#sketcher!Feyre is something that is so personal to me

[foxcort]

Something about him felt . . . familiar. Kindred.

written for day 1: art & music of @feylinweek. / or sketcher!feyre and violinist!tamlin college au 🌹

Her muse is well over six feet tall, she thinks. And very good at playing violin.

He stands before the backdrop of one of the college’s old, brown-bricked buildings, in a dark green, wool trench coat, his hands steady as he guides the bow over strings. There’s hardly an audience this late into the afternoon, but he plays anyway, and Feyre imagines he’s playing for himself.

She sketches him quickly, furtively. The sharp autumn wind makes it difficult, makes her knuckles ache and her face pink. But she draws her faded jacket closer to her body and swipes at the errant pieces of her hair whipping in the wind, tucking them behind her ears roughly.

Her hands move in practiced, habitual motions, neck lifting every now and then to recapture his frame, until she's all but memorized him. His shoulder-length blond hair, the burly build of his body, the way his eyes close when he plays what she assumes is a particularly satisfying note.

It's when she's halfway through, completely bound to the strokes of her pencil and the image unfolding before her, that a voice she doesn’t anticipate rumbles to her left.

“That’s . . . really good.”

Her hand jerks and a deep, bold line cuts across the paper.

Heart slamming into her throat, Feyre twists to face him, the sketchpad instinctively pressing against her chest.

Her muse is standing right next to her, guilt knitting his brows together. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice is deeper than she imagined, and in his hand is his violin case. Had she really been so immersed that he’d had the time to put away his violin?

“I saw you looking over at me a couple of times and got curious.”

“No, no— it’s fine.” She rushes to stand up, her face heating and her stiff fingers still clinging tight to her half-finished drawing as she blurts out. “It’s for one of my art finals.” She gestures to the hidden sketch. “I’m not stalking you, or anything.”

He laughs, and it sounds full and warm, a balm against the cold. “I’m flattered. Although I think I ruined any chance of you receiving a passing grade.”

Something about his laugh melts all the places the wind has frosted. “I can always do one of my sister’s garden. I’ve yet to meet a professor who doesn’t eat up florals.” Boldness — or maybe the natural progression of a conversation involving someone she was secretly sketching — steels her. “I’m Feyre.”

“Tamlin.” His eyes fall to the sketchpad in her arms, a flicker of worry there. “Doesn’t it hurt to do that out here, in the cold?”

She smiles, nodding to violin case in his hand. “Doesn’t it hurt to do that out here, in the cold?”

Tamlin ducks his head and treats her with another laugh, his free hand slipping into his coat pocket. “There’s a coffee shop nearby, run by a friend of mine.” Foxhole Ground. It was the closest cafe to the campus and she’d passed it on her way here. “In my experience, holding a cup of hot tea or coffee does wonders for frozen fingers.”

“Does it?” She quips immediately, her heart beating a little faster than normal. It’s not that she’s never been approached and asked on an impromptu date by an attractive person. Something about him felt . . . familiar. Kindred.

He pulls his hand out of his pocket, runs his fingers through his hair, a sheepish expression on his face. “And maybe this time I can sit still while you draw?”

Feyre grinned, sliding the strap of her bag onto her shoulder, tapping the butt of her pencil lightly against his violin case. “Not completely still, I hope.” She starts walking down the brick path and he follows with that brilliant smile growing back over his mouth.

a/n: also known as the coffee shop adjacent au lol. hope you guys enjoyed this one!