My Favorite Work of Art

Title: My Favorite Work of Art
Author:
Fandom: Supernatural College AU
Pairing: Jared/Misha
Warning: None.
Word Count: 1200
Rating: R
Disclaimer None of this is real.
Summary: “You’re always drawing … I hoped, maybe, you liked looking at me.”
Notes: Written for the College AU comment fic meme. The prompt: Misha’s an art major. Jared’s the nude model.

The life drawing class goes through models fast. People apply to model, thinking how hard could it be to stand naked in front of a bunch of strangers for an hour? And then realize that standing naked in front of strangers is actually really, really hard.

Whatever. It’d just be nice to actually finish a sketch with the same model now and again.

So today there’s a new kid in a bathrobe and all Misha thinks is “Fresh meat” as he opens his sketchbook, and then the kid drops his robe and goes into a natural, casual pose—twisting a little from the waist, his head bent, longish hair hiding his face just enough to make it interesting—and the class goes completely silent for a moment before everyone starts furiously drawing.

He’s perfect, this one. Long limbs and broad shoulders and hardly a quiver before the professor says, “Okay, break time,” and he lifts his head with a grin. He pulls on his robe and hops off the stand to get a bottle of water from his bag, and when half a dozen students approach him to say hello he grins back, friendly as anything.

Misha doesn’t say hello. He flips to a new page in his book and draws the model as he lounges in the folding chair, long bare legs splayed out and a bottle of water dangling from his fingers.

*

The model shows up for the second class, and the third. By now everybody knows that his name is Jared, he’s pre-law, he’s from Texas and he thinks modeling is a piece of cake. They also all know that three different girls have asked him out and he’s gently but firmly turned them all down.

“Gay,” says Misha’s roommate Jensen when Misha relates this.

“I don’t think so,” Misha says. “Probably dating someone.”

“Someone who doesn’t mind him being naked for minimum wage three times a week? That girl doesn’t exist. I still say gay.”

Jared doesn’t ping Misha’s gaydar, though Misha has to wonder if it’s because there’s nothing there or if he just doesn’t want it to. Being attracted to a model is nothing new, not that he’s ever done anything about it. You have to maintain objectivity, is Misha’s philosophy.

But the more he draws Jared, the amazing long lines of his body and the cheerful tilt of his eyes, even the ridiculous sideburns that give shape to his face, the more Misha wishes Jensen was right.

*

He’s in the classroom, making a clean copy of a sketch, when Jared pokes in his head. “Hey,” Jared says cheerfully. “You’re in the life drawing class.”

“Yeah,” says Misha. “You’re the life model.”

“Yup! I left one of my books last time.” He goes to the folding chair where he usually leaves his backpack, and sure enough, there’s a thick textbook underneath. “Here it is. Hey, I keep dying to ask, can I see one of your drawings of me?”

There’s no rules against it—drawings of Jared are even on display around the classroom—but Misha has only handed in his assignments, not any of the drawings he’s made on the sly, of Jared talking and laughing and sprawling out like any other guy. Those, Misha has thought, are just for himself.

Still, Jared’s a nice guy and asking politely, and there’s no reason not to. Misha flips to another page in his sketchbook and turns the easel so Jared can see one of those candid pictures.

“No way,” Jared breathes as he crosses the classroom, and the friendly look changes into something like awe. “Dude,” he says and looks at Misha with admiration. “You are really good.”

“Thanks,” Misha says, trying not to beam too much. Objectivity. That lasts about two seconds, though, and he asks, “How come you were dying to ask?”

“Oh—um—“ Jared ducks his head, his book slipping from his arm a little, and he mumbles, “Because I wanted to know how you see me. I mean, you’re always drawing … I hoped, maybe, you liked looking at me.”

“I do,” Misha breathes. “I really do. God, I’ve drawn you so much.” He shows Jared more pages, more drawings, Jared’s face, his hands, his feet, his hips, his throat. “You’re like my muse.” He bites his lip then, wondering if it’s weird, how preoccupied with Jared he’s become.

“That,” says Jared, still looking at the drawings, “is so cool.” He looks up at Misha, and smiles a little, and says, “Hey, um, you know, any time you want to, you know, draw me. You can. I’ll pose for you whenever.”

“Careful, there. I just might take you seriously.”

Jared steps closer to him, enormous and broad and beautiful, and says, “I want you to take me seriously,” as he takes Misha’s chin in his hand and kisses him.

*

It’s a good thing Misha’s apartment is close to the art building.

“What about your roommate?” Jared says when Misha’s got him on the bed and his hands are inside Misha’s jeans.

“He works until midnight.” Jared is tanned like toasted almonds all over, which Misha already knew, and his body is like a young god’s in a museum, long and sleek, proportions like the golden mean. Misha knows how Jared looks—he’s spent weeks learning how Jared looks, every curve and plane—but now he can learn how Jared smells and feels and tastes.

And Jared is touching him back. Oh, god, is Jared touching him back with those big hands and long fingers, with his tongue and lips and eyelashes. Statues never touch you back, which is the problem with statues, really.

Misha knows how the body fits together, how this sinew moves along this bone, what the muscles along the abdomen are called—he took anatomy for artists and he actually loved it, and he loves drawing a body from the muscles out—but it’s different to draw a body than it is to feel it under his hands, hot skin and moving muscles and soft hair.

It’s like changing from welding sculptures into forming them from clay, he thinks, and then Jared’s mouth is on his again and he stops thinking entirely for a while.

*

It’s totally cheesy and Misha knows it, but he asks it anyway. “Can I draw you?”

It’s different now, of course, because while he’s seen Jared naked many times now he’s never seen Jared like this, still sweaty and flushed from sex, his mouth slack and his eyes sleepy.

“Yeah, of course,” Jared says softly, and Misha picks up his sketchbook and a pencil and starts drawing. And he has to admit, when the drawing is done, that this is the best one he’s made of Jared so far,  now that he knows not just how Jared’s body looks but how it feels and works, what makes Jared’s heart beat faster and what makes him arch and keen with lust.

It’s not a drawing he’ll hand in or probably even show to anyone but Jared, but some art is made just for the artist, and maybe for the model. Anyway, Jared’s, “Damn, Misha, I love the way you draw me,” as Jared squeezes the breath out of him is all the praise Misha needs.

End.