Author's Notes: A small warning, this fic is quite messy. Heck, even I don't get what I'm typing half the time I'm working on this. More than one reading may be needed, although those who can catch on quickly may not require it.
I do not own Transformers.
Art
At a sweep of his hand, colours moved and mixed around, mingling and blending on his canvas. Hues of pink spread out, sharply contrasting the once-barren canvas yet joining the mess of pink already littered all around. His own golden-yellow frame stands out from the picture as he surveys his work.
He doesn't pause for long and moves again. Two reasons: the colours would dry and it was dangerous to stay still for too long. With more movements and steps, he adds to his canvas. Tints and shades fall into the picture, landing on the pink and staying there. Some fade to grey as he moves and adds more colours to his work. Crumpled shapes of purple, red, blue, a small hint of black and other colours lay scattered around, some of the vibrant spots unmoving and others appearing to sprout new colours of their own. Pink liquid splatters on and coloured scratches scar his arms and chassis, but he pays them no mind.
Time passes, and his movements slow. His piece was almost finished. The myriad of colours that had clashed at the start of the session had been neutralised. He had taken care of most of them, with sweeping brushstrokes and movements that further decorated his canvas and greyed some areas, adding shade to create form. He glances over his work, and sees that the remaining spots of vibrant colours were moving. Some seemed to fade off into the edges of the canvas, most stood in clusters and appeared to cheer, and a large familiar shape of red grinned at him, with pink sprayed on it but not hindering its bright and lively nature.
Satisfied, he put down his brush and laid the canvas gently on its side, leaning it against his berth. He stood up and limped his way out of his quarters, heading to the wash-racks to clean off dried energon and paints before going to the medbay.
His former instructor had once told him that fighting and killing were forms of art in their own way. Most saw him as a master in those perceptions of art, but only few knew he preferred the one with a brush.
Author's Notes 2: This fic is free to different interpretations. The whole thing is seriously a blur.
Reviews and/or criticisms (preferably constructive ones) are welcome. Thank you.
Refracted Imagination, logging out.