[drp] Those Dog Days (Dawson & Shiloh)

[medigel]

9 in the afternoon

It was Not A Good Day. Mrs. Potosi's washing machine was on the fritz, and the nearest laundromat seemed just a touch too far to bother with right now. In his sweaty and used clothes, he felt more self-conscious than ever. And while normally Dawson was more pro-active about his vagrant state of being, today he just couldn't give a God damn. He wanted to wallow in that (probable) stench and feel sorry for himself.

Most of all, he wanted to take a nap.

The park was preferable to the car, both for the fresh air and because the ambient noise of people comforted him more than the stillness of his vehicle. The round man lumped himself against a tree until his trucker cap tipped forward and heaved a sigh, content to rest his chin on his chest and drift off into a haze. More kids were out now that school was done; he could hear them in the distant playground, in the crunch of grass, on the breeze he was so very thankful for.

And within minutes, he was snoring as loud as a buzzsaw.

Melancholies

finally made a thing! let me know if I have to change something

 

[Melancholies]

9 in the afternoon

Meanwhile, it was a pretty Great day for Shiloh Beaumont. Which was to say it was rather uneventful and mediocre, but nothing bad meant nothing to feel sad about, and that was fine with him.

He took advantage of the energy. At his side was his hand clasping a Walmart bag. He hadn't gone shopping, but he also wasn't one to waste free carry-on items. The plastic was worn, and it strained with the weight of its contents; a sketchbook, weathered and torn at the corners stuck out with the most prominent character. Pencils and sticks of charcoal were either tucked or smashed underneath.

It had been a while, if he was being honest, since Shiloh had come out to life draw. The objects in his rooms were all but exhausted, and with school drawing close, most teachers had already packed up what little interesting things they had in their classrooms. Parks however were full of people—whether they be regulars or just passerby pedestrians—and they had trees and plants and birds. They were full of organic things ripe for the picking—Or drawing, so to speak.

And Shiloh, artist that he was, always liked to deviate from the norm. When he decided to draw people, he always went for the interesting shapes or personalities; people who had specific character just by their appearance. The snoring was what drew him in first. The fact this man that he was eyeballing was passed out made it even easier. There wasn't anything more awkward than being caught midsketch (even if he did give out his sketches at the end to his impromptu models anyway).

He sat down on a bench a respectable distance away and set to work, digging out his supplies and sketching his charcoal against his paper. Within moments, Dawson's snoring, lumbering form started to come to life on his paper.

medigel

NO PROBLEM sorry mine took so long!

 

[medigel]

9 in the afternoon

He was a very good subject to draw in terms of never moving. He probably could have stayed in the same spot for two weeks jesus I'm so sorry forever from how dead asleep the guy looked. It was a Good Day To Nap, was what was going on.

At some point towards the end of the teen's scribble session, Dawson stirred at last. Yawning loudly, he rolled onto his side and began to slowly stretch, blinking his eyes blearily to the outside world once more. "Mmm..." No dreams, thankfully, or at least none that he could remember. His stomach began to rumble. About a second after registering this, the blurry figure across the way resolved itself into a kid with art supplies.

In and of itself it wouldn't have made a blip on his radar, but Dawson became aware that falling asleep out in the open might have made him a target for whatever artistic pursuits the guy had. And seeing as he had no sense of personal boundaries, he saw nothing wrong with rolling onto his feet, putting on a smile, and approaching.

"Watcha got there?"

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

9 in the afternoon

Shiloh's tongue clicked in annoyance when his subject moved.

But it wasn't a tragedy, not really. He'd find someone else who was dallying around in the park, and if all else failed he could pull from nature. The scenery was plain, but quaint to Shiloh in all of its familiarity. What he wasn't necessarily expecting was the man to meander his way over (Shiloh ducked his head, pretending to look busy) but naturally whoever-the-hell decides they want to speak with him. His lips pursed into a fine line.

"The hell does it look like." he barks back, because it's how Shiloh speaks to people that aren't his age; potential threats. Then again, he didn't seem like he meant any harm. Well, if you counted the fact he wasn't currently towering over Shiloh himself, but his posture and poise was faintly reminiscent of a a bear. Y'know, the teddy variety.

medigel

 

[medigel]

9 in the afternoon

"A drawerin', I reckon," Dawson replied amicably. "Ain' every day I get t'be someone's muse."

Part of him braced for a scrawl--a caricature of a fatass homeless man some punk decided to amuse himself with. Despite his optimistic view on life, Dawson never did know how to approach other people given the wide spectrum of feelings about vagrants. (Much less one who sounded like a hick.) But a glance at what he could make out without leaning over the boy's shoulder told him that didn't seem to be the case.

