Chapter Text
He’s there one day, lingering around the entrance, as you drop off some of your work at an old friend’s studio.
Shunsuke Akashi was one of your professors once, but he’s now more or less retired as a part-time ceramics instructor. You maintained contact over the years - at first because he was a great reference for job applications, and later because he became a colleague and a friend when you entered the art world yourself. You traded pieces sometimes, just stupid little stuff, purely because you became fans of each other’s work.
“Who’s that?” you whisper to him, trying to gesture inconspicuously to the shabby looking guy in the purple hoodie standing awkwardly by the door.
“Ah, Ichimatsu?” he says, with a degree of fondness and familiarity you know he reserves for his favorite students. Before you can stop him, he’s already waving the other man over, wanting to introduce you.
The guy in the hoodie shuffles over reluctantly, looking at the ground. You can’t help but notice how disheveled he looks, with messy hair and dark bags under his eyes, wearing cheap plastic sandals and sweatpants.
Akashi introduces the two of you cheerily, blatantly ignoring how uncomfortable both of you are.
“Ichimatsu is one of my former students, too,” he explains. “He drops by to borrow my kiln occasionally.” Akashi glances around and leans in towards you a little, and whispers, “He doesn’t rent studio space or anything, I just like to catch up with him sometimes.”
You smile at Ichimatsu, even though he still won’t look you in the eye. “It’s nice to meet you,” you say, trying to sound friendly.
Akashi pats your shoulder roughly. “This is one of my students from when I was a proper professor, you know,” he says, talking to Ichimatsu now. “They took my class as an elective. Absolutely dreadful at sculpture. Good painter, though. You could learn from them, you’re still struggling with painting, right?”
Ichimatsu nods, hesitantly.
You shoot Akashi an offended look. “I wasn’t that bad at sculpting!”
Akashi breezes right past your comment. “Wouldn’t you like to make a little extra cash in between exhibitions?” he asks you, his eyes mischievous.
You squint at him. He knows you you’re in a bit of a lull right now, surviving on commissions to get by.
He’s right though, it’d be good to have a little extra cash. Ichimatsu seems reserved and a little scruffy, but not rambunctious or annoying, so he’d probably make an alright student. The fact that Akashi is essentially giving you a glowing recommendation for him as a student bodes well, too.
You turn to smile at Ichimatsu again. “Yeah, that’d be great! I’d be happy to help you with painting! Should I give you my contact info? Do you have your phone?”
“I-I don’t have a… I don’t have it with me,” he stammers, his face bright red. His head is ducked low, staring directly at his feet.
“Oh, that’s okay,” you say, rummaging around in your bag. “I’m sure I have a scrap of paper and a pen somewhere.”
Akashi fetches Ichimatsu’s pieces from the kiln as you write down your name and phone number. You watch as Ichimatsu wraps up five little clay cats in bubble wrap and tucks them into a tote bag.
“You like cats?” you ask, handing him the slip of paper with your information.
He looks positively mortified and nods silently. His mouth is pressed into a hard line, like he’s got something stuffed in there and he’s worried it’ll fall out.
“Me too,” you tell him, trying to make him feel more at ease, but he doesn’t look relieved at all. “Well,” you continue, “give me a call later and we’ll work out a time to get together for lessons, okay? I won’t charge you any more than Akashi did for his lessons.”
Ichimatsu nods again, stuffs the paper in his pocket, and practically bolts out the door.
“Did you notice?” asks Akashi as the two of you watch Ichimatsu scurry away. “He only ever makes cats.”
It’s about a week before you hear from Ichimatsu.
You phone rings while you’re in the middle of working on a painting, and you answer it without looking. Hardly anyone calls you except your close friends and the rookie artist agent you dealt with sometimes. You absentmindedly hit the speaker button and keep working.
“Hello?” you ask.
“Ah,” says a vaguely familiar voice. “I-is… is this, um…”
He mumbles your name like he’s not sure how to say it.
“Yes,” you answer, “who’s this?”
“Um, Ichimatsu Matsuno…”
“Oh, from Akashi’s class?” you ask, your memory jogged. “How are you?”
“...wanted to ask about lessons…”
He skips right past the small talk. A little weird, and the way he’s mumbling under his breath is even weirder, but whatever.
“Oh, okay! What’s your schedule like?”
There’s a really long pause. You can hear raspy breathing. It’s unsettling enough that it forces you to put your brush down and stop working, and instead you stare at your phone with your brow furrowed.
“...totally open…” he mutters, sounding as though he wants to exit this conversation as quickly as possible.
“Uh… okay, how about Friday afternoons, does that work for you?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“Alright, well, you can drop by anytime after 5pm. I’ll text you my address, okay?”
“No!” he says suddenly, not quite a shout, but loud in comparison to the way he’d been talking. “No, I can’t… I don’t get texts. Tell me what it is and I’ll write it down.”
