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Do all lovers feel like they’re inventing something?
— Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019), dir. Céline Sciamma
The boatman dumps them on a sandy beach, fully exposed to the enthusiastic rays of the afternoon sun. Harsh cliffs stricken by a thousand gray hues loom over the peace of the bay. Judging from the scenery alone, Tetsurou would’ve found it hard to believe the island was even inhabited, if not for the green of the hills awaiting them above as the flatboat approached the shore.
A long-worn path trails up within the hard rocks, carved into dry grass and stone by recurring footsteps. After conceding himself a quick break to catch his breath, Tetsurou resumes his climb — two bags on his back, one with the canvas and the other containing another pair of breeches and a lighter shirt. A few steps behind him, Kenma walks quietly, holding his own bundle of spare clothes and a smaller one with their painting tools.
The mansion reveals itself as soon as they reach the peak; it would be hard to miss, its huge stony facade standing proud just a dozen meters away from the cliff, like an old fearless lady crouched on the edge of the world, careless of the fall and determined to face the infinity of the ocean one last time. The traces of age become more and more evident as they approach the stern wooden doors, from the white of the walls, assaulted by the hands of impervious weather, to the consumed hinges on windows and doors alike.
A young chirpy man welcomes them inside, introducing himself as Lev, presumably the young lord’s valet. Ashen hair crowns the delicate but intense features of his pale face.
Tetsurou’s patron stands watch at the big window of a wide study room that faces what he supposes are the inner gardens of the Yaku mansion, allowing the impending sunset to paint his graying brown hair a bright golden.
“As I anticipated in my letters, this isn’t a regular commission,” Yaku Masanori announces sternly. “I long since promised my son’s hand to a Chinese noblewoman from Shanghai, but the bride-to-be insisted for a portrait of him before sealing the deal.” The man’s frown turns grim. “You’re not the first painter I’ve hired; several have tried before you, but my son has consistently refused to pose. None of them have even gotten as far as catching a glimpse of his face.”
Mild curiosity creeping up his spine, Tetsurou can taste emerging questions on the tip of his tongue, so he resolves to take a sip of too-bitter tea instead, assuming the man isn’t done talking yet.
“So you will have to do it in secret. I’ve told him you’re here on a visit on behalf of your father, and I suggested he show you around for as long as your stay on the Island persists.”
Tetsurou’s eyebrows rise before he can make a conscious decision to stop them. “Will he agree to meeting a stranger?”
“Considering I haven’t let him out of the house in two weeks, I’m fairly certain he’ll welcome any chance to walk around freely.”
“May I ask why that is?”
“He’s been developing bad habits. Talks too much, drinks too much. Morisuke is a little too much.”
Morisuke.
“So, you would get to see his face and study his attire in person, and you could paint at night when you’re alone. Do you reckon you can do it?”
Tetsurou considers his options quickly; he is not particularly prone to lying, but he hasn’t travelled all the way from Tokyo just to reject the job, and the letters may have been vague, but they’d warned him that he’d be faced with a particular request. Besides, he’s never painted under similar conditions, and he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy a challenge.
He makes sure to meet his patron’s eyes before nodding confidently.
The man releases a satisfied hum.
“You have three weeks.”
***
When he enters the kitchen the next morning, Lev is already sitting at the thick wooden table. A lanky blonde man stands right beside him, hands preoccupied with a brown leather bag hanging from his shoulder. He doesn’t look too pleased.
Lev’s eyes light up at Tetsurou’s arrival. “Kuroo-san! Look, Tsukishima, it’s the guy I was talking about. He’s from Tokyo!”
The painter clears his throat before offering his hand. “Kuroo Tetsurou.”
The stranger’s eyes rest on his hand for one too many awkward seconds before shaking it coldly.
Lev, for all that matters, doesn’t look too bothered by the blonde’s aloofness. Seemingly blind to the other’s unfriendly stance, he extends a long arm to pat the guy on his right shoulder. “Tsukishima’s father is the family’s trusted doctor.”
The blonde — Tsukishima, Tetsurou registers — makes a show of rolling his eyes. “He’s also the village’s only doctor, which is why he has no time to waste on your patron’s absurd requests.”
