Lesser, Greater, Middling

[Bears]

"She drove him mad, entirely mad, and there was nothing he could do about it but feel himself fall for it, time and time again."​

 

[Nav]

Very little of his personal art graced the university grounds. Aside from when he was expected to display art, like at the rally, he chose to often keep his own pieces away from students. Naturally, he painted in the classroom now and again, but never with any seriousness. Only one piece of his made its home in its office, and it sat on gold brackets just behind his desk, next to the window.

The tone of the painting was muted, the style reminiscent of Monet. Each stroke had a smudging quality that rendered the image watery, like a reflection in a rippled puddle and entirely different from his signature style of realism. The scene was of a street, undoubtedly London, with an umbrella bearing the brunt of rain, against which pedestrians battle. A splotch of bright red, a double decker bus, tucked into the far corner. Aside from the unusual style, the canvas was markedly small, too small for Reiter's usual style. Had he been short of canvas, or oils? He had painted it so long ago, he couldn't even remember.

Yet, everywhere he went, that little painting came along. Between the muted colours of the grey painted office, and the black turtle neck Wolfgang donned, it fit.

"These portfolios belong to upper classman, who turn their portfolios in before the freshman even arrive. If it pleases you to know, you are the first of my freshman to submit a portfolio."

He looked to the black leather booklet she placed on his desk, reaching to slide it off the top and bring it in front of him, propping it against his keyboard. Without pause, he began to leaf through the pages, focusing on each one for several seconds before flipping to the next until he reached the end. Not a single word was muttered, not a single emotion transitioned across his face. Rather, he seemed poised to say the exact same words she had said to him: I feel no emotion.

Closing the portfolio and returning it back to the pile. "It's an interesting collection," he said after a few moments of contemplation on what he had just seen. "Technically, you are very skilled, there is no denying that. You focus a lot on the ocean, I see," Wolfgang said, picking up his pen and wobbling it between his fingers.

"The ocean is often ascribed symbolism to emotion. I'm not surprised you use the ocean, but I am surprised how you used it. After meeting you yesterday, I expected you to be an emotional, angry artist. I predicted I'd open your portfolio to pages of dark art, yet all these images seem overwhelming whimsical, joyous. Tell me, are these your best works?"
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[Bears]

Franchesca hated not knowing what to expect, she hadn't uttered a word perhaps not even a breath as the Professor sorted through her artwork. She was essentially handling herself off to him in that black leather bound folder, she was in his hands. And Franchesca waited, she waited for the most excruciating two minutes of her life. She placed her hands behind her back and there she expressed her worry in the form of drawing just the slightest amount of blood with her nail.

No proclamations of her genius, not even the smallest hint of a smile... and suddenly Franchesca felt rather foolish that she had let herself expect a lot especially after their meeting the previous day. She let the Professor speak, though in reality Franchesca was really trying to sort her emotions. Figuring out which pieces went where, figuring out what kind of tone she ought to answer in. She didn't want to show disappointment, he'd know she was hoping for praise. But she wasn't entirely angry either... because after all at the end of the day he was acclaimed and she was aspiring.

Franchesca cleared her throat, looking straight into those listless eyes of his. "They're representative of the kind of artist I always imagined myself to be, not the kind of person I am." It was a serviceable enough answer and she was glad to hear that her voice wasn't nearly as reflective of how much internal turmoil she was enduring. Should she have included some of her darker paintings? Lord knows she had a few... Damn it, Ches. Damn it.

He may have opened his mouth to speak more, Franchesca wasn't sure but on impulse she pushed boundaries and continued, her eyes steadily holding his gaze through and through. "I could paint you something dark and emotional if you want. Before class. Do you have an easel around here?"

What the hell was she saying?​

 

[Nav]

"That is… the worst possible answer to that question I think I've ever heard, Miss Rossi, and frankly, it's bullshit." Though he didn't blurt the statement outright, the response was so quick to her statement, it very well must have been divulged, at least in Wolfgang's terms. "These are representations of the artist you want to be? Hmm." Wolfgang hummed, staring at the cover of the leather book and templing his fingers over his desk, his pen falling to the wooden surface with a clank as he did so.

Clearing his throat, he stood up from his desk, though his fingers still brushed the wooden surface as he leaned over it. His eyes never removed from her portfolio cover, as if he could still study the images straight through the leather binding. "Do correct me if I'm wrong, but is this what you wish to be your legacy? Are these the paintings you truly wish to represent yourself with? Is this person—a painter of calm oceans, beautiful women with smiles, and sunny skies truly what you want to be known for?" He looked away from her portfolio and up to her, still rolling his weight on his desk and perching on his hands.

