loving universe @fostersc - Tumblr Blog

Since ‘the incident’, as Sabrina had referred to it in her mind, she had spent every waking moment trying (and completely failing) to not think about it, or the man who she had managed to insult ever so eloquently to his face about his artwork. Of the long list of times where she had managed to stick her foot directly into her mouth, this had to be the most embarassing. Not only because of the way it made her come across —— as a spoiled little high school brat who thought she knew far more about art than she actually did —— but the man in question. When her mind had drifted to Scott Foster in the last number of years, it had always been in tandem with nostalgic memories of her childhood, his presence lingering on the fringes whenever she and Tessa would reminiscence. At around the age of ten, he seemed to disappear, and she never truly thought about him since. The man was a piece of her childhood and nothing more, his image frozen in the lanky and young eighteen year old she had last saw him as. That was what she used as her excuse, as to why she didn’t recognise him immediately. It was a cop out, she knew; perhaps a part of her truly had recognised those amused blue eyes, and she hadn’t wanted to admit it. The truth was, Sabrina had liked the attention of an older man, and that was partially what had propelled her to act as bold as she had, glowing under his gaze. And then it all came crashing down, and now she couldn’t think of him without cringing.

The ‘don’t think about Scott Foster’ plan had, in fact, not gone well at all, considering all Tessa seemed to be able to talk about was her big brother coming to town and getting his art shown in a nice gallery. The reason she had been dragged along in the first place, it seemed. Sabrina had only nodded and ‘hmmed’ in the correct moments as her best friend chattered on for days about how happy she as to have her brother back, but it wasn’t long before Tessa had noticed how unusually quiet the brunette was. She had blamed it her time of the month, but she wasn’t sure how long the excuse would work. It would depend on how long the man who haunted her every thought wanted to stick around. It had been with great dramatics that her mother had convinced her to go outside for some fresh air, giving her the task of posting a letter (knowing that in her dedication to her embarassment, she wouldn’t argue back that they didn’t live in an Austen novel and e-mail did exist). She’d strolled through the streets slowly, thinking about everything she could that would take her mind in the opposite direction of the man she so desperately didn’t want to think about. Of course, it had been in the middle of thinking about not thinking about Scott Foster’s long fingers that she had found herself looking directly at the man himself. Her first thought was that she was hallucinating, but after hearing him swear as he seemed to be searching for something, it was clear he was all too real. Unfortunately.

She had planned to walk straight past him and hope he wouldn’t recognise her at all, or simply would be too preoccupied with whatever he was doing to want to try and remedy their last meeting. Scurrying past him, she could feel herself wanting to make herself smaller, as if she could disappear right before him. When she heard his voice shout out, so unmistakably his, Sabrina’s eyes scrunched close and she muttered, “Shit.” She had a one-second thought of simply making a run for it, but that would only serve to make her seem even more foolish in front of him. She was an adult now, and adults powered through awkward small talk. Finally, Sabrina straightened her back and spun around on the spot to meet his blue eyes, hearing her breath hitch at the back of her throat. Of course, he was handsome, and of course, before she had found out who she was, she’d found herself giggling and touching her hair as he gave her attention. Now, however, she wanted more than anything to look away from his gaze. Yet, she couldn’t.

“Oh, hey,” she greeted, and immediately wanted to punch herself in the face. She couldn’t have given a more idiotic reply. She might as well have just ran away and saved herself the embarassment. Instead, the brunette shook her head and tried to fix a smile on her face that didn’t say, I’m an idiot. “I mean, yeah, I remember you. How could I forget?” Because really, she wasn’t going to forget that incident any time soon. Her grandmother, a whispery old thing who seemed to think the very idea of ‘fun’ had been invented to insult her, had always said that Sabrina was too confident at times, enough that it came across as arrogance. At the time, the girl had only rolled her eyes and indulged in teaching her twin brother more dirty jokes she’d learned, but looking back, it had been almost a prophecy. If there was one sure fire way to take her down a few pegs, it had been to make an absolutely fool out of herself in front of the one guy who had actually caught her interest —— who also happened to be her best friend’s brother, and would most likely use her as joke fodder for any family gathering in the next decade. Sabrina wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry at how she become such a cliché.

