"I'm not complaining," Atticus continues, a patented lie, as he fiddles with his half-done carving, "but sometimes I really hate university, you know? And some of my classmates this year are so frustrating. Like, what do you mean you're in a 400-level writing class and still can't figure out when to use the possessive your and when to use the 'you are' contraction. It's not like I'm an English major, either, and I get it. Writing is hard. Double-checking what you've written isn't. And, like, the professor had to actually get up and tell people to at least use spellcheck because some of the short stories getting turned in just absolutely butchered the English language. Someone spelled 'because' b-e-c-u-z!" The little blue lizard he's talking (ranting) at blinks placidly at him and the whittling knife he's taken to waving around in his annoyance. They stare at each other for a long moment before Atticus deflates, sighing.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, as though the lizard actually chastised him, "'Don't be so harsh', yadda, yadda." Atticus turns his attention back to his carving. It's gotten to the point where he's only taking tiny slivers off, more refining the shape than anything. It took a long time for him to get happy with his art again. For a long time, he had hated everything he carved, always convinced it wasn't good enough, and when he got to university it took Professor Lavode basically grabbing him by the shoulders and rattling his brain around for him to learn that it's okay for stuff to not be perfect. He's young, he has time to figure it all out.

He sighs, continuing more softly, "still, that one kid, forgot his name, he acts like he's better than everyone but his writing is middle-school level at best and he refuses, refuses, to accept any criticism, constructive or otherwise. And somehow I've been designated his babysitter or something because we're always paired together." Atticus scowls down at his carving, grip tight enough that the little wood points are digging into his hand. He forces himself to breath deeply and relax a little so he doesn't ruin the poor thing and gets back to carefully rounding out it's chest. His irritation fades as he focuses his attention on the delicate details he left for last. When he finally decides it's done, that if he continues working on this particular carving any long he's going to whittle it away into literal nothingness, he displays it on his palm for the lizard.

"How's this look?" The lizard licks it's eye. "Great." Atticus levers himself to his feet with a groan, already regretting sitting like he was for so long. "Don't stay up too late," he tells the lizard as if he has any power over what it does. He sets the little wolf carving on the altar he's slowly built up on the patio, nestling it in between an equally little snake and girl. Half of the wood on the girl carving is rotted black, a clean split down her middle. The details are still perfectly visible though so Atticus just leaves it be. He takes one last glance back before he steps inside but the lizard is already gone without a trace.

He'd gotten up early this morning, jittery with energy after going to bed far too early last night. He'd spent most of his morning after getting ready for the day carving and complaining to the lizard but a glance at the clock tells him that it's finally late enough for him to head to campus and not be horrendously early. He'll still be early but not sit-around-for-hours early. He likes having a few minutes to himself before the class starts to set up his stuff and relax a bit. He won't be completely alone, Professor Lavode is one of the only professors he's ever had that routinely beats him to the classroom, probably because she has to open the office in back for whatever poor soul has been sucked into modeling for them.

The drive is mostly uneventful. Atticus spends the majority of it half-singing along to the music he has playing over the radio, mind drifting from topic to topic in that absent way that drives lend themselves to.

He should probably try to visit his family soon. He didn't go back last summer so his little sister's been bugging him about swinging by. And he misses them all, really. He had to work last summer because he'd used up all his time off with some nasty bug. Hopefully, he'll be able to make it home for Lammas. Yule, at least, should be an easy time to get home, considering it falls inside winter break.

Campus is, as always, a pain to navigate. Every time he thinks the construction is finally finishing up, it starts anew somewhere else. He honestly doesn't understand how the university hasn't gone broke yet. It's a mystery for the ages. At least it means there's plenty of work for construction companies in the area.

Atticus slips around the back of his building, eyeing the construction going on out front with annoyance. Avoiding that now is going to add at least five minutes on his optimized paths through campus, which is annoying. He had his routes down to a science.

"You're later than usual," Professor Lavode says in greeting when he finally makes it to his classroom.

