A feast for your eyes to see, an explosion of catastrophe. [Narrative, closed.]
The project should have been easy. It didn't need to be large, it wasn't in multiple pieces. Something simple would actually be preferable. A memorial for the garden. For the people who had died during the cure. It wasn't like Kevin didn't have inspiration. He'd been through it himself, he'd lost friends in it, he'd gained this weird connection from it, his powers were back. It was all there. But for some reason it was more difficult than any of his other pieces had been before, even the ones he'd done in college, the ones that were actually being graded and determining his worth (back when he still actually put some merit into what others thought of him).

He'd ordered King and Luce out of the studio, again, several hours ago. He wasn't exactly pleasant to work with, but they knew why that was and hadn't been trying to fight his moods. Which was probably a good thing all around. He was silent for the most part, not giving them orders for hours at a time at some junctures, ignoring them completely at points, and occasionally (like today) telling them to just get out after finding something wrong with what they were doing. Even if they were only doing what he'd told them to do. It wasn't them that he was frustrated with, much as his tone might disagree. It was himself. Why couldn't he get this right? Everything he thought to do, everything that he started working on, he ended up hating and tearing apart. And the stupid thing needed to be finished. It was like this big, hulking, metal elephant in the room for him, it was invading his thoughts and aggravating him even when it's lack of structure wasn't laughing directly in his face.


He didn't even know how long he'd been sitting in the studio. It was getting dark out but he hadn't bothered to turn the lights on, staring at the space before him with its disassembled metals and abandoned blow torches, almost at the end of his pack of cigarettes. And then, with no great fanfare, he stood from his spot. He knew what he wanted to do. Now that it had been solidified in his mind, he knew that it had to happen, and it had to happen now or he would never be able to get it out. He moved from the studio, to the garage, taking one of the sets of keys to one of the communal cars available to the teachers and staff. Kevin didn't drive, only had a handful of times in his life, but he didn't really care at the moment. He left without telling anyone, thoughts calm so as not to alarm Adrien, keeping up that thin wall that Xavier had been teaching them to build. He didn't want to be stopped.

He got to the gallery fairly easily, double-parking the car at the side of whatever was in front of the building, not even bothering to lock it as he headed inside. There was a good sized crowd for a Sunday evening, and he knew why they were there. He'd done a small selection of works while he'd been cured. Drawings and sketches and a small sculpture or two (not of metal) that had been arranged for this space. They had done horribly. Kevin had gotten hate mail galore from those who followed him, blaming the cure for what they saw as a waste of time. It was far from what he'd been doing previously, it was about textures he could feel finally, about love, about hope. Drawings of Laurie, of faceless love, even one or two of younger people -- still faceless, but they'd have been recognized by their subjects (Adrien, King, Luce, Nico) if they'd seen them. Which they hadn't. Kevin knew that this collection was going to get razed and so he hadn't told people about it. Adrien knew of it, certainly, and Laurie. But that was all. He didn't care about critics, but he didn't want others witnessing his being publicly flayed all the same. He'd sold only two pieces from it. The gallery had been angry, joining everyone else in that sense. It was written off completely.

Not anymore.

Since the attacks, since his new notoriety and the knowledge that his powers were back, the collection had almost tripled its asking prices. Everything had been sold and was just waiting for the end of the showing. Everyone wanted a piece of what he'd made, now that it was something he'd never make again. His six months of happiness were destroyed and, disturbingly but not shockingly, it made the remnants valuable to the vultures who had just been hating it. Well. If Kevin couldn't have that time anymore, then neither could they.

He was recognized as he came in, but he ignored the people looking and those talking to him. Instead he moved around the space, taking the pieces from the walls one by one, setting them in the middle of the floor. Those in attendance gathered around curiously, wondering if this was some kind of performance art. The workers looked on nervously, not wanting to approach him considering what his powers could do, and not sure what to do when he didn't acknowledge their queries. When it was all there in a lopsided pile, he crouched next to it, taking his gloves off. He could practically feel the crowd leaning back slightly to put more space between them and him. His hands moved to the things then, letting his skin touch it, letting it wither and decay. All of the things he used to be able to touch, the paper, the materials, the fabrics, Laurie, Adrien, Luce, King, Nico -- now it all turned to ash beneath his fingers. He heard the gasps and ignored them, waiting until his hands sunk through the ash pile to the floor before he pulled them away. He picked up a handful, looking at it as he stood, before looking at the people. His hand unfolded and rose a bit to his face, blowing the dust towards them sharply before grabbing his gloves and moving to leave. No one stopped him.

Those things had been ripped away from him, and so he was ripping this away from them. That section of his life had been ruined, and he was ruining this in return. It needed to be destroyed, the same way the rest of it had. All of it. Gone. They didn't appreciate it when it was there, so they wouldn't have it now. He hated himself for being like them, but as he drove back to the school he could feel a pressure leaving him. He'd be able to do the sculpture, now.


((this would've made the news!))