Shaking her head, Sabrina ran a hand through her curls and immediately felt herself relax a little. He wasn’t laughing at her, he was actually apologising. “No, no, don’t even worry about it. I —— well, I was being a bit of a dick, regardless if it was your artwork or not.” She shrugged, feeling bashful as she thought back to how she had been so overconfident and sure of herself. She wasn’t sure if he was being genuine in thinking he could have done better; his mood seemed to dictate that he wasn’t taking it too seriously, but it only made her guilt multiply. She couldn’t imagine having to take that kind of brutal criticism, and have to laugh it off the way he had. “Honestly, your work…it is good. Really good. I mean, what do I know? I’m literally the last person who should critique art, which is probably why the only person who would listen to me was the artist himself.” Rubbing the back of her neck, she felt her cheeks warm as she continued to ramble. “I’d say you could feel free to tear anything of mine apart, but I’m not good at anything at all, let alone enough to have it put on display.”

fostersc

Of all the people he had expected to encounter that day — most of which were classmates, professors, and persons he felt little excitement in meeting — Sabrina was at the bottom of the list. That being said, he did think about her, in passing, and much of it had been encouraged by his little sister. Tess had spoken for long hours over an old game of Mario Kart (they found their old Nintendos in the attic) about how she was so excited her brother was making it big, so excited she had brought a friend along to the gallery to show off his work. By instinct, Scott laughed, and quietly smiled over the idea that his work and the admiration (exaggerating here quite a bit) it would surely elicit was not just limited to family. He asked at what time she had made it to the gallery, and who her friend was, and a closer study of the curious accident ensued.

He quickly remembered that Sabrina was in fact his sister’s friend, a close one whom he had seen when he was younger, perhaps nearly ten years ago now. Scott had failed to recognise her entirely back at the gallery; he never particularly cared for any of Tessa’s friends, sometimes letting them hang over his shoulders when he was tall enough. They wrapped their spindly arms around his, and he lifted them, and walked a few steps before trying to shake them off to the ground. He wasn’t strong then, and nor was he really presently — but he prided himself in others thinking so, especially girls who felt inclined to annoy their friend’s tall, sharp-jawed, bright-eyed brother. But Tessa had a life of her own, and so did he, further distanced by the occurrence of girlfriends, hormones, a clumsy growth of facial hair, etc. He and his companions kept to his room, played video games, and on certain weekends drank beer as though it was a secret only they knew. At his departure to college, Tess had started doing the same — unsurprisingly. He freely assumed her friend, the one he spoke to, had been a part of it. Or not, but he had not remembered her all the same. A part of him was glad. Another wondered if she did remember; but he didn’t want to think too much about that.

Scott studied her reaction carefully as soon as he was close enough to see her face. He felt a little stir in him, because he held a partiality towards her, though brief, for the one soft dimple in her cheek, and the subtle arch in her lip. He tried not to pay too much attention to it, but watching as she turned to him, he felt a giddy sensation wash over him. The fast adrenaline rush that spilled out of him kept his heart beating: he didn’t really think when his body chose to run after her, and still he did, and after the initial awkwardness it had brought on, Scott licked his lips in anticipation. His hands shook a bit in the excitement of things, but he quickly hid it by shoving them in his pockets. He acknowledged her greeting, and made to say something in return, but seeing her discomfort, kept to his silence and let her talk.

In truth, he didn’t really need any explanation — at least not from her. He didn’t quite know why he had the urge to explain himself, but the words fell from his mouth in eagerness, and he couldn’t tell whether it was because he had wondered whether he’d see her again, though it’s just been a vague notion, one that didn’t preoccupy him too often the last few weeks; or because another part of him, one that had been reminded by Tess of who the girl was, suddenly hoped to remember all that happened prior to his eighteenth birthday. “Yeah, but you were an honest dick,” he counteracted with an easy smile, and there was no scorn in the way he spoke. Though too proud to communicate his thanks as openly, Scott decided he still had to let her know that he was, in a way, grateful for her judgement. ‘Grateful’ was a stretch, of course, but it had softly motivated him, which teachers and relatives alike had failed to do the latter part of the year. He watched curiously as her hand moved through her hair, and the way her face seemed to relax into an open fashion. There was a hint of colour in her cheeks, and she seemed uncomfortable, and for only the slightest moment, Scott was tempted to indulge and maintain in the embarrassment, only because he felt a lighthearted hitch in his voice when he spoke to her. “I mean, when people come by those sorts of places, they don’t really say what they want, you know? And if they do, it’s minimal,” he shrugged, “or they try to sound smart, and kinda end up not sounding like themselves at all. So, it’s been good hearing a straight answer, I guess.”

He wondered briefly whether the topic of their childhood was worth touching on, and quickly decided he could delay that to a better time. He presumed it would be easier to get the subject of the gallery over and done with, before they could move to nicer things — if she had the time. After all, he did want some coffee, and a chance meeting didn’t seem so distasteful as he had predicted it to be. “Uh, yeah, I don’t know. I’m not gonna lie and say it didn’t hurt my ego, but I needed to roll back the attitude a bit either way. Really, I could’ve done a lot better, and I didn’t try hard, at all. I’ve been procrastinating — a lot — and I’m trying to get back on track now.” ‘Trying’ was used lightly here: he hadn’t tried at all, and the idea of motivating himself was something that lasted about five seconds, with him not particularly putting in the effort to bring it back. “Honest, though,” he continued, “I don’t wanna make you feel bad. I deserved it.”

