2007-09-10: Force Points +15


Ian_icon.gif Mikhail_icon.gif

** Geekery and Artistry**

Semptember 10, 2007

Force Points +15

Washington Square Park

It's a beautiful evening in late summer, early fall. While the Park isn't truly owned by the University, it's effectively its quad. There's a lovely central fountain, at the moment surrounded by students lounging, hanging out, and enjoying the lovely weather. A pair of them, however, are a little more active, and part of the plaza resounds with sounds usually only heard on other MU* entirely. Specifically, the crackle and hum of lightsabers. Some of the loungers are watching with amusement and incredulity as a pair of freshmen are apparently duelling their way across the plaza. Ian, it may be noted, is wielding a red one. His opponent, a redheaded student, is armed with a blue.

From where he's seated, the lightsaber fights look like fun. Mikhail has been watching the gathering ever since his own art class let out for the night, his art bin and carriers set to the side of the bench he perches upon. Yes, perch. He's sitting on the backrest, propping one foot on the metal arm while sketching out poses in his sketchpad. Each position and stance is drawn quickly, loosely, the lines messy and crazy as the lighting got dimmer by the minute. He stops to stare at the two opponents a little longer than usual, practically staring straight past them, even. But his attention is there. Really.

Some of the passages are clearly choreographed. Some are improvised, with the opponents scampering along the edge of the fountain's central basin, leaping over benches, and generally making use of the surroundings, though they don't tread on any of the watchers. AFter a last flurry of blows, it ends up with the redhead on his back on the ground, weapon shut down, and Ian having levelled the tip of his blade at his victim's throat. He strikes an appropriately triumphant pose, complete with vicious scowl….and then both dissolve into laughter, giggling like idiots. Ian shuts down the red blade, and offers his foe a hand up.

People pass by, Mikhail still sitting in place as he feels the breeze created by moving bodies. He doesn't show it, but he's very much into viewing this sort of thing unfolding before him. Blue gray eyes study the movements, catching brief moments, letting all of them overlay each other on the page. And yet, the final pose is captured, loose but clear enough to understand what's going on in the sketch. The art student's gaze flickers back over toward the two, seeing how well they both got along after the impromptu fight. "Nice," he breathes, his voice soft.

Ian slaps his comrade in arms on the shoulder, and the other student props the lightsaber over his shoulder, offers a mock salute, and heads back to the shelter of the dorms. Ian flops down breathless at the other end of Mikhail's bench, and glances over, one brow cocked.

At the landing thud, the artist blinks at Ian. The staring is mutual. It's only until he sees Ian's expression that something clicks. "Oh," Mikhail nods, facing the sketchpad at the other student. "You guys had some really sweet poses going, so it was good practice. Of course, that sounds sort of creepy," he adds, shrugging. "It can work in with my homework assignments."

Ian leans over, giving the sketchpad a faintly near sighted squint, before his eyes widen in pleased recognition. "Damn, that's good for such fast work," he says, admiringly, before glancing past it at the artist. "Homework assignment, eh?"

"Heh, thanks." The pad is drawn back, fingers flipping through the other filled pages. "Yeah. It's all figure drawing-related stuff," he confirms, giving Ian a half-smirk. He's been doing different groups all day, sitting wherever he could and just…watching. Again, the pad is held out, a chance for Ian to look through it himself. "It's not much, but it shows I'm doing something outside of the class," Mikhail says. The pages themselves show a group of girls, two teachers walking and talking, some guy doing a handstand, and others. Eric and Elena are a part of the paper crowds, their actions captured in more detail since they weren't moving all over the place. A floatin hand stays in a corner, belonging to no one.

Ian gives the image of Elena a closer looking-over. "I think I know her. She's a fellow student," he says, musingly. "I wish to God I could draw, but honestly? I can't. Not at all. You an art major?"

Mikhail looks a little surprised when Ian notices who it is exactly is in the sketch, eyebrows lifting. "Really? You know Ele? I mean, Elena?" He clarifies because who else knows the girl with the nickname he gave her? It takes him a moment to think about it. "Wow. It's a small world after all," the youth muses, stroking his chin. He gives Ian a knowing nod, having heard of the wish for artistic talent many times before. "Why, yes, I am. Mikhail Himura, second year, blah blah, all that stuff," he says with a low laugh, holding out a hand.

It's not so much a handshake Ian gives him as one of those handclasps than ends in a knuckletap. "Ian Jackson, just imported from California," he says, blithely. "Pleasedtameetcha. I don't know her well, but she's now my lab partner in the Organic chem class from hell."

Flow with it, yo. "Nice. Must be a big contrast to New York living, yeah?" Mikhail gets the gist of it, clapping and tapping. "Eastern Lit. She's helping me study all of the readings. It doesn't sound as bad as that chem class, though," he replies, quirking a brow.

"That chem class is a fucking bear, let me tell you," Ian says, pulling a really grotesque face in disgust. "Yeah, yeah, it is. Real contrast - I'd never been east of the Rockies until I came out here for my first visit. I'm lovin' it, though, honestly. Where're you from?"

He chuckles, amused with the reaction. "Cool. Ah…I've lived around here all my life. Well, not here here, but, you know," Mikhail shrugs, gesturing in invisible circles in the space in front of him. He can never really describe the area he lives in, it being one of those busy, diverse neighborhoods that one can find in one of those specific areas of New York. "It's not too far from here."

