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Oct. 8th, 2008 02:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
silver_x_crossTitle: One Clean Picture
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silver_x_cross
Words: 770
Characters: Isaac and Simone
Rating: PG13
Genre: General, slight angst/romance
Warnings: Drug use, slight spoilers for season 3
Summary: Simone begs Isaac for one picture she can sell. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
heroes_contest challenge "Picture"
“Just one picture Isaac. Just one decent, clean painting I can sell.”
Simone stood there watching him, those beautiful eyes of hers flashing with an anger and frustration that seemed permanently attached to her features these days. Isaac could remember when she used to laugh, when being with one of her artists had been exciting for her. Briefly he wondered when that had changed, when being with him had become a burden rather than a thrill. He suspected he’d been high at the time.
He sighed, running his hands through paint streaked hair as he eyed his loft, searching for something to placate her. His gaze fell on painting after painting, even a few sketches as well, but with every one he knew he’d been high when he created them. One decent, clean picture.
He wasn’t creative when he was clean. He sighed again, his own frustration growing.
“Just give me a day, one more day and I’ll get you something, I swear.”
Simone stared at him a moment before shaking her head with disappointment. “One more day, one more rehab, one more chance. How many more Isaac? Eventually my father’s friends are going to stop pretending to be interested in you and move on to someone whose work isn’t tainted with heroin. This isn’t some Broadway musical, there’s nothing glamorous or successful in being some starving tortured artist. You’re just going to end up dead and I can’t be around to watch that.”
Her father’s friends. Isaac had never asked why Linderman had shown so much interest in his work, snapping up many of his pictures and always asking for more. His money had allowed Isaac to get a better quality of drugs. Better highs made for more creativity. Or so he kept telling himself when he was on the floor alone, coming down and shaking. He forced those thoughts back, walking up to Simone, holding her face in his hands and kissing her deeply in a way that used to have her melting against him before tearing off his clothes, not caring how much paint stained her latest designer outfit. Today she merely kissed him back for a moment before brushing him away, trying to retain some composure even if he could see the trace of tears in her eyes.
“I have to go, Peter’s due to visit my father and I want to talk to him.”
Isaac frowned slightly. Peter. He’d been hearing that name a lot lately. Peter did this, Peter said that, Peter was being so good to her father. If he didn’t trust her completely he’d be jealous at the way her face lit up when she talked about him. Instead he merely nodded, turning away from her and picking up his paintbrush, looking intently at the blank canvas. Not at her. Couldn’t look at her. He heard her sigh slightly before her heels clicked on the floor as she strode out. She didn’t slam the door, she had too much class for that, but the sentiment was there.
The blank canvas seemed to taunt him as he tightened his grip around the brush, his gaze creeping sideways to his latest painting, from his high two nights ago. For some reason he’d painted a black man, or part of him, one finger to his lips as he backed into a wall. Or through the wall. A hint of a smile appeared on Isaac’s face as he looked at the painting. There was something about it, like so many others he’d done recently. A certainty when he looked at it. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he had a feeling that the man was real, somewhere. Other pictures were scattered around, with that same sense of realism. A blonde woman staring at the mirror, her reflection smirking in a different way to her. Two men flying together. Another man surrounded by clocks, intent on his work. All visions gifted to him by his drugs. He wondered if anyone else could paint the way he could. Sometimes he dreamt of a man, in Africa, with pictures on rocks. He didn’t know him, but felt an odd kinship with him.
For a brief moment Isaac had a serene smile on his face before he snapped back to reality and the still tauntingly white canvas in front of him. He clenched his jaw briefly before slamming the brush down and heading to the small bathroom. His hands shook slightly as he found the hidden stash of drugs, preparing his arm and taking the hit.
One decent picture she’d said. She didn’t need to know it wasn’t clean.