"Mind f'I take a look?"

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

9 in the afternoon

Shiloh snorted, but he turned the sketchbook around to the man regardless. He might have been stingy and cagey and reckless a lot of the time, but he had respect for his subjects; at least, he'd let them see his work (on the rare off chances that they asked).

Dawson wouldn't find a grossly exaggerated caricature, but instead a messy unfinished sketch of... well, him. And the scenery. There wasn't much else going on—it was just... average. To be expected. Normal.

"I don't like to draw normal people," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "I like stuff when it looks different. It's more interesting." He nodded to himself, spinning the book back around whether Dawson had had his fill of looking or not. 'Like y'know, big honkin' ********' noses or—or when your arms are a little too long for your torso or when you got a space between your teeth." he bore his own as an example, despite the fact that they were perfectly straight (a goddamn miracle, if anyone knew enough to consider his track record for fighting). "Y'know, the s**t people call ugly. I dig it." Was he calling Dawson ugly or giving him a roundabout compliment? Both? It was hard to tell.

medigel

ty for the requote!!! dont worry about poking me LOL i get distracted easily...

 

[medigel]

9 in the afternoon

He barked a laugh at the backhanded compliment. "You get a two-fer here, then," Dawson said with a grin, making a honking noise as he pinched his wide nose.

In all honesty, he hadn't known what to expect. It wasn't exactly a normal situation to be someone's drawing subject. The closest experience he'd had was the time his artist friend back in high school had doodled shitty little comics he posted online about their antics: Dawson had been all circles and hair-covered face back then. He wasn't much different now either. But the kid wasn't half bad; Daws didn't know pointillism from color captchas, but he could at least tell that much.

He gave a low whistle. "You workin' up a portfolio fer Disney? 'Cause yer on yer way, lil' dude."

Melancholies

it's nbd i've been v bad about getting to replies myself and don't like to bother people OTL

 

[Melancholies]

9 in the afternoon

"See? That's what I'm ********' talkin about." his aloof demeanor finally shattered with a laugh at the stupid honk sound. Shiloh didn't seem scared of Daws, and now he didn't look totally uncomfortable either.

"And nah, not really." he looked back down to the sketchbook, "I just like to draw 'cause it's fun. I mean, I think it'd be ********' sweet if I could make a living on this s**t, but like?" he looked up to the older man, "It ain't happen. I know it ain't. That's some 'right place at the right time' sort of s**t, and I've never been that lucky." Shiloh didn't seem too bothered by this, considering he was basically spelling out that his dream would never come true. But hey, that was life, wasn't it?

medigel

 

[medigel]

Dawson couldn't help but chuckle himself. "My dude, s'all about the attitude," he said. "Makes a real difference. Mean, I'm livin' outta a car right now." It was easier to say so here for some reason where he would have normally been embarrassed to admit it. "I got s**t t'my name. But when all ya got's the gutter below ya, ain' nothin' t'do but go up."

Alright, maybe that had been a bit much.

"Anyway, uh. Y'know people're doin' like coms n' s**t online, right? Why not give it a shot?"

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

"Out of a car." His face was blank, except then his eyes sparkled. Sure, grass probably wasn't nearly as green on the other side, but it made him empathize. Shiloh enjoyed the company of people who knew just how shitty life could be; people who were beaten down, at rock bottom, aimless and wandering.

Not that Dawson was any one of those things, but things obviously didn't sound great. Still, he was being optimistic—and he could respect that from someone who had nothing. It was the jackasses who had it all plus the audacity to parade around their good feelings, their it'll all be okay! when they knew nothing. But he could dwell on that tangent forever.

"I mean, 's a good way to look at it." He seemed to perk right up. "I don't like being pessimistic. It's just easier." He nudged at a rock with his shoe. "I always thought about tryin' commissions out, but I can't afford a tablet. Digital stuff is kinda complicated." Shiloh shrugged, tapping his pencil to his chin. Then again, he could always try selling traditional art online, but that still called for reliable internet access.

Which was, ultimately, something his house lacked.

medigel

 

[medigel]

"s**t, I can't draw more 'an a stick figure, so I can't imagine," Dawson said, in the way a lot of people often did when talking to an artist of any skill. "Mean, maybe ask yer parents? Like fer a birthday present? Can't all be super expensive, right, maybe start with somethin' small..."

He rubbed at his beard thoughtfully, not at all awkward about the idea of meddling in this random kid's life. And then he chuckled. "Probably be better t'them than gettin' harassed by nosy hobos like me, huh?"

Melancholies