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storypaint) wrote2014-10-26 07:33 pm
storypaint) wrote2014-10-26 07:33 pm
Entry tags:
[Avatar: The Last Airbender] all traces of reality (Iroh and Toph gen)
Title: all traces of reality
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Length: 981 words
Prompt: fic_promptly: Avatar: The Last Airbender, Iroh and Toph, painting by feel
Pairing: Iroh and Toph gen
Other: n/a
Excerpt: "I'll think about it," Toph says. They move on to talking about other things, but the next time she comes to visit she brings her own canvas, newly purchased in the market. From the way she purses her lips, he thinks the seller might have been a bit rude when selling a canvas to a blind woman, but he is sure the merchant learned an important lesson that day about judging others.
Toph rarely bothers to announce her visits, popping into Ba Sing Se at weird hours during odd weeks. She is always passing through, or wandering by, recruiting metalbenders or visiting her mother (Iroh isn't sure what she is actually doing when she says that one, but he doesn't ask). Sometimes he thinks she's just reveling in the fact that she can come and he will be here, every time, without requiring anything from her. But thinking like that makes him sad, and he doesn't dwell on sadness anymore. The world has enough of that, and he has enough happiness to give.
Every time he sees her she's a little taller, and he's glad she's blooming into a remarkable woman who still has time to spend with her old adopted uncle. When she raps casually on the doorframe and slips into the back to see what he's doing, he gives her a broad smile. It doesn't matter that she can't see it -- she'll feel it.
Toph wrinkles her nose in his direction and says, "What is that chemical stink? Are you painting?"
In fact he is. He's about halfway through a watercolor sunset that looks a lot better than the last sunset he painted. He puts down the brush in a waiting cup and reaches for his washrag, but before he can get clean enough to serve, she has wandered over to his supplies and picked out some tea leaves. She finds the tea kettle, picking it up by the hand with one of her well-calloused hands, and pours herself some tea to steep, leaning in to smell it instead and sighing happily. Iroh smiles.
"I am painting, yes," he says. "You can teach an old badger-dog new tricks, it seems."
Toph doesn't seem surprised. She sits down at his table, sprawling comfortably. "You've forgotten more tricks than most people ever knew, Uncle," she says to him. "I never really got the point of it, myself. Sculpting is more of my thing."
"It seems like a more sensible choice," Iroh agrees. He finishes cleaning his hands and selects a tea cup for himself. "Alas, all of the cups and bowls I made failed to be watertight. The painting at least can be appreciated solely on its visual merits."
Toph snorts in amusement. "I made a lot of wobbly bowls during art instruction," she tells him. "For some reason you weren't supposed to bend them. Like all the famous sculptors aren't benders anyway." She shakes her head.
Having made his own cup, Iroh sits down across from her. "There are more than you'd think," he says. "Non-benders may not share our gifts, but they share our world, regardless, and leave their marks upon it."
"I know, I know," she says. "I'm just saying it was frustrating. At least I never had to try painting." She laughs and picks up her tea, taking a long drink.
"You might be quite good at it," Iroh says, and when she laughs again, continues, "honestly. There is a technique being pioneered right now which textures the canvas with layers and layers of paint. And there is certainly metal in it. It should be easy for you."
"I'll think about it," Toph says. They move on to talking about other things, but the next time she comes to visit she brings her own canvas, newly purchased in the market. From the way she purses her lips, he thinks the seller might have been a bit rude when selling a canvas to a blind woman, but he is sure the merchant learned an important lesson that day about judging others.
Iroh is working on a gaudy magenta sunset, which he puts in the window to dry. She takes her time with the paints, her hand hovering over each color until she selects the three colors that feel prettiest to her. They are vivid white, deep green, and brilliant yellow.
"You have to guess when I'm done," she says, and then she dips her fingers into the paint. She uses broad, certain strokes, slopping paint onto the canvas and letting it run, teasing it down her fingernails into certain spaces. She keeps up a running commentary as she works, mumbling, "here, and here, and more of the lead," to herself. Iroh respects her artistic vision and remains silent until she finishes. She is coated in paint up to her elbows and there is a slash of white like a scar across her nose. The canvas is layered in paint. It does not look like much of anything, but Iroh is pretty sure he saw art like that in a Fire Nation museum once.
She shakes her hands twice over the wash bucket and quite a bit of the paint comes off in powder form. It's the liquid part that stays, that she has to scrub at. She doesn't bother to clean her fingernails.
"So what do you think?" she asks, grinning at him. "Am I a budding artist, or what?"
"It's a self-portrait," he says, after a moment's further consideration, and is gratified by her surprised assent. "What better thing to paint for your first time? With your permission, I'll hang it here once it's dry. Perhaps you'll sign it for me."
"Oh, right," she says, rifling through her bag for a stamp and pushing it into the corner of the canvas. One of Sokka's creations, he thinks, in cooperation with her. The character is a flying pig.
"There," she says, getting her fingers damp again to address a corner squiggle. "That wasn't that hard. I should start selling them."
"I thought you were running a school," Iroh says, and she slips into telling him a story about that.
