OTP AU Competition: We are at an art exhibition and we stand in front of a big abstract painting for a long time until you say very calmly: 'that's definitely a penis.' and we both start giggling and everybody's staring at us AU

I may have been unaware that the prompt specified a painting until I posted this, oops.

What you love about abstraction is that it distills art down to its purest form. The arrangement of shape and color and form to affect the viewer, to create harmony or discordance. You like that meaninglessness can mean something.

Your professor doesn't see it that way.

The end-of-term project for Introduction to Sculpture is an abstract piece on the theme of identity. "I want you to think about how you define yourself, but also about how society defines you," he tells your class. "In my experience, the most profound work is born from a disconnect between those two ideas, of who you are and who you're expected to be."

It doesn't sound too hard until you start thinking about it. Your identity should be obvious, shouldn't it? But you realize that you've never really thought about who you are. You just sort of are, and go with it.

"It seems like kind of a…personal assignment, don't you think?" you muse in class. You've spent the last two days sketching and getting nowhere.

"Art is personal," your professor says. "If you aren't comfortable sharing, you might be in the wrong field." He's joking, but it scares you.

That evening you phone your sister to pretend you have things to do instead of working. "I haven't got an identity," you tell her. "My identity is boring."

"You're not boring," she says. "You're Dean."

"But what does that mean?" You sigh heavily into the receiver. "Who is Dean?"

"You're nice." She pauses, considering. "You're good at drawing, er… You like sports?"

Maybe you really are in the wrong field, you wonder. Maybe you really don't have enough to say. "Do you think I could just do a self-portrait and be done with it?"

She laughs. "You are boring."

The rest of your classmates begin to create and assemble as the week goes on, and by Friday you've about given up. You've got your head down on the table when your professor sits next to you and asks, "So what have you been thinking about for your piece, Dean?"

"I dunno. Nothing," you say.

"Really? Nothing?"

You shrug, ashamed.

He thoughtfully taps his fingers on his knee. "Well, you could try thinking about your experiences as a person of color. How has your blackness affected who you are?"

"Er…"

"You can think about it, it's okay. I'm just trying to get you started." He smiles. "Everyone has experiences that shape them. Even you."

"Okay," you say, trying to urge him away before he starts a conversation you don't want to have with him about sexual orientation or classism or whatever.

"I also think a piece from a perspective of masculinity would be interesting. You could think about the pressures and toxicity of male culture, and how you view yourself as a member of an oppressive class. That's something good for all men to consider."

For a long time you're speechless, but eventually manage to get out a weak, "Er, thanks."

"If you need any more help, that's what I'm here for," he says.

He goes to lean over the next student's work and you sit there, wondering if he actually meant to reduce you to a black dick or it just happened by accident.

Maybe you could just make that, you joke to yourself bitterly. At least it would be easy. You pick up your pencil, still joking of course, and amuse yourself sketching joke designs.

You look up the sort of diagrams they give school kids to teach them what the vas deferens is, appropriate the shapes and the lines, move them, pivot them, build them of wire and clay and paint, and in the end it's actually sort of beautiful. Unrecognizable as anything in particular, just the way you like it. You write your statement of intent, describing it as a representation of confusion or some shite, and turn it in. You are very pleased with yourself.

It appears that your didn't think this small bit of phallic rebellion all the way through.

The end-of-term show isn't really crowded, but it's still more people than you'd prefer looking at your giant cock statue. And definitely not your parents, sweet merciful lord, or your sisters, who ask you immediately, "What is that?"

"It just looks cool," you tell them. They all hum thoughtfully at it for a minute like they actually give a damn about abstract art.

As your family wanders off to find the refreshments table and some boy takes their place, you start to make an aimless circuit of the room. You're sick of these pieces. You've listened to presentations and critiqued them and care about them about as much as your little sisters do, but the professor is here and you want to look like you're doing something.

You return eventually to your own piece and just sort of hang around next to it. The boy is still there. He's looking at your sculpture intently with knit brows, and it makes you a little nervous. You glance over at the other side of the room to ignore him better until he speaks.

"That's definitely a penis," says the boy, suddenly and surely.

You close your eyes for a few seconds, wishing with all your might to spontaneously disappear.

He takes it as skepticism at his theory, or something, and becomes doubly determined to explain himself. "I'm serious," he insists. "It's a side view, don't you see? Those are the bollocks, and that's the… Well, the penis part."

You're almost angry at him for figuring you out. What the hell is he doing, anyway, trying to find hidden genitalia in student art? "If that's true," you say, careful to keep expressionless, "you've just spent quite a lot of time looking at a penis."

"I…" He bursts out laughing. "I guess I have."

He has a very good laugh. It makes you smile in spite of yourself.

"I'm Seamus," he says.

"Dean."

He points at the little card on the table with your name on it. "Like Dick Bloke."

"Er, yeah."

You can see the amusement on his face gradually turn to horror. "Oh my god, you're Dick Bloke."

"Yeah," you say again. "Dick Bloke, that's me."

"Oh, fuck." He fumbles around with his words. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

"I've probably just got some weird Freudian thing. What's the term for when you see penises everywhere?"

"You're fine." You glance around to make sure no one's listening. "That was kind of what I was going for, actually."

"You mean it's really a dick?" He looks delighted.

The closest few people look around at him and you lower your voice. "Don't tell."

His smile just keeps getting bigger. "But this was a student project, right? So you made a huge cock sculpture, and just…turned it in for grade?"

"Well," you mumble, "sort of."

"You're my hero." The boy—Seamus—crosses his arms and looks at you hard, appraisingly, and it makes you shiver. "I wish I could do that on a lab paper."

"Don't," you say for lack of anything intelligent.

"I promise." He looks down the row and swings out his arms. "Well, I've got a whole roomful of amateur art to get to."

You chuckle. "Most of it isn't profane. Not to disappoint."

"I'm sure I'll get through it somehow," Seamus says. "And maybe you'll still be around when I'm done?"

"I have to be here," you say. "It's my show."

"Good." He shoots you a cheeky grin and pats your back before moving on. "Nice cock."