"You must wish for a life that is one-dimension then. There is nothing wrong with that, it's what many wish for… a marriage, a baby, a white picket fence." He bit his tongue before he went onto conclude that he had 'wished for more from her.' Like she had been the day before, he was disappointed. He'd expected a fire, a passion. Instead, he got compositionally perfect beach scenes, yet how many beach scenes had he seen painted in the last year upon that campus? A hundred? A thousand? "The last piece—the eye. I enjoy that one most of all."

Her offer was met with the faintest trace of a smile. A near flicking at the edge of his lips that could have been mistaken for a tick if not studied close enough. "I'd prefer if you painted who you are now, not who you hope to be someday. If a sunny beach truly is who you are now, then keep painting that. But if that's not who you are, paint something different."

Wolfgang pushed off the desk and stood upright, pulling the keys from his desk. "Not here, but we can go to one of the studios before class. Come now, if you're interested."

Stepping around his desk, he left his office and took the short jaunt to the smallest studio in the room and, subsequently, his favourite. It had several work stations, well equipped with anything a painter could want, for anything from oil to water. Flicking on the light, he stepped into and inhaled sharply the scents of art. "Help yourself."
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[Bears]

It was intense. Professor Wolfgang Reiter brought on an intensity she had thought life as a professor had dulled--and that in turn sparked something in Franchesca herself. In a matter of one heated exchange his words delved into her mind and ripped out misconceptions that had previously taken years to develop and root themselves in her subconcious. The craziest part? She felt nothing but appreciative about it.

He was right. The art that she had chosen to present was the safe route, she had chosen beauty over message despite criticizing him just yesterday of the exact same thing. A part of her was embarrassed about that, but it only served as a fan to the flame the Professor had started.

Franchesca had heard the truth in his words, in the questions he asked. She didn't want a damn white picket fence... she wanted greatness. Just like that she was thankful for her big mouth, thankful that she hadn't hesitated to right her wrong. As Franchesca followed the Professor she made a note to not hesitate with him again.

They entered the studio though the beauty in its simplicity would have to wait. Her first class was just a little more than an hour away and Franchesca had to prove she was exactly the painter she thought herself to be. The painter that she was. The young woman wasted no time, slinging her bag onto a wooden table. She gathered her oils, selected a canvas and brought out her music player.

Turning on Tears For Fears and setting it on loop before even beginning, it seemed as if Franchesca had settled into the challenge steadily... virtually ignoring the fact that the Professor could very well be observing her every move. Humming along to the song she began by sketching fast and rough. A form on the ground, buildings in the distance. She'd refine it if she had that luxury.

Instead Franchesca dove right into it--stepping away from the sketch in order to start mixing the oils in different bowls. Her palette was mostly earthly, but at the very end of the table she prepared a deep red and black. She began shortly thereafter with about forty five minutes left on the clock.

Her hands were shaking, she was fired up but the nerves were there all the same. She stopped herself to take a breath. Wolfgang Reiter might as well have been another easel in the background with how much attention she paid to what he was seeing or possibly thinking.

As she had with the eye the night before, Franchesca poured the entirety of her being into painting the image. With her arms stained earthen and her brows seemingly permanently furrowed, the image slowly came to life. It remained in the style of her previous paintings but there was no idyllic beach, no beautiful woman. Just a curly hair man trying to nurse his wounds outside the Lorenzo De Medici's soccer stadium. She turned around and used the red and black to accent the paint--drawing harsh outlines in an aim to make the viewer feel uncomfortable at the sight of Thomas suffering alone.

Franchesca stepped back, rubbing her nose and getting a smear of red and black on her cheek in the process. She turned over her shoulder and for the first time since she stepped into the room acknowledged Wolfgang's presence. "How's it look?"​

 

[Nav]

He could have very well observed her every move, but he did not. Instead, he settled into a wooden swivel chair behind the professor's counter in the far corner of the room. He kicked his feet up on the desk, hooking them at the ankle and leaning back to read. The book, whatever it was, stretched over his upper legs and he flipped through the pages slowly, deliberately. The music was not particularly to his interests, but he didn't argue it, either, focusing his ears instead on the rhythmic scratching of a brush on canvas.

The studio was a peaceful place to do anything. Often, even when he didn't feel like sketching or painting, he'd spend time there to read, or listen to music. He played the violin, and often practiced there, because he enjoyed the familiar aromas of the oils. All around, eclectic art hung and was strewn about. Pieces from students long graduated lingered in dusty corners, taken over by newer pieces of current students. A few of Reiter's sketches mingled among them—all so different, so unique to the hand that cast them. A thousand signatures filled the corners of the canvases, and that, he loved.