“Absurd?” Tetsurou chimes in, mildly intrigued by the boy’s choice of words. He plops down in front of Lev, grabbing a plate from the pile in the middle of the table, a fresh loaf of bread resting right next to it.
Lev looks a bit too excited to describe the chain of events. “Yaku-san noticed I wasn’t feeling too well yesterday, so he pretended to have a fever. His father had to call Tsukishima to the house to check on him. And after making sure Yaku-san was okay, he was allowed to check on me too!”
That earns him a nasty glare from Tsukishima, who doesn’t look as thrilled by the retelling. “So you admit it was all an act. If I have to hear his dramatic whines one more time, I’ll cut off my own ears.”
“Hey, watch your words!” Lev immediately straightens up, throwing an accusing finger at the blonde’s chest. “Yaku-san can be a handful, but he has a heart of gold!”
“Careful with what you say about me, Lev. People might start believing it.”
Three pairs of eyes simultaneously turn to the direction of the voice, where a newcomer stands under the archway, the morning light revealing an amused glint in bright, hazelnut eyes.
“Where are we going?” Tetsurou eventually dares to ask as he struggles his way down the cliff’s side, the merciless breeze of the open sea unsettling his pace.
A few steps in front of him, Yaku’s graceful figure skips from rock to a patch of green with practiced strides. “To the beach.”
Considering he is supposed to be a visitor and an esteemed guest, he feels that getting dragged out of the kitchen into the cold morning air and down a hazardous pathway should compel some sort of explanation. “I’ve already seen the beach. I arrived from there.”
“I didn’t ask.”
Snarky.
Torn between amused and taken aback — and trying not to lose his clumsy footing — Tetsurou bites down a retort in favor of scrupulously following Yaku’s steps till his boots hit the safety of the sand. He almost groans in relief when his guide stops to take a seat on the flat ground, immediately sinking down next to him.
It’s not like it matters, anyway. He isn’t actually here to visit the island. All he has to do is look.
So he looks.
The wind kisses Yaku Morisuke like a devoted believer. It puffs tenderly through short hair the color of wet sand, then against a thin white shirt, unashamed of the cold. It crumples the long sleeves, fabric fluttering like a frenetic butterfly, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, overwhelming eyes cast to the sky with unhidden affection. The wind kisses Yaku Morisuke, and Yaku kisses back, like the boy himself is also made to fly, light, away, free.
Unbound.
“You’re staring.”
Called out, Tetsurou winces, turning to face the horizon at once.
“‘Am not.”
“You were. Not that it troubled me. But why?”
Questions, questions. Tetsurou fidgets for a second or two, training his eyes back on the face he’s supposed to learn by staring alone. Unashamed, hazel irises hold his gaze.
“Does a man need a reason to stare at pretty things?”
The other considers him quietly, Tetsurou’s blood running cold under the inscrutable expression, and he almost fears his bluff will be unearthed when the brunette seems to change his mind at last.
“What do you do?”
The change of topic is abrupt, but not unwelcome.
“My father’s a chemist.” That’s something he can be honest about, at least.
“That’s not what I asked. What do you do?”
“I work with substances, too. ‘Am here to take a look at the plants.” That’s the best he can muster, he thinks to himself; he’s a painter, not an actor.
Yaku’s eyes narrow slightly and Tetsurou wills his heart to stop squirming under the inquisitive stare, but his anxieties keep clenching at his stomach, only quelling once the other finally nods curtly and gets up from his spot on the sand. He barely swallows down a relieved sigh.
The comfort doesn’t last long as he raises his eyes and promptly chokes on his spit.
“What are you doing?” The words leave his lips before he can think better of it.
Yaku stands with his bare back to him, robes abandoned in the sand at his feet. The toned muscles of his back are pale but defined, and his hands roam his sides until they reach the hem of his breeches while he deftly slips out of his footwear.
The brunette turns halfway to look at him. “I haven’t seen the sea in two weeks. I’m taking a dive,” he replies in an expectant tone before pushing his breeches down with a swift motion. “You coming?”
Kuroo opens his mouth, then closes it again, uncertain of what may come out of it. “I can’t swim,” he eventually settles on when he’s sure enough that his voice won’t give out.
