Brushstrokes of Discord

Jace pressed harder, the charcoal groaning against the thick paper. He loved the rough scrape, the way the line blurred if he dragged his thumb across it, a smudgy mess that somehow felt more honest than any clean stroke. Today’s theme was 'Urban Reflections', and he’d chosen a tangled mess of power lines against a bruised prairie sky, the kind you saw just south of Winnipeg, buzzing with unseen energy. The workshop hummed around him, a low murmur of other teenagers, the clatter of dropped brushes, and the faint, sweet-sick tang of oil paint. It was better than sitting at home, scrolling through endless reels, or listening to his kokum worry about his future.

Across the long trestle table, a kid he hadn't really noticed before was meticulously detailing a brick wall. Not just *a* brick wall, but *the* brick wall outside the gallery, complete with chipped mortar and graffiti that was too small to read from this distance. Sawyer, the name tag said. His movements were precise, almost unnerving in their control. Jace’s own elbow knocked against a tub of charcoal sticks, sending a few skittering across the table. One rolled right to Sawyer’s outstretched hand.

Sawyer paused, his brow furrowed, a faint smudge of graphite already dusting his cheekbone. He picked up the charcoal, holding it like it was a delicate, ancient artefact, then slid it back across the table, not quite meeting Jace's eye. Jace felt a familiar prickle of irritation. Too careful. Too… clean. His own hands were already grimy, a streak of black running down his forearm where he’d leaned against his own work.

“Sorry,” Jace mumbled, though he wasn’t really. He hated quiet, methodical people. They always made him feel like he was too loud, too much. He turned back to his sky, adding a violent smear of deep violet. This wasn't about pretty pictures. It was about feeling something, anything, and getting it onto the paper before it choked him.

A few minutes later, Sawyer’s voice, surprisingly clear and a little sharp, cut through the background hum. “You’re mixing your mediums again. The instructor said charcoal for the base, then watercolour wash.”

Jace stopped, his hand hovering. He looked at his almost finished sky, the charcoal lines now bleeding into a watery, purplish mess. It looked good to him. Dynamic. Real. He twisted, meeting Sawyer's gaze for the first time. Sawyer’s eyes were a deep, dark brown, framed by thick lashes, and there was a hint of something unyielding in them. “So? It’s my piece, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but… there are rules,” Sawyer said, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He gestured vaguely towards the instructor, a kind but firm woman named Ms. Dubois, who was currently helping someone with perspective across the room.

“Rules are for people who can’t think for themselves,” Jace retorted, a little louder than he intended. He immediately regretted it. He didn’t want to cause a scene. But Sawyer’s prim insistence had struck a nerve. It felt like a criticism, like his whole approach was wrong, sloppy. He was tired of always being told he was too much, not enough, never quite right.

Sawyer’s flush deepened. “It’s about technique. Understanding the materials. You can’t just… throw it all together and expect it to work.” He picked up a small, clean brush, almost unconsciously straightening a row of coloured pencils beside him.

Jace snorted. “Watch me.” He grabbed a broad, flat brush, dipped it aggressively into a tray of murky blue watercolour, and slapped it right over the dark charcoal power lines. The black bled and blurred, creating an even more chaotic, storm-ridden effect. It was messy, yes, but it felt alive. He shot Sawyer a defiant look. Sawyer just stared at the developing storm, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Annoyance? Disapproval? Or something else entirely?

Shared Roots, Hidden Depths

Ms. Dubois drifted over, her smile gentle. “Jace, Sawyer, how are we doing here?” She eyed Jace’s bleeding landscape, then Sawyer’s hyper-realistic brickwork. “Interesting contrast in styles, boys. Jace, I see you’re really pushing the boundaries. Sawyer, your attention to detail is remarkable.” She paused, then picked up a small jar of ink. “Why don’t we try something different? Jace, your expressive lines, Sawyer, your precision. Perhaps a collaborative piece. A cityscape, perhaps? One of you lay down the bold, foundational shapes in charcoal, the other comes in with ink washes, building the details.”

Jace felt a groan building in his throat. Collaborate? With *him*? Sawyer looked equally thrilled, which was to say, utterly miserable. Their eyes met again, and this time Jace saw a shared flicker of dismay, a tiny spark of mutual understanding in the face of an unwanted task. Maybe they weren't so different after all, both trapped in this awkward moment.

“Right,” Ms. Dubois chirped, oblivious. “Jace, you start with a large, fresh sheet. A sense of the city’s bones. Sawyer, prepare your inks.” She wandered off, leaving them in a charged silence.

Jace sighed, pulling out a large sheet of paper. He picked up his broadest stick of charcoal. “So, uh, what kind of city bones are we talking about?” He tried for casual, but his voice came out a bit stiff. He watched Sawyer meticulously arrange tiny bottles of ink, a small dish of water, and a handful of brushes, each bristle perfectly aligned.

“Something… dynamic,” Sawyer finally said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. “But with a grounding. Like… the way the Red River forks into the Assiniboine. That’s a kind of bone, isn’t it? The meeting point.”

Jace paused. He hadn’t thought about it that way. He’d just thought about crumbling buildings and angry skies. But the rivers… that was home. That was the heart of the city, of their territory. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He started drawing, not the jagged angles he usually favoured, but sweeping, flowing lines, the dark charcoal forming the confluence of the rivers, spreading out into an embryonic city grid. He worked quickly, letting instinct guide his hand. He could feel Sawyer watching him, a quiet intensity. It wasn’t critical, not exactly. More like… observation.