#p: 02

Wild-eyed, Scott made for the pavement, a certain anguish directing his actions as he fished through his backpack. He knew he had forgotten something - he’s done it so often to the point of expecting to find something missing — and regularly it was something small, sort of absurd, an eraser, or his only pencil - and he could always borrow one from some classmate hazed with sleep. “Ah, fuck,” he glowered, and stared around, shoulders slumped forward, the whole weight of him sagging forward, seriously, as though some heavy force pushed him ahead, and back, then ahead again. He would’ve liked to snub his own stupidity, but found it incredibly hard to do so on mornings where coffee or time was not an option. He could skip class - no, he couldn’t, because he’s already skipped class five times these last two months. He could head back, and afford to be late, though the professor’s already given him a repeated spill of ‘last warnings’. Or he could go to class without his drawing tablet, and doodle for long hours under the pretence that he was still working on sketching out his project. Whereas, of course, Scott has neither started his project, nor planned it. He dragged the heel of his palm over his eyes, tired, giving out a small cry of contempt, attracting the attention of the sorry leftovers of today’s rush hour.

In spite of his wavering motivation, and the slightly more alarming realisation that his talent was lacking, the student had taken matters into his own hands and agreed to work as hard and far as his flimsy attention span would take him. It had taken a few encouragements, the tragic dip of his grades (which he had miraculously tended to up until a certain point) and a well-earned threat from his parents to finally get start working the way he should have two years ago. He wasn’t too smart of a man - as smart as a man his age could be, and that doesn’t seem much to begin with. Scott had a natural predisposition to dithering, and to rather judge the work of others than his own. Much of his ego directed him in small arrows to the impressive and impressed; the shock factor before the thought. His ideas spill out of him in a manner that would portray him in a better light over what art should really be: it’s a cat and mouse with hubris, something not as invisible as he thought it to be. But still, the man submitted to his own defeat, and it had taken a girl considerably younger to see it. He had glimpsed it before, of course — but Scott had never been accustomed to others criticising his work to his face. Most would sugarcoat it, as teachers do, and pat his shoulder in a seemingly unsuspicious manner. He would’ve liked to leave it at that, but rough evaluations of that sort left him bitter and stubborn and, as grateful as he was, Scott could not help the pang of contempt that grew in his chest when he looked at his artwork. Something “okay” and “fine” turned to sloppy and foul, and the possibility of dropping out all together lay furtively at the back of his head, quiet and fast.

Tasting the alternatives on his tongue in a lack of hurry, he moved to the side — going home, or fetch a coffee, seemed painfully tempting, and as hard as he fought to stay true to his motivation, Scott pulled on his backpack, scratched his jaw, and made for the road, more carelessly than his mother would give him credit for, seeking out the nearest coffeehouse. It was a small town, with its few limitations and even fewer perks, but sturdy enough in population to have encouraged big names to set up shop in the locale. He actively kept one eye out for the sort, till he spotted a small body further down the sidewalk, and her hair colour sprang to mind, her eyes, the soft shape of her mouth. She had walked past him (he gave up guessing whether she noticed him or not) he assumed, but still he felt his body pulled to her - out of eagerness, maybe, or curiosity. “Hey!”

A small crowd turned to him, wild-eyed, and he clicked his tongue in spite. Scott pushed past the vast throng of people, as fast as his politeness, or lack thereof, would allow. He didn’t know what drove him forward; but it did so actively, and it took a long moment till he finally reached her, stopping before her with a broad smile. “Hey,” he repeated. His face blanched once he realised he didn’t have anything smart to say. “Sorry,” he said to her after a pause. He struggled to read her face: it wasn’t an ability of his, but he had always thought it was. He wasn’t a profound artist, or good student - he had to find something to be proud of, after all.

“Scott, from the art gallery,” he stretched out his hand, and he licked his lips, bright-eyed and giddy. Thankfully something in him appealed to strangers, and a fruitful self-esteem often drove out any doubts or insecurities. But Scott suddenly grew aware of his surroundings: the two-way crowd splitting where they stood, the traffic lights ahead of him where the roads meet, the width of the street they were on. He felt himself in the centre, somewhat awkward, and he made for a few steps to his right. “You kind of — uh — I didn’t have the time to tell you before, ‘cause you were gone, but you seemed worried - I should’ve done you I was the artist straight off - and I just gotta say, you didn’t offend me, or anything like that. It was lazy work, I could’ve done a lot better. I didn’t put any effort into what I did, so it’s fine,” he gave a shrug, feigning a slight indifference; though his lighthearted tone drew a friendly air around him, and he knew he seemed friendly enough — as friendly as he could be at ten o’clock in the morning.

#p: 02