Yaku shrugs, unbothered, and walks towards the shore. “Tomorrow, I’m bringing you out to the fields, so you can work with your plants,” he speaks one last time, voice even, before disappearing into the waves.
Later that night, Tetsurou sits by the fireplace, charcoal in hand, Kenma already curled up in his bed. The younger has never been the most proactive assistant, but now that he’s stuck drawing at night, it will be even harder to rope him into working at a late hour.
Fingers struggle against the paper, hesitant. In his mind, he revisits the line of Yaku’s jaw, the slant of thin eyebrows, the shape of an ear. Normally, he would start with the draft of a pose, neck, arms, shoulders — he opts for outlining noses instead, unconfident that he could catch himself before falling prey to the memory of pale naked shoulder blades or the morbid curiosity of what they would feel like under his palms.
***
The next day, Yaku keeps his promise.
The fields unfold before them like a carpet of greens, the morning sun only spotlight to the endless venue. Sketchbook at hand, Tetsurou crunches down, hand clenching instinctively around his pencil to trace the thin shape of a dandelion.
Prying eyes are on him in a second.
“You draw?”
“Oh?” Quietly, he wonders if he should’ve kept that secret. Man, he’s bad at this. “Yeah. I need the sketches to identify the plants.”
“What about your little friend?”
He raises an eloquent eyebrow, looking up at the other critically. Who are you to call him little? Yaku seems to catch up with his thoughts, because his face turns into a scowl immediately, eyes hard with unspoken threats.
To which the taller has to raise his arms in mock surrender, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as gets up from where the blades of grass were tickling his wrists. “His name’s Kenma. He’s my assistant.”
“But he doesn’t go out with us.” There’s a slight pout in Yaku’s voice. (Tetsurou has to look away.)
“Yeah, he’s not too enthusiastic about moving around. But he’s my closest and longest friend, and he’s brilliant at what he does, when he bothers doing it. A valuable asset.”
The brunette is silent for a while after that, leaving him to wonder if he’s said too much.
“Tell me about Tokyo.”
The question hits him like a brick, memories of tall buildings and lights and the hubbub from the streets flooding in at once, clashing with the vegetal tranquility of their surroundings so spectacularly. For the first time today, Yaku isn’t looking at him, gaze lost far away, the taller questioning if he’s also been picturing the hustle and bustle of the city, if he craves it like Tetsurou misses it, if having twenty years of your life confined to the boundaries of an island gets as suffocating as it sounds.
“It’s — well, busy, all year round. It gets stressful at times, but it’s where work is at.”
“So you don’t travel often?”
“We do, but not when it’s just the two of us. Our friend, Kai, gets called out of the city often, and we usually follow him around,” Tetsurou throws a tentative glance at his guide. “But currently he’s staying in Kyoto to complete his studies in architecture. I’m expecting mail from him.”
Still, the other doesn’t turn to face him — but he lets him go on and on about Tokyo and parades and clients and dens, a hunger in his eyes that has Tetsurou’s blood boil.
The night finds them in the kitchen, Yaku indulging in a glass of wine, Tetsurou indulging in his own visceral curiosities.
“Your father told me about your engagement. Why do you refuse to marry?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” The shorter grumbles absently, firm hands busy with igniting a third candle, light casting a yellow hue on the frown on his face. “Why would I wish to marry a woman, or man for all that matters, whom I’ve never seen before?”
Or man for all that matters. (The taller’s train of thought stutters for a brief second.)
Admitting that he isn’t exactly well-versed in noblemen dynamics and etiquette, Tetsurou opts not to question his reasons further. "Ever thought of running away?"
"All the time. I tried it twice. Came back after a week at most."
"Why?"
"Because I’m a coward." Yaku’s eyes turn focused as he settles the candle down in favour of his glass. “My family has fallen into disgrace ever since my great-grandfather died. This marriage is my father’s last hope to restore the family’s name. To escape is to abandon him, and I’m terrified of the remorse that will come with it. A coward.”