The next time she visits, the painting is hanging above the door to the back room, and she reaches up and brushes it with her fingers when she passes through.
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Length: 981 words
Prompt: fic_promptly: Avatar: The Last Airbender, Iroh and Toph, painting by feel
Pairing: Iroh and Toph gen
Other: n/a
Excerpt: "I'll think about it," Toph says. They move on to talking about other things, but the next time she comes to visit she brings her own canvas, newly purchased in the market. From the way she purses her lips, he thinks the seller might have been a bit rude when selling a canvas to a blind woman, but he is sure the merchant learned an important lesson that day about judging others.
Toph rarely bothers to announce her visits, popping into Ba Sing Se at weird hours during odd weeks. She is always passing through, or wandering by, recruiting metalbenders or visiting her mother (Iroh isn't sure what she is actually doing when she says that one, but he doesn't ask). Sometimes he thinks she's just reveling in the fact that she can come and he will be here, every time, without requiring anything from her. But thinking like that makes him sad, and he doesn't dwell on sadness anymore. The world has enough of that, and he has enough happiness to give.
Every time he sees her she's a little taller, and he's glad she's blooming into a remarkable woman who still has time to spend with her old adopted uncle. When she raps casually on the doorframe and slips into the back to see what he's doing, he gives her a broad smile. It doesn't matter that she can't see it -- she'll feel it.
Toph wrinkles her nose in his direction and says, "What is that chemical stink? Are you painting?"
In fact he is. He's about halfway through a watercolor sunset that looks a lot better than the last sunset he painted. He puts down the brush in a waiting cup and reaches for his washrag, but before he can get clean enough to serve, she has wandered over to his supplies and picked out some tea leaves. She finds the tea kettle, picking it up by the hand with one of her well-calloused hands, and pours herself some tea to steep, leaning in to smell it instead and sighing happily. Iroh smiles.
"I am painting, yes," he says. "You can teach an old badger-dog new tricks, it seems."
Toph doesn't seem surprised. She sits down at his table, sprawling comfortably. "You've forgotten more tricks than most people ever knew, Uncle," she says to him. "I never really got the point of it, myself. Sculpting is more of my thing."
"It seems like a more sensible choice," Iroh agrees. He finishes cleaning his hands and selects a tea cup for himself. "Alas, all of the cups and bowls I made failed to be watertight. The painting at least can be appreciated solely on its visual merits."
Toph snorts in amusement. "I made a lot of wobbly bowls during art instruction," she tells him. "For some reason you weren't supposed to bend them. Like all the famous sculptors aren't benders anyway." She shakes her head.
Having made his own cup, Iroh sits down across from her. "There are more than you'd think," he says. "Non-benders may not share our gifts, but they share our world, regardless, and leave their marks upon it."
"I know, I know," she says. "I'm just saying it was frustrating. At least I never had to try painting." She laughs and picks up her tea, taking a long drink.
"You might be quite good at it," Iroh says, and when she laughs again, continues, "honestly. There is a technique being pioneered right now which textures the canvas with layers and layers of paint. And there is certainly metal in it. It should be easy for you."
"I'll think about it," Toph says. They move on to talking about other things, but the next time she comes to visit she brings her own canvas, newly purchased in the market. From the way she purses her lips, he thinks the seller might have been a bit rude when selling a canvas to a blind woman, but he is sure the merchant learned an important lesson that day about judging others.
Iroh is working on a gaudy magenta sunset, which he puts in the window to dry. She takes her time with the paints, her hand hovering over each color until she selects the three colors that feel prettiest to her. They are vivid white, deep green, and brilliant yellow.
"You have to guess when I'm done," she says, and then she dips her fingers into the paint. She uses broad, certain strokes, slopping paint onto the canvas and letting it run, teasing it down her fingernails into certain spaces. She keeps up a running commentary as she works, mumbling, "here, and here, and more of the lead," to herself. Iroh respects her artistic vision and remains silent until she finishes. She is coated in paint up to her elbows and there is a slash of white like a scar across her nose. The canvas is layered in paint. It does not look like much of anything, but Iroh is pretty sure he saw art like that in a Fire Nation museum once.
She shakes her hands twice over the wash bucket and quite a bit of the paint comes off in powder form. It's the liquid part that stays, that she has to scrub at. She doesn't bother to clean her fingernails.
"So what do you think?" she asks, grinning at him. "Am I a budding artist, or what?"
"It's a self-portrait," he says, after a moment's further consideration, and is gratified by her surprised assent. "What better thing to paint for your first time? With your permission, I'll hang it here once it's dry. Perhaps you'll sign it for me."
"Oh, right," she says, rifling through her bag for a stamp and pushing it into the corner of the canvas. One of Sokka's creations, he thinks, in cooperation with her. The character is a flying pig.
"There," she says, getting her fingers damp again to address a corner squiggle. "That wasn't that hard. I should start selling them."
"I thought you were running a school," Iroh says, and she slips into telling him a story about that.
The next time she visits, the painting is hanging above the door to the back room, and she reaches up and brushes it with her fingers when she passes through.