Ian sprawls out on the bench, since Mikhail is so obligingly taking up so very little of it. "Well, every born New Yorker I ever met seems to think this place is the be-all, end-all of the Western world," he says, propping himself up on the arm and reclining as if this were a Roman dinner.

The sketchpad opens up to another page, the pencil making more lines as Ian stretches out. Mikhail has no problem with this at all. "I don't really know what that means, but honestly? I don't really think it's that great." What. Is he dissing his own state? Another set of lines help detail the loose sketch. "I've never been anywhere else, so a change of scenery would be nice. New York gets boring after a while," he says casually, filling in facial features.

"I know what you mean. So many people come to LA like it's gonna be this fantastic fucking fairyland. But I grew up there, and I'm used to it. No longer impresses me much," he says. "We should do an exchange. Like for foreign students. Because face it, New York and California really are foreign countries," He lets his eyes flutter shut, lazily.

Mikhail nods, starting another sketch that focuses on Ian's head. "That sounds like a plan," he agrees softly. He does like the sound of it, however. Flying over to go and see what the fuss is all about with the overplayed Hollywood celebrities and all of the California hotspots. The pencil stops on an eye, the artist looking back over at Ian. "…Man, now I want to go," he says plainly.

Ian's smile is dreamy, reminiscent. "I miss it. The surf, the sun. I mean, I get to go back there, and I will. But man, maybe four years here….well, New York has its own charms." One finger drifts up to toy with with the gold ring in his left ear, idly.

Mm, sunlight. Mikhail finds himself drawing little palm trees and a happy, shiny sun next to Ian's figure study with the words 'CALIFORN-I-A' written hastily underneath. "And one can always travel after school's over with," he adds, remembering some of the girls he observed talking about their plans overseas whenever break comes around. He sighs, staring up at one of the lamp posts.

"Yeah. I'm totally gonna do study abroad. I mean, I've been overseas. We've taken some great family trips to Europe," Ian says, finally sitting up a bit. "Maybe even this summer. I don't really speak any other languages except Spanish, so maybe the UK or Spain…."

All the more to think about for Mikhail. Most of the students here have money, or have wealthy parents. His parents earn average wages, but it's nothing compared to this. "Cool," the art student smiles, drawing the Union Jack Britain is proud to bare. "I'd…be fine just going around the U.S. myself. I don't think I'd be able to go that far." Not like he's instantly homesick, but it's still a crazy thought, traveling all over the place.

Ian eyes him, speculatively. "Ever taken a long road trip?" he wonders, leaning forward so his elbows are on his knees. "What's the furthest you've ever been?"

Mikhail puts down his pencil and thinks about it. "…" That is a really good question. "…Not very far at all," he answers, glancing back at Ian without blinking.

He arches straight dark brows, expectantly. "Boston? Canada? Where?"

His eyes stay vacant, but focused. "Just New York," Mikhail says flatly.

The Californian leans in, conspiratorially, as if they were planning a prison break. "Man, we gotta fix that. No disrespect to the Five Boroughs, an' all, but…."

He leans back, readjusting his seat to lean back in with Ian. Blue gray eyes show interest in the 'plotting,' the New Yorker nodding. "Not a problem," he says quietly before gesturing slightly. "Continue."

He pats Mikhail on the shoulder. "We'll plan it out. There is a road trip in your future. Or train, or something. It'll be very Kerouac, very Hunter S. Thompson - though I promise not to get high on dexedrine and start hallucinating giant bats."

That's something to look forward to, at least. Mikhail juts out his lower lip, nodding with approval. "Awesome. I can work with that," he says, looking satisfied. Of course, the thought of getting high and having hallucinations somehow connects with his art projects. And no, he's never been high. "Shoot. School priorities are coming back," the art student squints.

Well, that must be rectified. Everybody must get stoned. "Can you drive? I can," Ian says, like a toddler boasting that he can count to four.

Awesome. Wait, what? "Whatever I can remember, sure," Mikhail shrugs, sort of oblivious to Ian's superiority in that area of skill. He does have a license, after all.

And now Ian's decided it's time to play with the lightsaber again. No, that is not a euphemism or an entendre. There's the snap-zhoom of the toy being ignited, and he grins despite himself. "Right on. I'll ask Elena, we'll find some others."

"Okay," Mikhail responds, like a young child who follows anything the older kids do or say. He has a hunch it will end up being crazy, but hey - it's one of those moments he'll live with forever if it goes through and happens. Oh - lightsaber. He should get one of those, too.

Everyone needs a lightsaber. Especially in hero-infested New York. And well, it will end up being crazy. Because that is how Ian operates. He perches himself on the back ot the bench, and then hops down to put feet on the pavement again. The glow of the blade has people looking over again.

It's on his 'to get' list. The sketchpad folds back over to its cover, a free hand grabbing the messenger bag in order to put it away properly. "Ian. Man. I gotta get going," Mikhail calls out a little, his mind going back to his projects. "Sorry I have to break so soon. The prof wants to see progress on one painting, and I haven't done anything with it." Because he spent most of his time staring at a blotchily-colored thing of canvas. But…he wants to stay and watch more lightsaber strikes.

Ian has it raised, as if to bring it down on some unseen foe. "Right on, man. You know where to find me. I'm always around." Like he's Peter Pan and lives in the trees of the park, or something. "I'll see you, Mikhail."
The art student nods, waving a hand as he turns to heft his other art materials. "Aight," Mikhail says, grinning. Making sure he has everything, he stows away into the night. His dorm room will see him way later.

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