The music, however, could be stopped at any time and he wouldn't mind.

Absorbing himself in the pages of his book, he hummed quietly to himself, as he usually did. It was a deep, baritone sound, as if he meditated in his thoughts as he read. He would have sat there well past the commencing of his first class had it not been for the young woman sitting and working several paces from him beckoning him to emerge from his trance. He blinked, raising his eyes from his book. He plopped the thick text on the desk and kicked his legs back to stand, coming over to stand behind her.

His hands slid across his chest, crossing his arms, as he looked it over. "The boy you paint," he began, "is an interesting spirit. It's a shame what happened to Rafael, however. He is a good soul, truly, and an exceptional sculptor. Mmm," he paused, considering the painting once more.

"All around, everywhere I look, I see dullness and uncertainty. Even the most beautiful women in the world, sex, alcohol, drugs lead to boredom and banality, commonplace, the human ritual, the tedious rhythm of life. Do you know why I love art? It's transcends that ennui. This piece is stimulating and I appreciate it. You should add it to your portfolio."

Wolfgang stepped away, going to pick up his worn leather shoulder bag and book from the table. "You can leave it here to dry, if you wish. Come see me if you wish to collect it sometime, else it becomes absorbed by the room, like all the others have."
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[Bears]

He was not an easy man to impress. Or perhaps that was his impressed and Franchesca had unknowingly done the impossible. Either way, the young artist was satisfied for now--though she waited until Wolfgang Reiter was far enough from the studio to cry out in celebration. It was quite the yell and it felt downright great to get it out of her system.

Franchesca turned back to look at her painting of Thom, a boy who hadn't spoken more than three sentences to her yesterday, and yet here he was on a canvas, the beginning of a new chapter in her artwork. A chapter she aimed to make as unapologetic as she was in person. There was pride there in the oils and honestly? Wolfgang's words to her just now were the first time since she moved back to Italy where she felt vindicated... where she felt justified in her decision to pursue the life she was pursuing.

Suddenly a thought occurred to her and she was quick to grab a sharpie from her bag before it could fade into the void. With haste, the young artist came around to the back of the canvas and wrote its newly acquired title in large, bold faced letters: A N--I N T E R E S T I N G--S P I R I T. Beside it she scratched the date, her last name, and the words thank you.

Ches took a step back and smiled but then the sound of the clock ticking in the background yanked her back down to reality. She had class. Her stomach sunk at the thought, there was no way she could go as is... she was covered in oil. Ches moved to one of the sink in the studios and began to scrub away, the earthen colors mixing with red as they swirled down the drain.

She was going be late and stained but better than looking like a complete mess, she guessed. Franchesca gathered her belongings and shoved them into the depths of her leather bag before taking off. Professor Poppins class was a fair distance away and she was going to have to run if she didn't want to get locked out.

Ten minutes later Franchesca burst into the classroom on the opposite side of the main campus building, unsure of what to expect from a teacher that looked at her like that.

"Ah... crap, sorry I'm late." Franchesca breathed, having forgotten to wash the streak of black and red on her cheek.​

 

[Nav]

There was no denting the predator lurking under Professor Poppin's skin. The disruption of her morning class drew her gaze with a flash of indignation and anger, much like lightning on a pitch-black night. Her fingernails, long and painted, tapped on the wooden surface of her desk and rang out through the otherwise silent room. Students looked to Franchesca with both fear and pity,

"You must be… Franchesca Rossi," the woman said cooly, putting a harsh emphasis on the student's name as she read it off from the roster. She flicked her gaze up once more, drawing in the sight with a disapproving scowl. "Do tell us, Franchesca Rossi, what was so important you had to be," she glanced down to her wristwatch, "twelve minutes late to your first class at the start of the semester, hm?" Nagging played a quality note in her tone.

The nails continued to tap on the wood—tap, tap, tap—and her scowl deepened, dragging deep wrinkles from her skin. Only her eyes looked youthful, a wonderful shade of blue, though slitted like that of a pit viper. She curled her lip back in a way that was suggestive of a smile, but instead, her teeth gleamed like the incisors of a hungry wolf, her lips too stiff and too caked with bright red lipstick to take on any form of softness.

"Why don't you stand in front of the class here and tell us all why you were late, hm?" The nailed tapped on—tap, tap, tap—and a soft whisper rose through the students, whom looked both amused and horrified for the student standing at their front. Some tried to awkwardly turn their gazes to the syllabus packet handed before them, grimacing in fear and gladness that they weren't in Franchesca's shoes. Most seemed to be making mental notes to never, ever be late for Professor Poppin's early morning Intro to Art History course. Others seemed to be daydreaming, as if considering how easy it would be to switch their classes out last minute.