"There's new construction out front that I had to go around," Atticus tells her. He moves one of the chairs around so that it (and he) has a nice view of the stool he assumes their model is going to be using. Last time he had a class with Professor Lavode, their models were all standing. This semester, she's apparently decided standing poses are too easy for them and has moved on to more squished poses.

"That's a shame," Professor Lavode says. Atticus nods in agreement. Silence settles for a moment.

"So," he starts, changing the subject, "have we got Mira again this week or has some other poor soul been dragged in for our amusement?" Mirabelle is their usual model but Atticus remembers her mentioning something about her having to adjust the times she was free last time.

"I've brought in a new sacrifice," Professor Lavode says dryly. Her willingness to play along with a bit is why she's pretty much the favorite of all the art students.

"Fabulous. Our power grows with every new soul trapped in our sketches." 

Professor Lavode snorts at his proclamation but doesn't offer him any verbal response so he turns his attention to his phone, navigating onto the web novel he's taken to reading. It's not the best thing he's ever read but it keeps him busy in a nice, mindless way so it works.

When he's finally dragged out of his reading, the classroom has mostly filled up, missing only a couple of students, and there's a man that looks about his age perched on the stool dressed only in a robe. Their new model, must be. He's got some pretty golden blonde hair and it's a bit of a shame they're not using colors right now. He's chatting with one of Atticus' classmates currently, making light conversation, and his voice is nice, too.

"Alright," Professor Lavode says with a clap of her hands. In a moment, the entire room is silent. "You've all probably noticed by now that Mirabelle isn't here. Unfortunately, a change in her schedule means that she probably won't be able to make it back at all this semester." There's a chorus of complaining groans, mostly playful. "But worry not!" Professor Lavode continues. "Delian here has graciously taken up her post. Say thanks, everyone."

"Thank you, Delian," the room choruses, like a bunch of well-trained dogs. Considering Professor Lavode has mentioned that she used to train dogs, it feels like a particularly apt comparison.

"I'm happy to be here," Delian says, voice warm.

With that, Professor Lavode takes back over, "time to get going or we won't have any time at all!"

"Our class is three and a half hours long," one of his classmates, Atticus thinks her name is Sabrina, protests.

"And yet, I never seem to get any completed pieces from any of you," Professor Lavode says pointedly. There's some more grumbling and Sabrina turns pink but at this point they all know their professor well enough to know exactly how much they can get away with and they settle down obligingly. Atticus hides a smile against his palm. They really are just trained dogs, aren't they?

Delian slides out of his robe and passes it to Professor Lavode and then he contorts himself into what looks like the most uncomfortable pose Atticus has ever seen. It does a nice job of defining as many of his muscles as possible, though, which is nice for the anatomy studies they're working on this semester.

The quiet Professor Lavode established doesn't stick for long— as soon as the class settles into the rhythm of work, conversations start to pick up. Atticus listens with half an ear, most of his focus on charcoal in his hand and the sketch slowly taking shape in his artbook. He knows and likes all of his classmates in this class but he's not really close enough to any of them to consider them his friends. An unfortunate side effect of neither living on campus nor participating in much life on campus outside of classes. He lives too far to find it worth it to drive up for a club meeting or whatever and he has no intention of selling the little house in the woods he managed to snatch up.

Delian's a difficult model. Not necessarily because his body is shaped oddly but rather because he's strong enough and confident enough to try some wild poses like bracing all his weight on his forearms and bends so far backwards his feet are nearly touching his head. It looks like something out of an anime. Atticus is at an odd angle for that particular pose but he does the best he can, focusing on the shapes of his body and the deep shadows. It's something he'd want another chance at, if he could get one.

By the time the class ends, Atticus is hot, uncomfortable, covered possibly head to toe in charcoal, and his hand's cramping. This is his usual state of being at the end of figure modelling classes but it's still not something he enjoys. He packs up slowly, stretching his hands out and his back, trying to feel a bit less like a small bridge troll and more like a human being again.