And Tetsurou is staring again, feels like he hasn’t been doing much else in the past two days, staring at an incommensurable boy who hops down cliffs and deems himself a coward, when he distractedly rises an arm to the table — a violent hiss leaving his lips as he inadvertently elbows the candle to his right, toppling it over, scorching hot wax dripping directly on his fingers. Stumbling, he runs to the basin in the corner of the room, water and an abundant string of curses relieving the pain only faintly.
Yaku is beside him at once, too fast, too close , grabbing his wrist to examine the victimized finger analytically. “I’ll call a doctor for you.”
“No — it’s fine,” Tetsurou whimpers, plunging his hand back into the water with a sigh. It’s late, and a vivid image of Tsukishima’s unenthusiastic grimace is enough to deter him. “It’ll get better in the morning.”
***
Except it doesn’t get better, and the next morning he’s quickly forced to accept that he can’t draw with a plump, reddening finger in the way. Still, he holds out all day; Yaku shows him around the orchards and introduces him to the gardeners, Inuoka and Fukunaga. He can’t sketch a single eye, nor a single rose from the graceful flower bed, for what matters. Only once the night has fallen and Yaku has retired to his rooms with a grin and whispered goodnight’s does he eventually rush to find Lev.
The valet walks him to the village — lucky for him, because it’s barely a fifteen-minutes walk, but Tetsurou wouldn’t be able to take a single step on his own in the pitch black of the spring night. Besides, Lev’s ramblings are a welcome distraction from the disquieting hissing noises emerging from somewhere in the dark.
“Thank the spirits you called me. Kenma-san was crushing me at chess. I don’t understand how he’s so good at it. I taught him how to play not even one day ago, and he looked like he wasn’t even listening! Are you entirely sure he’s not a witch?”
“I’ve known him since he was five,” he reasons as eyes the path nervously, ready to dodge any unearthly creature on his way. “I’m pretty sure I’d be aware of him being a witch.”
The trembling oil lamp Lev is holding sheds light on his delicate frown. “Unless you’re a witch, too.”
Apprehension aside, he nearly chuckles at that, holding his blistering finger close to his chest. And what if he was a witch? What are they going to do, burn him? He’s got that covered by himself already.
The village is painfully quiet when they finally halt in front of a thick wooden door. They have to knock a couple of times, and he’s almost convinced no one’s going to answer at this late hour when the door slides open with a clack, Tsukishima’s surly glower welcoming them inside.
The doctor’s son disappears in the back after only a minimal glance at his finger, quickly followed by Lev, leaving Tetsurou to inspect the ambience. The room is extremely simple; a sturdy table in the corner, one consumed log searing faintly in the fireplace, a bench pushed against the far wall, something long and bulky sprawled over it.
He jumps in startled understanding when he realizes it’s a person, chest rising and falling unevenly, trapped in a huge blanket cocoon that hides him completely. He can only see his face, an array of freckles under a mop of dark greenish air.
“Don’t get too close, he’s got a fever,” Tsukishima admonishes as he walks back into the room, now wielding some gauze.
The blonde has him sit at the table, then he promptly applies a generous amount of ointment on the injured area, movements brash but perfectly calculated as he wraps the fabric around it. It stings only a little.
"I would've come to you tomorrow, you know."
Tetsurou’s head whips up to stare at the boy. "What?"
Tsukishima raises one cynical eyebrow. "Yaku-san called for me to come check on you first thing in the morning. I'm assuming you didn't know, or you wouldn’t have barged in my house at hell past one in the night."
In the rush of swallowing down the why's and how's and the he-did-what’ s, awaking an uncomfortable clench somewhere in the middle of his ribs, Tetsurou can’t help the retort. "You were awake, though."
Tsukishima's eyes wander for a few slow seconds, never once falling on the boy on the bench. In the span of an instant he looks shockingly young.
"I was keeping an eye on the flames, that’s all. Making sure they don’t die out."
***
“We’re going to the tavern,” Yaku announces upon joining them for dinner.
Scooping up a spoonful of soup, Tetsurou side-eyes him dubiously. "Your father says you drink too much."
"A single glass is too much for him. He thinks drinking causes me to sleep around, which couldn't be farther from the truth,” brown irises glint dangerously before fixing Tetsurou with a pointed gaze, “I enjoy being perfectly sober when I engage in intercourse."
