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But that was how his world was these days.
Gray. Bland. Lifeless.
Because that person couldn't remain his friend.
Granted, Maddison didn't give him much choice, didn't even talk to him; Maddison just upped and left. Either way, that person couldn't accept Maddison's feelings. And Maddison, selfish Maddison, would never accept anything less now that that fact was out in the open.
Settling in at Wellspring was surprisingly easier than Maddison expected. He was given his own room at the nearest dorm in the campus even though supposedly it could occupy two students. The dean said it was because Maddison was under scholarship and a special transferee case hence provided with utmost comfort, but the dorm monitor, a guy named Hans, said it was because everyone already had their roommates. Maddison thought he didn't mind at all.
One thing he probably minded, as petty as it was, was his desk in the huge art club room, which was right in front of Dicky. He often scoffed at the thought that the person he hated the most, his rival, was now his schoolmate and club-mate. What was worse, Dicky got to have the desk by the window. Sure, the fancy desk lamps Maddison had should be enough to light his work up, but natural light was always better than the artificial ones.
Not that he cared too much. His recent paintings really sucked. He hadn't painted the whole summer, focusing instead on finishing his video games and learning French, something he latched onto randomly. A coping mechanism. So when he got back at the start of the school year, he was all rusty. His paintings were lackluster, dull. He scowled at the color combinations he picked and the images in his mind just couldn't be transferred well into his canvas.
This was exactly what he was thinking about a month later as he sat on his desk, alone in the club room and earphones in, rock music loud in his ears. He was painting some flowers and not doing very good at it when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Mr. Collins stood behind him, short by height but utterly huge by presence. Maddison wouldn't admit it out loud but this art expert scared the wits out of him.
"Sir." He immediately pulled out his earphones and stood.
"Flynn," the teacher said, staring at Maddison's canvas, his face devoid of emotion. "I have been meaning to speak with you."
"How can I help you, sir?"
"It's about your work."
Maddison gulped. Mr. Collins was a short old guy, and even though he was looking up at him, Maddison felt he was being stared down.
"What about it?" He asked, though he already knew.
"Flynn. You were offered a scholarship because of your talent, your skills. You know how hard it is to be in this academy without any recommendation. I sent your name in so you can improve your gift and utilize it well. I don't just accept students in my art club, Flynn. And I didn't just accept you. I made sure you get in. So prove to me that you deserve your spot. The works you turned in the past weeks are not up to my standards and I know you can do better than that."
Mr. Collins picked up a round brush from Maddison's pile, dipping it into the paint he was using. He looked at Maddison and raised an eyebrow, “May I?”. Without waiting for Maddison’s answer, he dabbed at the canvas for a few moments. This would have pissed him usually — no one got to touch his painting other than himself — but he couldn’t do anything anyway. This was Mr. Collins. When he put the brush down, Maddison's eyes widened as the flowers were so much more alive than before, and the teacher only worked on it for not even a minute. Did he use magic?
"Send me another eight by eleven painting tomorrow. I want something new from you." The teacher began walking out of the room, and Maddison was about to let out a breath when he spoke again. "This time I want something...inspired."
He was out of the room before Maddison could even speak, and the brunette slumped down his chair when he was alone again.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. He felt like he received the worst scolding ever, even though his teacher never once raised his voice. He stared at the yellow flowers on his canvas. Just a minute and then this? Just how good was Mr. Collins?
Maddison was pulling up Google when footsteps echoed in the room once again. When he looked up, it was the last person he wanted to see.
"Flynn."
Maddison crinkled his nose. "What, Dicky?"
Dicky blinked at him. "It's Richard."
God, he's so annoying. "I know that. Dicky."
Dicky shrugged, then in a deadpan voice, he said, "I heard your conversation with Mr. Collins."
"My, my, what an eavesdropper."
"I didn't mean to. I'm here to get my supplies."
"Sure, sure." Maddison waved him off, tapping on his phone.
"Look, Flynn. I know you think I am socially inept —"
