upon the unbecoming ground. She steps forward with her silken flats. Sigurd tries his best to ignore her beauty.
"You must be the artist Sigurd Ragnarsson."
Her voice washes over him in a smooth wave, filling him with warm relaxation. He gathers the rest of his things, motioning to the door as another class was about to come in and draw their final: a chubby older man with kind eyes.
