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Kenma blinked up at the walls of the gallery, drinking in the beautiful pieces of art hung all around him. In comparison, his own pieces, two halls down, felt puny, insignificant, and he wrapped his arms tight around him with a shiver.
Why did they admit me?
His art wasn’t anything special, wasn’t as noteworthy as the others here - he didn’t have the delicate, detailed brushes reminiscent of Renaissance portraits. He didn’t have the bold, eye-catching styles that made people freeze, drink in all the details, enraptured. He didn’t have the charismatic colors that seemed to clash, and yet melded together seamlessly. He didn’t have anything special like that. His head dropped.
A hand settled onto his shoulder and Kenma flinched, glanced up. Taketora cocked his head, squeezed his shoulder. “You okay there, Kenma?”
“Fine,” he whispered, nearly inaudible against the soft murmurs of the visitors all around.
Taketora’s brows scrunched together, and he leaned closer, enough that Kenma could count his individual eyelashes if he wanted to. “No, you’re not.”
It was strange when his voice was soft, and it left Kenma confused, both at why, and also at the warmth in his chest, but he didn’t question it, just remained silent as Taketora’s hand curled around his other shoulder, gently steered him away from the artworks, more towards the unpopulated center of the room. “Do you feel like your art is bad?” Taketora said.
Kenma glanced to the side. Bit his tongue. There was a group of people forming around another piece, a beautiful thing of the sea with a sunrise peeking over the waves, drenching the world in pinks and glittering golds. Further down, there was a portrait of a beautiful young person, white cloth strategically draped along their body, spiky red hair an instant eye-catcher against the otherwise monochrome piece. “I…”
“Do you want me to show you something?”
Kenma glanced back to Taketora. He shrugged.
Taketora smiled faintly, nudged him into motion, and Kenma let his friend guide him, chest a little too tight, throat thick with tears that wanted to escape, but he bit back viciously. Down one hall. Another. Took a right. Guided him to a familiar area, one filled with creations he’d memorized because those were the ones he was paired with, beautiful and exquisite compared to his.
And yet there was a group clustered around a spot on the wall, so thick that he couldn’t see the drawing he knew that lay behind. One of a cat stretched out, head thrown back, torn out, but nearly concealed beneath the gritty smudges of gray and black that streaked the canvas, gave it an ethereal quality that Kenma couldn’t resist time after time. Especially when he drew creatures that had passed on.
“What…?” he croaked, taking it in. There was a sizeable cluster of people there, surrounding his work - one piece, two, three- all of them. He swallowed hard. Glanced up at Taketora, who grinned down at him and ruffled his hair.
“See? Your pieces are good. It might take people a little longer to get to them, but there’s a nice quality to yours that the others don’t have!”
Kenma bit his lip, looked away. Found Kuro and Morisuke across the hall, approaching them with bright grins, hands linked between them. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something to focus on to chase away the feeling in his chest, one he couldn’t quite identify. Warmth and a pleasantness to it, a familiarity that he wanted to curl around and hold tight. One that Taketora gave him far too often. Kenma chanced a look back, found Taketora watching him with soft eyes, an even softer smile tugging at his lips.
“Even if there weren’t a lot of people, doesn’t change the fact that your art is my favorite.”
“You’re biased… you’re my friend.”
Taketora snorted, rolled his eyes. “I’d like your art whether you were my friend or not, you little buttmunch.”
“Idiot.”
“An idiot who loves y- your art.”
Kenma blinked. Cocked his head to the side. It was Taketora’s turn for his head to snap away, a flush coloring his cheeks, violent, and he shook his head. “Nothing, just-”
“Kenma! Tora!” Kuro slung an arm over Kenma, and he scowled, twisted away and pressed further into Taketora’s hand as he glared at his friend. “So loud,” he grumbled, “You’re supposed to be quiet.”
Morisuke slapped Kuro’s thigh. “What did I tell you, Tetsu? Fucking idiot.”
“That makes two of us, Morisuke .”
Morisuke rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull his hand out of Kuro’s as he looked at Kenma and Taketora. “Having fun?”
“We will be,” Taketora said with a smile. “Just reminding Kenma that his art is really good.”
Kuro fixed Kenma with a hard stare. “Good,” he said slowly, “Because Kenma’s art is great, and one day you’ll actually realize it, you little shit.”
“You tall asshole,” he fired back. Kuro grinned, ruffled his hair.
Morisuke took a step forward, fixed Taketora with a pointed stare. “So… Taketora, how’s the plan going?”
Kenma looked back up in time to find Taketora’s face go from its normal tan to cherry red in record time. He spluttered, shook his head, hands slipping away from Kenma to wave at them. The absence of warmth left him shifting uncomfortably, wanting to press closer, and he looked between his friends, Morisuke and Kuro grinning devilishly, Taketora with his face buried in his hands. “Shut up,” he groaned after a minute.
Morisuke rolled his eyes. “Fucking chicken.”
Kuro merely threw his head back and laughed, a full body thing that left heads turning and Morisuke whacking him in the side, all while Kenma stared at a flushed Taketora, beyond confused.