Tetsurou all but sputters around his spoon, frantically hoping his face isn’t nearly as red as it feels, taking in Lev’s comically-wide eyes and Kenma’s nose crunching in mild distaste, but Yaku is wholly unbothered by the commotion as he resumes his rant.
"What is 'too much', anyway? Who decides what is too much, or too little?”
Yaku’s father's voice rings in his ears. Morisuke is a little too much.
“Is it too much when it becomes a source of harm? Is a source of harm to me the same as a source of harm to you?"
Testurou’s heart is still thumping in his chest when he finds the strength to look up at the other again.
You’re too much to me, Yaku Morisuke, and it’s hurting me in ways I still cannot fathom.
The tavern is surprisingly clean and unsurprisingly rowdy.
Yaku drags him to one of the few empty tables in the middle of the inn, seemingly set on introducing him to the whole village in the span of one night.
“This is Sugawara Koushi,” a wide grin splitting his face like he’s testifying a proud accomplishment, “My father prohibited me from seeing him.”
“I heard you like plants.” The man before him, silver hair and left arm slumped around Yaku’s shoulders, speaks affably as he shakes Tetsurou’s hand. “My father’s a blacksmith, but I’m going to be a professor. I’m leaving in a couple of months to complete my degrees.”
He doesn’t miss the envious exhale it strips from Yaku, but he figures it’d be anticlimactic to bring it up. Instead, he squints at Sugawara in mild suspicion. “Why’d they stop him from seeing you, though? At first glance, I find it hard to believe you a bad influence.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Yaku’s chuckle is short, but full of mirth. The amused glint in his pupils mirrors Sugawara’s own. “They think I’m a bad influence on him.”
That, he doesn’t struggle to believe — still, he could swear there’s more to this guy that meets the eye, and makes a mental note not to reveal anything too compromising.
The silver-haired man in question not-so-discreetly points to one dark-haired dude sitting a few tables away, facing the windows that give on the street. “That one’s Daichi. He works for my father.”
“Koushi’s been trying to get into his breeches for months, but the dude’s as perceptive as a rock.”
“Shut your mouth, Morisuke,” The smile doesn’t once leave Sugawara’s face, but the sneer in his eyes betrays a silent threat. “He’s getting there.”
“See that guy talking to Lev?” Yaku has to raise his voice, leaning closer to make himself heard over the rising chatter. “That’s Yamamoto. He’s a good fellow, just a little intense. If he asks to arm wrestle, I beg you to decline, for everyone’s sake.”
“The blonde one -”
“Tsukishima Kei,” Tetsurou quips, by now familiar with the looks of the blonde. He spots him against the counter, hip to hip with the same freckled boy Tetsurou recognized at his house just a couple of days ago. He seems to be doing much better, lips curved in a sly smile.
“Yeah. The one with him is Yamaguchi Tadashi. Family of farmers. He’s mostly pleasant, but don’t push his buttons.”
Between the cozy warmth of the tavern, the alcohol, and Yaku’s lips hovering insistently closer to his ear, Tetsurou eventually finds himself at ease in the raucous cacophony of voices.
***
They’re out in the fields again, but not even the multitude of forget-me-nots stretching in all directions can get him out of his head — it’s been plaguing him, his stomach churning with a discomfort that has nothing to do with all the alcohol he ingested last night.
It’s the elusive, eviscerating guilt. It’s a thin, razor-sharp thread cutting him open from the inside, far ends tracing back to every lie he’s fed Yaku.
Yaku, who called a doctor for him. Yaku, who brought him to the tavern to meet his friends. Yaku, who’s been letting him in, him who is nothing but a stranger coated in selfish material interest.
“I was asked to paint you in secret.”
All at once, like throwing a rock, like ripping a bandage, before his tongue can think to resist it.
Not even two weeks — that’s how long he’s survived this job.
Yaku turns slowly, lips tensing for no more than a second.
“I know.”
Tetsurou gapes.
“You knew ?”
Guilt dissipating into bewilderment, he wonders how many times he’s bound to be rendered wordless before Yaku Morisuke.