The tapping stopped as Professor Poppins reached for the last syllabus on her desk and held it out towards Franchesca. "Once you're finished giving your explanation, take this and sit down. If you're late again, don't bother coming at all."

 

[Bears]

Professor Poppins had taken no time to show the kind of instructor she would be for the rest of the semester. The curve of her rosied lips fooled no one--least of all Franchesca. The younger woman's expression melted from apologetic to angry but Franchesca was smart enough to watch where she was stepping with her words. So with little more than a silent curse, she lurched forward and took her spot at the front. She wanted to just roll her eyes at Professor Poppins threat but Antoine had warned her and she trusted him enough to hold act.

Though she didn't seem like a complete mess... Franchesca was still far from the image of an exemplary student. With arms discolored and cheek painted the young artist cleared her throat and offered the entire class her signature lopsided smile before speaking up.

"Hey guys." She began, definitely a little to casually considering the occasion. Doing her best to hold her tongue from saying something slick, she waved and got a few quieted chuckles from her peers. More than anything they were probably laughing at her misfortune, but Franchesca preferred that to awkward silence. "I got caught up painting a piece for Professor Wolfgang's portfolio."

A little more hushed laughter and staring was enough for Franchesca to reach up and feel the familiar sensation of oil paint smearing across her skin. She cursed again, a little bit louder this time, but turned to grab the syllabus all the same. It was then when Franchesca's eyes met Poppins' and as she had with Wolfgang, the young artist refused to wilt in her presence.

For a moment they shared a tense second--a brief but obvious spark between two very strong willed individuals. Franchesca's smile faltered and she only offered a short apology. 'It won't happen again' she had told the professor before turning back and heading to the only empty chair left in the room. Settling down towards the back, she placed her bag flat against the table and wanted for nothing else but the class to just get started and over with.

"This is gonna be a real fun class, yep. A fucking riot." Franchesca mumbled to herself, finally allowing just the subtlest of an eye roll to breach the surface.​

 

[Nav]

There was a mean look in Professor Poppin's eye. She smiled, but any smile that graced her lips were the wrong sort. It was like she ran on cold malice instead of any form of genuine affection. Perhaps she was a baby left to cry, or an undiagnosed personality disorder. Either way, she had as much empathy as a medieval mace. "As far as I am concerned, Miss Rossi," Hope Poppins sneered, "you are to be in my class at this time, not Mr Reiter's. Next time, kindly tell Wolfgang to fuck off."

As she spoke Wolfgang, her mouth involuntarily twitched, as if the name itself poisoned her blood. If she heard Franschesca's ongoing commentary, she made no note of it, though if she would have seen the eye roll, the young woman would have had hell to pay. Instead, she had her back to the class and, chalk in hand, wrote 'art of the 1800s' across the board. The screeching of chalk on blackboard was about as pleasant as the sound of her voice.

"In this class, we shall be focusing primarily on the 1800s, or the beginning of the Romanic movement—and the shift away from the Roman based Neoclassicism," she said. "Though we will visit early periods in the 1900s, most of that era will be reserved for the second section of this class, Art History II. There will be a midterm, a final, and weekly readings and homework. The bulk of your grade will be made up of a forty-page research essay you write comparing an artist from the 1800s to a current artist."

She turned, her heels squeaking against the stone floor. "The artists for the paper will be yours to choose, but one must have produced the vast majority of their art in the 1800s, and the other to compare to him or her, must still be alive today. No, you cannot choose yourselves." One over-plucked eyebrow rose up her forehead as she glanced about the students gazing back at her.

"Furthermore, attendance is mandatory. If you miss any more than three sessions of this class, without a doctor's note, a proof of family emergency, or without discussing it with me first, is an automatic failure. Do you understand that, Miss Rossi?" she asked, glancing to the young woman in the back of her class. "Not even Wolfgang is a viable excuse."

"Please open your textbooks to page fifteen, and we shall begin."

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[Bears]

This was the part where she had been prepared to dislike, the actual classes. As romantic as Lorenzo De Medici was with its green fields and its classical architecture it was still a university at the end of the day--complete with intense classes and egocentric teachers. Some subjects would prove to interest her of course, particularly ones that wouldn't have Franchecsa reflect on bones long buried in the ground, but she had little choice now. Poppins would be a force of nature to come and one that Chesca had no choice but to withstand.