Word count 770
Author:
silver_x_crossWords: 770
Characters: Isaac and Simone
Rating: PG13
Genre: General, slight angst/romance
Warnings: Drug use, slight spoilers for season 3
Summary: Simone begs Isaac for one picture she can sell. Written for
heroes_contest challenge "Picture"“Just one picture Isaac. Just one decent, clean painting I can sell.”
Simone stood there watching him, those beautiful eyes of hers flashing with an anger and frustration that seemed permanently attached to her features these days. Isaac could remember when she used to laugh, when being with one of her artists had been exciting for her. Briefly he wondered when that had changed, when being with him had become a burden rather than a thrill. He suspected he’d been high at the time.
He sighed, running his hands through paint streaked hair as he eyed his loft, searching for something to placate her. His gaze fell on painting after painting, even a few sketches as well, but with every one he knew he’d been high when he created them. One decent, clean picture.
He wasn’t creative when he was clean. He sighed again, his own frustration growing.
“Just give me a day, one more day and I’ll get you something, I swear.”
Simone stared at him a moment before shaking her head with disappointment. “One more day, one more rehab, one more chance. How many more Isaac? Eventually my father’s friends are going to stop pretending to be interested in you and move on to someone whose work isn’t tainted with heroin. This isn’t some Broadway musical, there’s nothing glamorous or successful in being some starving tortured artist. You’re just going to end up dead and I can’t be around to watch that.”
Her father’s friends. Isaac had never asked why Linderman had shown so much interest in his work, snapping up many of his pictures and always asking for more. His money had allowed Isaac to get a better quality of drugs. Better highs made for more creativity. Or so he kept telling himself when he was on the floor alone, coming down and shaking. He forced those thoughts back, walking up to Simone, holding her face in his hands and kissing her deeply in a way that used to have her melting against him before tearing off his clothes, not caring how much paint stained her latest designer outfit. Today she merely kissed him back for a moment before brushing him away, trying to retain some composure even if he could see the trace of tears in her eyes.
“I have to go, Peter’s due to visit my father and I want to talk to him.”
Isaac frowned slightly. Peter. He’d been hearing that name a lot lately. Peter did this, Peter said that, Peter was being so good to her father. If he didn’t trust her completely he’d be jealous at the way her face lit up when she talked about him. Instead he merely nodded, turning away from her and picking up his paintbrush, looking intently at the blank canvas. Not at her. Couldn’t look at her. He heard her sigh slightly before her heels clicked on the floor as she strode out. She didn’t slam the door, she had too much class for that, but the sentiment was there.
The blank canvas seemed to taunt him as he tightened his grip around the brush, his gaze creeping sideways to his latest painting, from his high two nights ago. For some reason he’d painted a black man, or part of him, one finger to his lips as he backed into a wall. Or through the wall. A hint of a smile appeared on Isaac’s face as he looked at the painting. There was something about it, like so many others he’d done recently. A certainty when he looked at it. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he had a feeling that the man was real, somewhere. Other pictures were scattered around, with that same sense of realism. A blonde woman staring at the mirror, her reflection smirking in a different way to her. Two men flying together. Another man surrounded by clocks, intent on his work. All visions gifted to him by his drugs. He wondered if anyone else could paint the way he could. Sometimes he dreamt of a man, in Africa, with pictures on rocks. He didn’t know him, but felt an odd kinship with him.
For a brief moment Isaac had a serene smile on his face before he snapped back to reality and the still tauntingly white canvas in front of him. He clenched his jaw briefly before slamming the brush down and heading to the small bathroom. His hands shook slightly as he found the hidden stash of drugs, preparing his arm and taking the hit.
One decent picture she’d said. She didn’t need to know it wasn’t clean.
Word count 770
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-10-08 02:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-08 02:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-09 02:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-09 07:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-09 01:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-09 03:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-12 02:54 pm (UTC)I was never much of a fan of Isaac when I was first watching thte show, but on rewatching I really DO like him. You write him very well.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-12 03:08 pm (UTC)