draw it, scratch it, say it.

[manwithaplan]

He doesn't get a lot of time to himself anymore. That doesn't bother Steve at all, not when he's had so much to be happy about. But sometimes, he doesn't know how he manages it, dividing his time between the pursuit for Bucky, his investigations into HYDRA, his efforts to bring together the Avengers, his job, his friends, and Lucy. He thinks back on the days when his life here was more or less quiet, often dull. It used to be that he had to work at keeping busy. That's not the case anymore. He prefers the life that he has now. It may be hectic, but it's also full. Still, when the opportunity for a small stretch of quiet presents itself, he seizes it.

Sunday, early afternoon, following a long jog and a shower, he heads out to the boardwalk alone. He brings with him his now neglected sketchbook. He isn't taking summer art classes, but he thinks he might return in the fall, and he doesn't want to be completely rusty. First, he walks, taking in all that there is to see, waiting for inspiration to strike. But instead of inspiration, what grabs him is the sight of young man sitting alone on a bench, hunched over an open book, scribbling away. At first, Steve thinks that he might be writing, but as he nears, he begins to make out the larger shapes of a drawing.

"It looks like we had the same idea," he says as he comes to stand at the end of the bench. He taps the cover of his sketchbooks. "Mind if I sit?"

Comments

[bloodycrescents]

I'm still practicing with the pastels, getting a feel for them, working out what they will and won't do. Sometimes I fuck up and want to throw the whole thing away because it's bullshit. Sometimes I fuck up and it's better than I wanted it to be. I don't understand it, but I keep working at it, late into the night with Elvis curled up at my feet and my hands a thousand different smudges of colors like the crush of autumn foliage under my boots.

Today, though, out by the beach, I've just got my pencils. They're familiar, like they've molded themselves to my hands now. We know what we're doing together, my lines steadier, surer, than they once were. It's easier to bring them out with me, less fumbling. I'm lost in them, falling in between the lines, when a voice crawls through the haze and I look up. "Sure," I say, surprised. "Yeah, go for it." He's not much taller than I am, but he's got probably fifty pounds on me or more, all of it muscle. He's not the kind of guy I expect to see with a sketchpad.