There were no familiar faces among the crowd of students in the room and as far as she was concerned Franchesca had reach a comfortable quota when it came terms to people she'd actively associate herself with. Antoine, hopefully Thom... she was still intent on getting to know him for personal reasons. Franchesca leaned forward and began to jot down notes. She also added Professor Wolfgang to her mental list after some thought.

Franchesca wasn't some antisocial being or anything like that. She simply preferred to keep her circle small. It meant little distraction from her art.

The class passed after time and eventually so did the next and then on. Over the course of the day she threw ideas for her paper back and forth. Eugene Delacroix was a name that came up often So was Wolfgang Reiter. Lunch was uneventful and Franchesca spent most of her free time getting acclimated to the campus grounds. She carried with her a small sandwich as she explored.

At some point between her afternoon classes Franchesca took some time to try and wash off the oil once again. The colors, specifically the sharp black and red on her cheek, remained defiant however. Regardless, the end of the day came and the young artist found herself gravitating towards the back of the main building, gravitating towards Professor Wolfgang's office. She wanted to claim her painting... and was entertaining the idea of bringing up the possibility of an interview for her paper.

Franchesca's knock was louder, more confident than the one she had that morning... as was the way she called out for him. "Professor? You busy?"​

 

[Nav]

Wolfgang's day had proved challenging, in a frustrating sort of way. Wranging freshman on their first day of classes was about as easy as wrangling fish out of the river with your bare hands. They were noisy, excited, and bouncing all around. Professor Reiter's intro to composition classes weren't known for being too terribly laborious, but he had to instill at least a few expectations. Alas, most freshman expected their years in college to be spent majoring in sex, with minors in casual machoism. Informing them that they actually had to work—and do art—went over about as well as telling them they were going to be tortured.

As fun as hearing the disappointed moans every time he mentioned the words 'homework,' 'reading,' and 'exams,' had been, Wolfgang retreated into the solace of his office and locked the door firmly behind him. Already, more than one student had attempted to weasel out of work by excuses like "if I do super well on exams, do I have to do the weekly homework?" and "how many points, exactly, do I need to pass?"

He'd gone into teaching with the hopes he'd leave an impression on young minds and he supposed he had. Though, his impression was not inspiration for art so much as the "old lame dude who makes students do homework." Wolfgang seriously needed to reconsider his career choices.

Having just settled down at his desk with a hot cuppa, relieving a stressed sigh that had been building in his chest all day, a knock came at the door. He roused, startled, but said nothing… in hopes whatever student was there would think he was out and would keep on their way. He hardly dared to breathe. It wasn't until the familiar voice called out from the other side did Wolfgang sigh and rise from his desk.

"At the molecular level, I'm quite busy,"' he said back, stepping to unlock the door and swing it open for her. "But come in. How can I help you?"

Had it been anyone else banging at his chamber door—another professor, another student—he wouldn't have answered. Chesa had endeared herself to him rather quickly with her blunt candidness, and he appreciated her intelligence and biting wit.

He glanced her direction and smirked. "You look a little worse for wear than you did this morning. Fair well on your first day?"
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[Bears]

"That's saying something." Franchesca quirked a brow at the professor's comment. As he turned to return to his place at the center of the office, she followed him and repeated the morning's events by closing the door behind her with a heel. She took a moment to examine the room in search for her painting but it seemed to be hidden away somewhere among all the clutter.

Indeed the only painting her eye had found was an image beside the window. The rainy London street had escaped her notice earlier though Franchesca attributed it to worry... which in turn reminded her to speak. Snapping back into reality, her eyes returned to the professor and she gave him her smile.

"This morning was probably the peak of my day day and half of it I spent dying of anxiety over handing my painting to you." Chesca admitted with a shrug and a laugh. It was direct and to the point... no hesitation just like she promised herself. The young artist lurched forward, taking a seat across from her mentor. "I was late to Intro to Art History with Professor Poppins because of that trip to the studio by the way... I can see why everyone just loves her."

Franchesca made no attempt to hide the roll her eyes. She was banking on the assumption that Wolfgang wasn't Poppins' biggest fan either. The young woman shook her head--eager to redirect the conversation back to where she needed it to be, but then she noticed a familiar looking leather bound portfolio she had forgotten on his desk.

"You recognized Thom earlier. Do you recognize the eye?" She asked with very little thought. Her gaze rising back up quickly to meet Wolfgang's.​

 

[Nav]

Back at his desk, Wolfgang laced his fingers together and rested his chin on his hooked thumbs, looking across the small distance to Franchesca as she shut the door, to his appreciation, and took a seat. Her comment about Professor Poppins drew the smallest suggestion of a pleased smile, something as close to a genuine smile as he'd come since the end of summer, and start of the new wave of freshmen. Though his eyes closed for a moment, there was something very gratified in his expression and it was clear he was amused by the tale of Franchesca being late. Though she didn't delve into details, she didn't need to.

