When they weren’t together, Brennan worked on new pieces; the feelings that gushed through his veins needed an escape hatch. He found himself spending extra time at the art studio and bonding with his classmates as they worked on pieces. He always tried to be in the studio on days when Cliff had his Intro to Art class. Even if they could only trade a smile and wave, that was enough to satisfy him until their next lesson.
Brennan didn’t know how he was able to get a modicum of work done in his other classes. How could he read textbooks on the human brain or write papers on European history when images of Cliff clogged up his brain storage space? How could his right brain study and analyze when his left brain was going haywire with the need to create? He managed, but barely.
A morning chill swept through campus and rattled the bare trees when Brennan met with Professor Adamson on a November morning. He kept his coat on in her office, since she cracked open a window for the final puffs of her cigarette. Once she tossed the stub out the window, she walked over to her bookcase, where two of Brennan’s pieces rested - the painting he did the night he left Cliff’s dorm, and then his newest piece: The bold colors swished and tumbled together in wild strokes. Inside in the colorful chaos, cut up strips of a gray polo were glued into the shape of a person.
“Good job.” She bent down to take a closer look. “How many have you done in total?”
“Three prints this quarter. I’ve also gotten back into sketching thanks to a student I’m tutoring.” He had checked out Cliff’s finished work in the Art 101 studio, where the professor tacked their sketches to a bulletin board. He could tell which one was Cliff’s; he got to know the way his pencil moved and the uneven - but improving! - shading and shape design.
“Sketching, too?” She cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve blossomed into quite the overachiever.”
Brennan took that as a compliment and responded with a modest shrug.
“What fabric is that?” She peered over the painting.
“It’s a polo from Old Navy.”
“Huh,” she said with an amused laugh. “Inspired.”
Inspired by Cliff. He wished they could see each other more, but classes and basketball practice had picked up for him, with the basketball season starting this week. Brennan couldn’t get the image of Cliff’s innocent puckered mouth full of his cock out of his mind. He was going to sprout wood in front of his professor if he kept on this train of thought.
“I love your use of texture here,” she said of the newest painting. “The composition is striking. I’m intrigued by the juxtaposition of this lonely figure in the middle of all this chaos. It’s still rough, especially these brushstrokes over here.”
Adamson could toss off pithy, effective criticism the way most of us could order a sandwich. Pointed, but not cruel. Unlike Paul, who went for the jugular everytime. Brennan was grateful he wound up at Browerton under her tutelage.
“And while I love color, the amount of different colors in this one feels a little kitchen sink-y. Try to find one dominant color that can stand out.” She took a step back and examined the two in front of her, her head going back and forth. “Is this a planned series?”
“No. Just painting what I felt like.” Other students in class took a “start as you mean to go” approach with planning their collection. Brennan was happy that he was creating anything at all.
“There’s a common theme here. Exploration and fear.”
“Fear?”
Her comment made a small lump form in his throat. Brennan’s emotions spilled onto the canvas, but to his knowledge, fear wasn’t supposed to be one of them. He shrugged it off as her interpretation.
“Thank you.” Brennan took back the paintings and tucked them into his portfolio holder.
“I’m happy you’re finding your groove again. Who’s the guy?” She asked with a playful smirk.
Brennan felt himself blush. “What?”
“All great artists have a muse.”
“You think I’m a great artist?” He asked with a playful level of smarm.
“I think someone has inspired you.”
You would never think it if you saw Cliff, he thought. An ordinary, bro-y guy walking through the quad, someone people in his program would write off as a jock and keep walking.
“He’s…” Who was Cliff to him, he wondered. A guy he knew from back home? A fuck buddy? A guy he’s tutoring? Their relationship existed in an undefinable gray area. “He’s just a friend.”
“Is he your friend from home who goes here?”
Brennan turned red, but not for the reasons Adamson probably assumed. He forgot that he’d told her about Alex in his decision to transfer. He hadn’t spoken to him in a bit, not since he and Cliff had gotten sexual. Fortunately, Alex had loads of friends at Browerton, so he wasn’t being neglected. They were good enough friends for a long enough time to have periods of non-communication. Of course, this non-communication was mostly because he was jizzing all over his friend’s younger brother. (Which Cliff wanted! Really bad! It was so hot.)
“No, uh, someone else.”
“Keep at it, Brennan. I think you have a real shot of making the showcase this quarter.”