When he finished, a rough, powerful outline of Winnipeg lay before them. He stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans, leaving another black smear. “Your turn, Mr. Precision.” He tried to sound sarcastic, but there was a tremor of something else in his voice—anticipation, maybe. He was genuinely curious to see what Sawyer would do with his raw, foundational energy.

Sawyer leaned in, his dark hair falling forward, obscuring his face slightly. He took a small brush, dipped it into a light sepia ink, and began to add the delicate filigree of bridges, the skeletal structures of buildings rising from Jace’s charcoal rivers. His hand was steady, a stark contrast to Jace’s own impulsive sweeps. Jace watched, fascinated, as the city began to breathe, saw the faint, almost invisible details of a Métis sash pattern subtly woven into the ink wash of a bridge railing, a tiny, almost hidden detail that only someone who knew would recognise.

“Hey,” Jace said, quietly. “That… the sash pattern. My kokum used to weave blankets with that.” He hadn’t meant to say it. It just came out, a piece of him offered unexpectedly.

Sawyer looked up, startled, his eyes wide. He pulled his hand back, a drop of ink almost falling. “Oh. Yeah. My mosom taught me.” He swallowed, then added, “It’s… it’s a good way to remember. To keep it with us, even in the city.” He gestured to Jace’s charcoal rivers. “Yours… it feels like the land. The prairies, even when you’re drawing buildings. I see it.”

A warmth, unfamiliar and startling, spread through Jace’s chest. He hadn’t expected Sawyer to get it. He hadn’t expected Sawyer to *see* it. He thought his art was just a jumble, a release of noise and feeling, but Sawyer saw the land, the roots. And Jace saw the quiet strength in Sawyer’s precise lines, the subtle honouring of their heritage in the smallest details. It was a language they both spoke, in different dialects.

“We both, uh… half-breed, then?” Jace asked, almost a whisper. The term felt charged, familiar, a word his kokum sometimes used, reclaiming it. Sawyer nodded, a small, tentative smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. My dad’s Cree-Métis, my mum’s Irish.”

“Mine too,” Jace blurted out. “Well, my dad’s Métis-Cree. Mum’s Ukrainian. Guess we got a lot more in common than just art, huh?” He chuckled, a genuine, unforced sound. The tension had completely leached out of the air, replaced by something lighter, something almost buoyant. He leaned closer, watching Sawyer add a tiny canoe, just barely visible in the ink, paddling down the charcoal river. “You know, that’s actually… really cool. Like, really, really cool.”

Sawyer looked up again, a deeper flush now on his cheeks, a genuine, shy smile. His eyes, dark and thoughtful, held Jace’s gaze for a beat longer than strictly necessary. Jace felt his own face heat up, a strange, pleasant flutter in his stomach. The smell of ink and turpentine suddenly felt less clinical, more… exciting. Like a new possibility.

Unfinished Edges

The workshop wound down. Other students were packing up, their chatter growing louder. Jace and Sawyer were still leaning over their collaborative piece, the charcoal and ink city now a complex, living landscape, a testament to their unexpected synergy. Jace found himself not wanting to leave, not wanting this quiet, shared space to end. Sawyer’s shoulder was almost brushing his, a gentle warmth emanating from him.

“So,” Jace started, then paused, trying to find the right words. “This was… actually good. Better than I thought.” He glanced at Sawyer, whose smile was still soft, a little less guarded now.

“Yeah,” Sawyer agreed, carefully capping a bottle of ink. “It was. Your rivers… they felt like they’d always been there. And I just got to… connect them.”

Their fingers brushed as they reached for the same roll of masking tape to secure their finished piece. A jolt, tiny and electric, passed between them. Jace pulled his hand back quickly, his heart thumping a little faster. Sawyer cleared his throat, a faint blush returning.

“Look,” Jace said, suddenly feeling bold, his voice a bit rough. “There’s, uh, a pop-up gallery opening next Friday. Downtown. It’s got some local artists, some Métis stuff too. My kokum was talking about it.” He didn’t usually invite people to things. Didn’t usually want to. But with Sawyer… it felt different. Like an impulse he had to follow.

Sawyer’s dark eyes widened slightly. He hesitated, fiddling with a stray piece of charcoal dust on the table. “Oh. Uh, really? That sounds… interesting.” He looked at the collaborative piece, then back at Jace. “I’d… I’d like that. I think.” He packed his small bag, his movements less rigid now. “What time?”

Jace felt a grin split his face. “Seven? I can, uh… I can meet you outside. If you want.” He didn’t know why, but the idea of seeing Sawyer again, outside of this workshop, felt like a promise. A whole new, exciting canvas stretched before him, still unpainted, but full of potential.

Sawyer nodded, a quiet affirmation. He zipped his bag, picked up his finished brick wall, and gave Jace one last look. The look was still unreadable, but now Jace thought he saw a hint of the same curiosity, the same tentative hope that was blossoming in his own chest. As Sawyer walked towards the door, the city’s afternoon light filtering through the gallery windows, Jace found himself wondering, stupidly, if Friday would ever get here. He reached out, his finger tracing the faint, still-wet ink where Sawyer had drawn the tiny canoe, feeling the cool, damp paper against his skin, a new kind of connection already made.

He didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second. And as the door swung shut, leaving him in the suddenly quieter room, he realised he wasn’t just looking forward to the gallery, he was looking forward to seeing Sawyer there. A strange, unfamiliar flutter of nerves and excitement twisted in his gut, leaving him with an unexpected ache, a profound sense of anticipation for what might come next.