The brunette simply smirks at him. (Tetsurou pretends it doesn’t do things to him.) “You’re not exactly subtle. The son of my father’s distant acquaintance who I have never heard of, who happens to enjoy drawing and stares long past what is considered to be socially acceptable, coincidentally passes by the island exactly a month before I’m supposed to ship a portrait to my beloved fiancée. Not suspicious at all,” Yaku sighs in mock sorrow, leaning back on the grass to face the sky. “Still, I liked it better when we pretended you were staring ‘cause I’m pretty.”
All this time, he’s been dwelling, haunted by the way Yaku has been naively laying himself bare to him, by the conviction that he wouldn’t be, if only he knew. If only he knew him.
And all this time, Yaku has been doing it knowingly.
And if he thought the lies would stuff him up, the newfound awareness is unsettling enough to crack him open, split him into two, into five. He guesses he deserves it. He guesses he wants it. He wants to be cracked open by this boy-man who charms the wind.
“If you knew what I was here for, why didn’t you stop me?”
“Maybe I ended up enjoying your company a little.”
Once again, Tetsurou finds his eyes glued on the smaller boy.
“It’s too much to hope for you to pose for me from now on, isn’t it?” He shoots a tentative grin, bending back to lay next to him.
“I said I knew about it, not that I consented to it.” It’s subtle, but Yaku grins back. “So, how’s the portrait coming along?”
"They're all men," Yaku’s face is delicately pinched into a scowl, an array of papers scattered on the floor all around his crossed legs. He doesn’t seem to mind the smell of dried paint enveloping them like a cloak. "They're missing heads, though."
Tetsurou can’t help a chuckle from where he’s sitting in front of him. "Let's just say you're not the first uncooperative model I’ve worked with. Bokuto insists that I draw him all the time, but he can't keep still. I never complete a single drawing."
He might have categorically refused to show him the portrait, but after being privy to the full extent of Yaku’s insistence he’d found there was no solid reason not to allow him to go through his old practice sketches instead.
To let his chest crack wide open, gaping, unfolded on this guest room’s floor.
He points to one of his most recent works, the outline of a toned torso defined in black charcoal. “Then there’s Atsumu. He’s good until he opens his mouth.” Man pretending to read, reads a scribble in the upper right corner of the page.
"Akaashi, however, is the perfect model, on the rare occasions when I can rope him into posing for me." His hand falls on a piece that has slid close to his foot, one of the few that he’d manage to finish, smile growing fond on his lips. Man on the windowsill.
"So you've got all these men stripping for you,” Yaku’s scoff is playful. “And here I thought you were a chaste gentleman, guessing from the squeal you let out that day I undressed on the beach."
And Tetsurou is making a valiant attempt at a venomous glare, managing a half-hearted glower at best, when he catches the shorter’s hand collecting a peculiar paper, insistent creases cutting patterns through it from just how many times it has been opened and folded by quivering touches. Lady.
"Oh? This one's a woman."
Tetsurou’s eyes leave the slender fingers to focus on the white ceiling.
“That’s not a woman. It’s a statue.”
“A statue?”
“Galatea.”
“Greek mythology?”
He throws a bemused glance from the corner of his eye. “I didn’t take you for one who would bother with literature.”
“I’m a man of many interests. I only have a vague memory, though.”
“It’s the story of Pygmalion,” Tetsurou fiddles with the hem of his sleeve, where a thin thread has escaped the white fabric of his shirt. “From Ovid’s Metamorphoses.”
Yaku’s eyes widen in recognition. “That’s the only book you have with you, I saw it on your shelf.”
“Should I be honored by your interest in my readings?” The taller taunts then, an eyebrow raised in mock surprise.
“I told you, I take interest in many fields,” Yaku’s gaze bears holes into his head. “You just happen to be my current field of choice.”
“Well,” Tetsurou coughs out — he would rather pretend his ears don’t turn crimson. “Pygmalion was a king and a sculptor. One day, he sculpted a woman so beautiful he fell in love with his own statue. When he kissed her, she came alive in his arms.”
“A Greek story that doesn’t end in tragedy? That’s a first,” The brunette simply snorts.
