Abstract Concepts

Figarro wrinkled his nose, the scraggly whiskers threatening to poke him in his droopy orange eyes. His tail twitched as his vision wandered over the canvas. A moment passed, and he gave a derisive sniff, shaking his head.

“Nope. Can’t see it.”

Standing beside him, the half-Ortuxan ran his hands through his hair, giving a disgruntled groan. “You’re not supposed to see it, Fig,” Daybreak said. “It’s an interpretation, not a depiction. One would think a gib so interested in abstract concepts would be interested in abstract art.”

“This one a’ yours?” The aged gray tom turned toward him. Wau, but the kid was weird to look at. He had the normal triangular ears of an Ortuxan, and one could forgive the length of his tail–at least he had a relatively normal tail. But his fur was so patchy. He had it on the top of his head and around his mouth, as well as patches on his arms–well, arm–and his fingers. He looked so hideous. How had a half-human pulled two loving partners?

Oh, shut up with that misplaced jealousy, he told himself. You’re too old for a foæfi, anyway.

Daybreak’s face went weirdly red in an expression Figarro saw as indignation. “No, it’s one of my students’,” he said, pointing. Figarro followed his titanium finger–yet another oddity, though that one at least looked cool–to see the Wauchiæ scratched into the painting, bright yellow against the violet patch. It was written in a shaky hand despite its bold hue, just like the shaky lines of the rest of the piece.

“Dhuñau,” he read, sniffing again. The smell of sun-baked sandstone and oil paints filled his nose. “What kinda name is that?”

“What kinda name is Figarro?” asked a new voice.

Figarro turned, eyes narrowed in suspicion. The newcomer was about half his height, though he could tell part of that was because of bad posture. He was a caramel tabby, with an expression about as disdainful as Fig’s own.

Daybreak sighed. “Fig, this is Dhuñau,” he said. “He’s the artist.”

“See, when you said ‘student’ I assumed you meant someone of student age,” said the grey tom. He noticed his tail wasn’t twitching with irritation, so he willed it to shift, though the movement looked weird when he forced it.

“I accept artists of all ages,” Daybreak protested, seeming not to notice.

“I’m not sure you want to say all ages, lad. This relic might take it as a hint.”

Figarro scoffed in indignation. “There is no way you’re more than a cycle younger than me.”

To his surprise, Dhuñau smirked. It wasn’t often anyone smiled at him when he was, well, acting like a crusty old gib. He somehow got the impression that this other gib understood him.

That concept was more alien than the conspiracies he researched.

“Oh….kay,” Daybreak said behind him. Figarro jumped, then cursed at himself. Had he really forgotten the young tom was there in the span of five seconds? “If you two promise not to tear up the portraits, I’m gonna lead in the next group. I’m serious, by the way,” he said, holding up an accusing finger to Fig. “Don’t touch the paintings. A single padprint can destroy an entire canvas over time. Don’t. Touch.”

With that he turned and headed out of the room, leaving the two gibs alone.

Fig folded his arms over his chest. He hadn’t bothered to clean up; he was still covered in the sand of the desert and the grease of Guavato’s mechanic shop, where he’d been staying. His goggles were perched on his head like a crown, the dusty schemagh wrapped about his neck, the clothes he’d borrowed from the younger soul slightly too small on him. Guavato had insisted; something about “if you’re gonna stay in the house with me and my kit I don’t want to see you walking around wearing ragged nets instead of clothes”. Annoying. 

Even more annoying, Dhuñau was even more kempt than Fig’s unwitting roommate. He had on a neatly pressed scarf, midnight-blue boots that went up to the thigh, his dress browns–was there a spirit in all of Waumærr who hadn’t been in the blasted army?–decorated with polished medals and ribbons. Rose-gold and pink. So, highly respected.

Fig sniffed disdainfully.

“Ya get right outta the war an’ into painting? Seems boring.”

“You get right outta the bunker and into a mechanic’s garage? Seems like an upgrade,” Dhuñau countered.

Rau confound it, Fig thought with dismay, as he felt his scraggly whiskers twitch in amusement. He turned back to the painting. It was a pane of silver, scored through with thick lines of violet and dun brown. Figarro had stared at it for nigh on an hour now, and hadn’t figured out what it was supposed to be. He felt the brush of a tail on the back of his leg as the other gib stood next to him, and glanced over to see him looking up at the painting as well.

“Do you want a hint?” he asked.

Figarro’s nose wrinkled. “What would I need a hint for?”

“You look confused. Or maybe that’s just your wrinkled old face.”

Figarro scoffed.

“I can tell you the prompt,” he went on. “It was, ‘A moment in life when you were happiest’.”

His voice, previously amused, had lost its lilt. He now sounded as old as he looked–as old as Fig felt. Fig glanced over at him, flicking an ear.

“If you were happy, you got a funny way a’ showing it now.”

“Past tense, you old geezer.” The lilt had returned, sort of. He now sounded tired.

Figarro looked up at the painting again. He found his eyes following the shaky lines. Brown ones made up a face, jagged in its shape, harsh and soft all at once. The violet planes outlined a head made up of triangles–or, well, a sort of approximation of triangles. He wasn’t sure if it counted, what with the roughened edges making up far more than three sides. But the general impression of “triangle” was there.

He looked up and frowned. The top corners of the canvas were yellow. The silver didn’t take up the whole background; it made up a circular shape standing against the yellow of the sky.

“You lost someone in The Falling,” he said, then frowned. “Why would ya use the Sciftan’s ship in the happiest moment?”

“The happiest moment happened right before the worst moment,” Dhuñau said, sighing. “But it’s been cycles. This was supposed to be a symbol that I was letting go.”

Fig glanced at him again. The other gib looked haunted. He wasn’t letting go, was he?

Patchy gray tail twitching, he sighed, rolling his eyes. One didn’t get to be this old by letting things get to one. He butted his shoulder into Dhuñau’s, shedding ruddy sand onto his dress uniform.

“You don’t let things go all at once, ya nitwit,” he said. “Doing a whole painting is kinda the opposite of letting it go, anyway. You’re just putting it on display, like, ‘hey, look at me, I’m in pain’.”

Dhuñau sniffed, narrowing black-flecked eyes at him. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he said hesitantly.

“You let things go by moving on, Duney.”

“Dhuñau.”

“Duney. You know, the young’un mentioned there was a food stand somewhere in this mess of an art gallery. If you wanna let go of the painting for now, you can show me where it is. Of course, if you’re still having trouble…”

Dhuñau scowled, then turned away from the painting. He started to walk past, and Figarro felt something tug on his tail. He glanced back, his scowl turning playful as he noticed his new companion’s tail entwining with his, caramel stripes twisting with patchy gray.

“Having trouble deciding whether I appreciate your input, maybe,” Dhuñau said scornfully, but with a note of gratitude. “Come on, before your old brain forgets where we are.”

Daybreak rounded the corner with a group of people, his eyes catching on the two gibs leaving. He stifled a smile as he noticed their tails twisted loosely together. So Figarro can get along with people, he thought. Even if it’s just another ornery old man.

“This piece was done by Dhuñau, another student of mine,” he said aloud, gesturing at the painting.

A couple of people pulled up their wristbells to take photos.

“Entitled ‘Eye of the Storm’,” he continued, stepping back to let everyone get a good look, “it depicts a moment just before The Falling, which as you know happened ten cycles ago. But as it’s abstract, the actual subject is, well, subject to interpretation.”

He glanced again to where Dhuñau and Figarro had disappeared together, letting the smile curl his lips. This could be good for both of them.