He could more or less guess how the interaction went down.

"I wouldn't worry too much about Professor Poppins," he said after a moment's pause, the smile fading back into his usual neutral expression. "Though I'll do my best to ensure you're not late again, I won't make any promises. A very small, immature part of me enjoys poking that woman's buttons." It was an admission he knew he probably shouldn't have made. Professors shouldn't go about talking about one another to students, especially in such a negative way, but he had a keen dislike for the woman… a greater disdain for her than almost anyone else he'd ever met in his life.

"And I'll be sure she doesn't fail you on my account, so don't worry about it too much. Just do well on her comparison paper, which she does every semester, and you'll be fine."

The conversation shifted readily, and Wolfgang was glad for it. The quicker they started talking about something else, the less likely he was to say something nasty and inappropriate about Hope Poppins. His eyes followed hers to the portfolio and he reached across the desk, nudging it closer towards her, so it wouldn't get forgotten.

"Yes, Thom," he answered, considering for a moment the eye picture that was still clear in his mind. "The eye? No, I don't recognize it. I hope you'll enlighten me?" If she was asking, it must have been important to her, and someone that was a mutual acquaintance. Blue eye, blue eye, blue eye… he could pull a few to mind. That one sophomore student—brilliant painter—but the eye sagged too much, showed too much age, to be her. Professor Femus had blue eyes, and it could match, except the shade of blue seemed wrong.

"No, no one is coming to immediate mind."
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[Bears]

Her smile had evened out at the professor's admission of poking buttons. In that moment Franchesca found herself confronted by the same feeling she had when she first turned to see who she was speaking to and saw Wolfgang. That air of mystery the he had that gave her pause. The air of mystery that implied there was a lot more to him underneath the surface than he'd ever let on. Now Franchesca wasn't typically a curious girl... but a part of her wondered what made him tick.

It was natural, she supposed. There was a time in her life where he had been this image on a pedestal... a goal she aimed to reach. Now they were sharing a conversation.

Franchesca took the portfolio into her hands and opened it, flipping through the beautiful but uninspired pieces all over again until eventually, she reached the end. For a moment the young artist stared at her own work, the memory of the janitor's innocent gaze still quite clear in her memory. She frowned--there was something sad about the way even Antoine was quick to cast judgement on him.

"I don't actually know his name, he wasn't in uniform when I first met him. The janitor who was running one of the grills at yesterdays rally? Yeah... him. He stared at me when I got to the front of the line and it just... stuck. I guess." Franchesca looked back up, shaking her head as her hands closed the portfolio once more. "I actually want to talk to you about that comparison paper you mentioned earlier but it can wait till later. I actually came here for the painting I did this morning for you."​

 

[Nav]

Wolfgang made a soft 'aaah,' of acknowledgement when she picked up her portfolio and revealed the identity of the mystery eye. He would have gone through every blue eye on campus before coming to the janitor, as the man sort of slipped through the cracks of his memory with ease. Perhaps it was because the man was so reserved and unassuming, or perhaps it was because they hardly knew each other and never interacted except for the quiet 'ciao' or 'grazie' as he came into empty the trash in Wolfgang's office.

The man's name fell on the tip of his tongue and hung there for a few moments before he managed to conjure it. How long ago had he first learned it? A year, perhaps? And it had been that exact length of time since he'd last spoken it. "Michael," he said, "Michael Lombardi is the man's name." Unlike the students who shared gossip, Wolfgang didn't have much of an opinion on the man one way or the other. When they did interact, it was usually early in the morning—five, six AM—long before his first proper cuppa, and long before his brain was at an acceptable functionality.

He mostly ignored any weirdness that the janitor gave off.

"You're welcome to come to my office and discuss your paper with me at any time," he said. "If you want to suck up to Professor Poppins and have her adore you for time and eternity, you could ask her to be your comparison subject. If you want to piss her off, you could always use me." That vindictive, Poppins loathing part of him couldn't resist.

Standing from his desk, he picked up his keys. "Yes, of course. Your painting is still in the studio. I'll go with you, as it's likely to be locked at this hour." He eyed the clock. It was nearly time for him to go home, as well. "Also, before we go… I should tell you one thing and I ask for your complete discretion, can I trust you with that?" He didn't wait to hear an answer, proceeding right away. "Professor Poppins has, in the past, been accused of art theft. Do be careful with what pieces you leave in her possession."