“I am no expert in the classics, but what I take from it is that art to Ovid is bound to be terribly pretentious.” A sharp intake of breath, anxieties that have plagued him times and times again. “Like, think about it; presuming to create something so perfect it deserves to come alive. Something so glorious it transcends reality. Isn’t it arrogant?”
“You think it’s arrogant, but you still read it?”
A sigh leaves his lips, hand clenching around his sleeve. “How could I not be envious of someone confident enough to pursue perfection?”
He feels the other’s eyes on him, but he can’t bring himself to look.
“But if you were capable of perfection, wouldn’t you have to stop painting?” Yaku speaks at last. Thoughtful, contemplative, mindful. “Is there a point to creating, if you’ve already reached the best?”
The words echo in Tetsurou’s dreams late into the night.
***
The words don't seem to leave Yaku either.
Briefly, very briefly, Tetsurou is forced to wonder if the shorter revisits all their conversations like he does. If he also struggles to fall asleep, mind reminiscing the way the other’s lips wrap around his name, or becoming acquainted with the subtlety of the shifting timbres of his voice.
Only briefly, though, because the unease gnawing at his stomach is enough to swallow anything else.
Technically, the portrait is complete.
"You tried for perfection, didn't you?" Yaku muses lowly, pupils moving slow, analytically cold on the canvas. Cold that doesn't belong on Yaku in the slightest.
The boy in the portrait is cold, too.
There's nothing of his sly smile, flashing loud in the quiet; there’s nothing of the unhindered greed for freedom, of the gentleness in his gaze that only a trained eye could ever catch.
He'd like to blame it on the working at a late hour, on not having his subject pose for him, but the painter knows. He knows he's the one getting it wrong.
There’s nothing of what matters.
"I followed all the steps," he tries, unsure to whom or why, and somehow it comes out strangled, akin to a whine, to a sob.
Maybe it’s the weight clogging up his throat, asphyxiating, every passing second looming over him, because every second Yaku’s father is one step closer to knocking at his door, assessing the painting with a superficial glance, and shipping his son to another country, to marry someone he’s never met.
As he should. As he must. As he will.
One step closer to sending Tetsurou back to Tokyo with nothing but an over polite nod of his head and an envelope with what he's due.
But if he does — if Tetsurou has to walk away from this island, if he has to leave this room behind, these fields behind, this boy behind — then he wants to leave his greatest work behind with it all.
Yaku's shoulders are rigid, and Tetsurou's fingers twitch, urging him to grab a brush, to start anew, to give him more, to give him everything he can — to give him his best.
The brunette's lips curve in a way that edges the line between tired and provoking, a bitter taste to his voice when he speaks.
“Maybe I'm just not perfect enough."
And that — that is the last straw — and it all happens at once, the gears in his brain stuck for a moment, registering his own actions in black and white as Tetsurou grabs a bucket of water, dirty with dissolved paint, and surges forward, hurling it straight to the canvas.
He can hear the screams from where he’s standing in the hallway, waiting. Yaku’s father is still snarling when the younger slams the doors of his studio open and marches out, grabbing Tetsurou’s forearm to drag him down the stairs.
“I said I was the one who did it,” Tetsurou isn’t able to see his deviant smile as he struts behind him, but he catches the twisted delight in his voice. “You have another two weeks to paint a second one.”
For a wicked instant, he entertains the possibility that this has been Yaku’s plan all along.
***
He refers the news to Kenma. He doesn’t look too excited about the prolonged stay, but not too bothered, either.
“Will I lose my job after this?” he asks instead, tone unconcerned, but it’s unsurprising; there’s not many things Kenma is ever concerned about.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you only bring me around to keep you company. I see you’ve found far better company than me.”
The distinct sensation that he’s being tested has his hairs stand on end. Kenma doesn’t pry, isn’t one to get offended, and surely doesn’t starve for attention. Most relevantly, Kenma is perfectly aware of his worth — it’s for Tetsurou to figure out where he’s going with this.
The taller eyes him tentatively. “If your primary task was to keep me company, I would’ve had to fire you a decade ago. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but you’re not the most sociable fellow.”
Kenma stares at him blankly.
It’s not the answer he’s looking for, that much is clear. Kenma tends to be an enigma, he always has, but years of experience have given him enough of a lead to offer a second attempt.