"Atticus," Professor Lavode prompts, reminding him that he really can't linger after this class like he can in a lot of others. Professor Lavode has to lock up the room when they're done.

"Sorry, Professor," Atticus says, hurriedly stuffing the last of his things in his backpack. He joins Professor Lavode at the door, a little surprised to find Delian lingering at her side. Mirabelle had been quick to vanish from the class as soon as it was over and she was dressed. Most models are. He hadn't really expected Delian to be any different.

"It's not an issue," Professor Lavode soothes.

"If you say so." Atticus turns to Delian and adds, "thanks for modelling for us, really."

Delian smiles. "It's my pleasure," he says easily.

"See you next class, Professor, Delian," Atticus says. As soon as he's gotten acknowledgements from both of them, he starts off down the hall. He doesn't have work today and his other class of the day was cancelled, which officially means he's free. Free to do what, he doesn't know. Most of his friends live in other states, either in their own schools or just plunging straight into the workforce, and the one good friend he's made on campus is down and out for the count with some mysterious start-of-the-semester illness.

He could go get food. Campus foods sucks, of course, and he's not on campus often enough to justify a meal plan so he'd have to pay out of pocket and if he's going to do that, he'd prefer food that's actually halfway decent. The only restaurant around here that he actually likes is a nice Polish place run by a pair of old women and staffed almost exclusively by international students. He'd go, except it's on the more expensive side and he went fairly recently. He sighs, resigning himself to going to the nearby bar for some simple food. Not the worst way to spend his evening but not the best.

"Long day?"

Atticus startles to the side, heart kicking into overdrive. He whips around to stare at Delian, who's standing innocently in his blind spot and offering a judgmental arch of his brow at Atticus' (not at all) dramatic response.

"Fuck, man, you're still here?" He demands, as though it's not evident that Delian is, in fact, directly in front of him. Delian's expression gets somehow more judgmental. It's a little impressive and a little annoying. Next time, Atticus will follow him around like some kind of silent stalker.

"We're going the same way," Delian says finally. Atticus does not roll his eyes or flip Delian off for the reply, like he would with his friends, despite the strong impulse. He shakes his head, turns on his heel, continuing his trek out to the much-too-far parking lot. Delian, apparently oblivious to the fact that Atticus clearly doesn't want to talk to the guy that scares the shit out of people and then judges them for it, catches up to walk at his side, a pretty, golden shadow that Atticus would rather not have.

"I saw your pieces," Delian says after a moment. "You're quite skilled." An olive branch. Atticus rolls the compliment around in his mind, debating whether or not he trusts it.

Reluctantly, he offers up, "I've been practicing for a long time. I prefer watercolor but my real talent lies in carving."

Delian smiles. "I'm an artist myself," he tells Atticus, "but I usually do more with music and storytelling than drawing or painting." With that, the last of Atticus' mild irritation fades away. He wonders if it would be too forward to ask if Delian has any original songs.

"I can't sing for shit and I don't know any instruments but I like to write for fun." He'd debated, for a little bit, double majoring as an English major with a concentration on writing but as much as he likes to write, he figured out very quickly that he prefers to do it on his own time, if he does it at all. This semester is his last writing class, and he only really took it because he needed some Liberal Arts credits outside his major and his minor didn't have anything that could hit the requirement. "What made you want to do modelling?" Atticus asks, turning the conversation away from art. He's really only on solid ground when discussing carving or drawing, and talking music or writing sounds like a bit too much work right now.

Delian hesitates a moment before he says, "I'm here on... vacation, sort of. I'm looking for myself." Atticus holds the door open for Delian and follows him through, the two of them coming to a natural stop out of the way of any foot traffic coming in or out.

"Having any luck?" He asks. Delian looks at him, head tilted just a little, and then a smile curls slow across his face.

"Maybe," he says, some shift in his tone that Atticus hesitates to label. "We'll see, won't we?"