With that, saying no more on the matter and dismissing it like he'd said nothing at all, Wolfgang proceeded towards the door and into the hall. "I also have something to show you on the computer in the studio, if you have an extra moment to spare."​

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[Bears]

"The day that I suck up to a lady named Hope Poppins is the day that I break all my brushes and decide to become a writer." Franchesca mumbled with great amusement, loud enough that she was certain he'd be able to hear it. There was something comforting knowing that even a man as private as Wolfgang Reiter disliked that harpy of a lady. Vindictive, even.

Still, Franchesca did not let that soften the seriousness of his warning. It was insane to think that a woman like that still had a job at a place like Lorenzo De Medici... to do something as drastic as art thievery and get away with it--that required a serious amount of pull. What did Professor Poppins have that gave her that pull? Dirty secrets? Irreplaceable financial contributions? Was the principal secretly in love with her? For a moment the conspiracy theorist inside Franchesca went wild, but then the professor stood up and she did the same.

Franchesca tucked her portfolio beneath her arm but not before scribbling down the janitor's name on the back. Realigning the straps of her leather backpack Franchesca followed after Wolfgang. She was glad to have a little bit more time in the studio, between painting with her pride on the line and rushing to get to class she didn't have enough time to really see what such a beautifully quiet space had to offer.

She had taken note of the pieces scattered about the room when she first entered, and in reality she found herself quite intrigued to be surrounded by so much history, but time had forced her to quell such wondering. For a moment Franchesca wondered if it was appropriate to ask him to stay a bit longer so she might ask questions about different pieces.

They came to the studio and much like she did earlier that morning, Franchesca slung her bag onto the table. Her painting remained and for a moment Franchesca took in all the details once again. Turning over her shoulder to look at the professor, she called out out to him. "What is it you wanted to show me?"​

 

[Nav]

Whether or not she took his warning to heart, he didn't know. He felt obligated to share a little tid-bit of information with her because he respected her, as an artist and as a person, and of all students, it would be her and a few seniors he'd hate to see artwork stolen from most of all. Wolfgang was known for growing close with students, acting as more of a mentor than a professor to some, though usually those students who earned his praise were seniors… students who had endured even his most grueling instruction and came out the other end unscathed.

There was something about Franchesca that was notable. He couldn't quite put a finger on what it was, aside from her artistic talent, but there was an element deeper to it than that. Most of his students he esteemed as artists, and little more, but there was something about her personality he treasured above her talents. It was the only thing that caused him to answer the door when she knocked earlier.

Unlocking the door the art studio, Wolfgang swung it open and flicked on the lights. Franchesca's painting was where she'd last left it, leaning on the easel and looking mostly dry, except for a few of the thicker paint smudges. Mostly dry, the colors saturated into richer tones; the painting becoming all the more attractive for it.

"It still looks a bit wet," he mentioned idly. "You're welcome to it, but you can still leave it here another day, if you'd rather not transport a wet canvas."

Wolfgang proceeded straight to the teacher's desk in the back of the room and logged on to the computer. As it loaded, he looked at her. "I've been working with the IT department here on campus to help develop a student art catalog," he explained. "My first intentions with the program had been to amass digital copies of senior thesis projects, so the university will have a historical archive of works. It's been in process for some few months now, and it's recently been readied for submissions. To test it, your painting of Thom was the first to be put into the collection."

He sat down in the chair once the desktop fluttered to life and opened the program. It was a simple archival program with digital folders based on years, starting in 1996 and going well into the 2000s. As promised, in the 1996 folder was only one piece, digitalized copy of her painting.

"I thought you might appreciate being immortalized in the archives of the school." Wolfgang sat back in the chair to let her see. As he did, a pop-up dinged on the screen.

One New Email: Untitled, from [email protected] ​

Wolfgang's eyes narrowed dangerously, hovering the mouse over the pop-up. "Do you know anything about this?"
​

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[Bears]

Franchesca wasn't going to pretend that every single thing that had just come out of his mouth made perfect sense but the young woman was intelligent enough to fill the spaces. Funnily enough her fascination with technology ended at music players. Still, with curiosity playing on her face, she turned around fully and moved to join the professor at the back of the room. Franchesca also undid the makings of her bun--the roots of her hair having long asked for a break from the strain.

Black waves tumbled down past her shoulders as Franchesca grabbed a stool along the way. She slid up beside him and sat herself afterwards, only nodding silently as he explained what he had been preparing. Her attention was solely on him, the attentiveness in her gaze showing it with little regard to subtlety.