You hesitate - who doesn’t have texting in 2017? - but you tell him your address and he hangs up with an abrupt, “Thanks, bye.”
Rude. And weird. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.
To your surprise, he actually shows up that following Friday. You’d half expected him to back out.
He’s got the money for ten lessons in an envelope and he thrusts it at you as soon as you open the door.
“Oh, wow, I didn’t think you’d pay for all ten upfront,” you say, peeking inside at the wad of cash. “Well, I guess I’m stuck with you now,” you joke, although judging by the pained look on his face, you feel more like he’s stuck with you.
You lead him into your studio. It’s a small space, especially compared to Akashi’s facilities, and you live in a loft towards the back of the larger room, with a kitchenette and a bathroom underneath your primary living area. It took a lot of hunting to find something that accommodated your needs while being small enough to afford.
You’ve set up an area on one side of your workspace for Ichimatsu to use for lessons. He sets his tote bag on the table you’ve placed there, and several bubble-wrapped figures tumble out.
He looks around at the in progress paintings hanging from your studio walls, his brow scrunching up. His mouth is closed firmly again, and you wonder if maybe he’s intimidated.
Trying to make him feel more at ease, you come up behind him and pick up one of the figures. “Can we take a look at some of your work? I’d like to get a feel for what you’re going for.”
He looks anxious as you start peeling off the bubble wrap, but he doesn’t stop you or say anything.
Underneath is a sloppily painted kitten. The details are clumsy and the fur doesn’t look quite right because the paint strokes are inconsistent and don’t really resemble cat hair. Underneath the paint, though, is a well constructed little sculpture of a cat. It’s clear his classes with Akashi paid off - there’s no cracks, and the details carved into the face, ears, and paws are delicate and well defined.
“It’s stupid,” he says quickly, turning away from you. His face is bright red.
“It’s not stupid,” you insist. “If you like making cats, you like making cats. There’s a market for that, I bet.”
He scoffs at you.
“No, for real,” you insist. You start unwrapping another sculpture. This one’s unpainted, but just as well made as the last. “These are really cute, you did a good job. Maybe we could start with drawing out how you’d like them to look, and then we can try each painting one, so you can follow along with what I do?”
He nods a little and you suppose that’s the best answer you’re ever going to get from him.
The two of you pick out a few of his figures to start with, and sketch out ideas. Ichimatsu’s drawings are just as clumsy as his paintings, scratchy little doodles that don’t make a whole lot of sense when you look at them. He watches intently as you draw over his sketches and make your own, and eventually he settles on one for each of you to paint.
You notice with some remorse that both the drawings he picked were yours, and wonder if maybe you should’ve left him to his own devices a little more.
You’re also a little surprised to find that he gravitates towards realism.
“Should look like a real cat,” he mumbles, pointing at one of your more defined drawings, “like this. Like it could actually move.”
You supply him with paints and you both get to work. Ichimatsu shies away whenever you get too close, so you quickly learn to keep your distance. You model a better way to hold the brush with your own hand rather than trying to position his, gently holding the handle with three fingers and holding your hand steady by extending pinky and bracing it against the figure. He tries to copy you, hands shaking from either nerves or an inability to hold an unfamiliar position, but you don’t reach out to change his grip for fear of him suddenly jerking away again. Eventually he settles on a grip similar, but not quite the same, as yours.
As you prime the figures and lay down base colors, you make an attempt to chat with him.
“Do you want to make anything other than cats?” you ask, careful to keep your voice pleasant so he won’t think you’re judging them.
He shrugs. He’s calmed down considerably now that you’re keeping your distance and the lesson is well under way. “Haven’t thought about making anything else.”
“Really?” He hasn’t thought about making anything else at all? “Well, that’s alright. Nothing wrong with cats.”
He lets out a quick breath through his nose. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like it’s not weird.” He loads his brush up with more paint as he speaks.
“Ichimatsu, exclusively making cats is the probably least weird thing I’ve seen an artist do.”
He lets out another little huff, and when you glance over, you realize he’s smiling. Only barely, but it’s there, the corner of his lips curled up almost imperceptibly. You suddenly feel very warm.
He doesn’t say much else for the rest of the lesson, but he doesn’t seem as nervous by the end.
He leaves a lot of his figures at your place after asking twice if it was okay. You reassure him that a portion of your studio is his to use for as long as he keeps paying for lessons. He packs up the rest of his things and you walk him to the door.
He turns and says, awkwardly, looking at your chin rather than at your eyes, “Well, see you next time,” and you watch as he leaves, inspecting the slump of his shoulders and the way he stuffs both hands into his hoodie.
You tidy up his workspace a little, gathering the sketches strewn about. As you pile them together, you realize all his cats look like they’re smiling.