Just the hint of red found her cheeks at the reveal. The last time she toyed with the idea of immortality she was just a little kid with a lot of imagination... but now there was just something undeniably sweet about the action, something that was incredibly flattering without even taking into account the man who had done it. It was a feat to fluster Franchesca and just as she had impressed him this morning it seemed as if Wolfgang had done the near-impossible.

"I..." Franchesca hadn't even been able to verbalize her reaction when the pop up appeared on the screen. She read it out loud and was immediately confused, the words not even making sense to her own ears. The young woman read it again and suddenly it became clear... and whatever warmth she might have felt in her cheeks was overcome by a shiver that ran down the length of her spine.

"What...what the fuck?" She breathed, backing up from the screen before casting a very, very confused look the professor's way. "Rafa's what everybody called him... right?"

For a moment the both of them seemed to pause out of uncertainty or perhaps even fear but then Franchesca, without warning, reached for the mouse and placed her hand on Wolfgang's... but only so she might impulsively click open.​

 

[Nav]

Wolfgang was, by no extension of the phrase, a master at computers. He'd really only learned to use one recently, upon coming to campus. For everything else, he had PR agents and publicists to deal with things like art sales or world-wide-web connections. He merely sat back and enjoyed the canvas. At the school, however, some use of the computer was mandatory. He had to enter grades electronically, which was cutting edge for a university. He also was expected to check e-mails, as all students were on the various school owned computers throughout the facility.

Though he didn't resist the coming of technology, he did what he could to embrace it. Digitalizing photos of artwork was something his publicist had done for him, and he wanted to do the same for student work. He glanced side-ways to Franchesca from the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction, though the fumbling of her words gave him more information than any look could have. Unfortunately, the gratifying moment was abandoned by the pop up.

"Yes, even professors called him Rafa. He preferred it."

Only once had Wolfgang called Rafa by Rafael, and that was the first day of classes during roll-call. Rafa had politely interrupted him, informed him of his name preferences, and Wolfgang never argued the point. From there on, the boy had been Rafa in every form except the class register. Wolfgang painfully hesitated, the mouse icon hovering over the pop-up, his finger willing to neither scroll away or click. He might have sat there for an hour, for all he knew, had it not been for Franchesca.

So studious was he on the words on the screen, he didn't notice her reaching over until the warmth of her hand fell over his own. Of all the senses, touch was his least favorite. He was a secluded man, but also a lonely man, but even more so since…

However, he mentally shook his thoughts, dismissing them as the email loaded. The screen that opened showed a grainy image. It showed a dark room, or a portion of one. Few details could be made out in the granular video, except for the man, waist up, right at the front. His powerful form and broad shoulders were hunched over, head dropping down limply and, until the video began to play, Wolfgang question if they man was even alive at all.

White noise crackled through the speakers. A voice, unfamiliar, called out to the man in the video from off-screen.

"Say hello," the voice growled.

The man groaned, rolling his head back and forth and showing the edges of a chair he was tied to as he did so. The moans turned into sobs when the foot of the chair was kicked—again, out of screen. The man on the chair screeched and snapped his head back, looking into the camera with a pained expression.

"Say hello!" the voice from before turned into a holler.

Rafa sobbed. The image so grainy, tears could only barely be made out on his face. "Help," he murmured with a bloody, fat lip.

The video cut out and turned to black.

"That boy," Wolfgang whispered, surprised by the own meekness of his voice. "Was Rafa."
​

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[Bears]

It was twice now in her life that Franchesca had suffered the sensation. Sinking without drowning was the best way she had ever managed to describe it. It was the feeling of impending doom and one she had hoped to never experience again. The professor didn't even have to say it, the connection between her and Rafa was there the moment his image appeared on the screen before them.

The realization hit her immediately. Her eyes widened and she stopped breathing, something was terribly wrong and she knew with a rapidly growing sense of dread that it would only get worse.

The voice behind the camera might as well have kicked her in the gut when it did the chair. Franchesca wanted nothing more than to just turn away at that point, to just fucking book it... but she couldn't. Franchesca couldn't move a single muscle. Her eyes remained intensely focused on the images, her mind taking in the details. His cry for help would haunt her dreams for nights to come.

Then the video cut off and Franchesca remained frozen. She turned to Wolfgang, fear having made her dangerously vulnerable. A vulnerable almost no one ever saw from her.

"What did we just... did we just...?" Without warning she stood up, the sound of the stool scratching against the tiles as harsh as it was loud. She wiped away at the tears that begged to drop before moving away from the desk--her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and alarm. Franchesca turned back to the older man behind her, the look in her eyes representative of the clusterfuck of emotions going on in her head. "What do we do..?"​