“I wouldn’t be half the artist I am without you. When I get too hung up on details, you paint the bigger picture.” Understanding hits him piece by piece, the doubt that was already clawing at him taking shape as he speaks. Is he unconsciously spiraling into details again? Is that where Kenma wanted to lead him? “I need you because you see what I don’t.”
Kenma looks satisfied enough with the response — maybe he was reaping for recognition, after all — because he proceeds to grab a couple of Tetsurou’s first drafts, crayon already at hand.
Attentive eyes scrutinize the lines, and it’s mildly fascinating to watch his nose scrunch up in thought, tracing over Tetsurou’s seams and angles.
“Hit me already,” the painter spurs him weakly. “What am I missing?”
Only a while after they sink in revered silence does he glance at the taller again, and if he didn’t know better Tetsurou would say he sounds intrigued.
“You draw him like a stranger.”
***
The days pass lightning-fast, as if to mock them and their poor efforts to trick time into stretching.
When Tetsurou walks back into his room, Kenma is nowhere to be seen and Yaku is exactly where he left him, skimming through the painter’s only book with peculiar focus, occasionally pausing on a page to murmur a sentence or another under his breath.
The whisperings come to a halt when Tetsurou comes to sit at the wooden desk.
"Is there anything you don't draw?"
The painter takes his time to think, eyes naturally wandering to where Yaku is sprawled on Tetsurou’s unmade futon, sheets a blinding white under the mid-morning sunlight.
"Fire," he concedes, scowling. "I just can't. It never looks real enough. Never quite looks alive."
"You're almost done with the portrait, right?"
Something wicked constricts in his belly. "Yeah, just a few details left."
A silent beat.
"So you have time to draw something else for me."
A jolt of curiosity runs under the skin of his palms, alert, immediate reaction to the prospect of holding a crayon.
"You know those sketches? Like the Galatea one." The shorter’s voice is hesitant, wary, like a prayer. Like a confession, maybe. "I want one. Of me."
"But you —"
Yaku’s hands fidget with the book, shutting it closed with a slam.
“I'll pose for you."
Tetsurou stops breathing.
As it turns out, painting Yaku is like painting fire.
He’s frozen in place as he watches Yaku’s robes slide smoothly down his body, bare back disclosing to him under his eyes.
Tetsurou is thrown back to that first day on the beach, breath itching and lungs filling with the salt of the sea air, to that first time he’d looked at Yaku and thought to look away, and found that he couldn’t. Something must have shifted since then, because it seems he is not scared to look anymore.
(Maybe he should be.)
Yaku’s garments pool on the floor layer after layer, and in a moment he’s laying sideways on the futon, still undone, sheets lumped behind him like a frame, like the backrest of a throne, and it’s the brightest thing he’s ever seen.
Professionalism and years of experience are all that is stopping him from dropping the charcoal as he drags the tip on the page, trembling, taking in Yaku’s body inch by inch, from each of his pale legs, to the planes of his chest, to his left elbow, digging into the futon, to the thin wrist holding him up.
For a while, he isn’t sure how long, the sound of the crayon against the paper is the only sound in the room together with their wavering breaths, at least until his gaze finally trails up the brunette’s neck, stumbling into the other’s eyes, fragile resolve crumbling at once under Yaku’s unhindered stare.
“Kuroo, ” he pleads then, and it feels like hearing his own name for the first time, and it’s nothing but one word, but it’s enough for him to abandon everything on the desk and scramble forward, coming to kneel in front of the futon.
Yaku’s hand hovers his cheek, eyes glazed over, maybe with agony, maybe with the same naked want that has been holding Tetsurou’s rib cage hostage for weeks.
He can hear himself speak against his will. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out, hand falling over Yaku’s, guiding it closer to his face, and the touch is simultaneously electric and placating for his faltering heart, and Yaku’s thumb caresses his jaw and lingers until it’s sweeping over Tetsurou’s parted lips, burnt golden eyes dropping to follow the movement.
“Morisuke,” he croaks, low, a desperate whisper, and a soft curse leaves Yaku’s lips, “Morisuke, you’re so beautiful.”
And then hands grasp at the fabric of Kuroo’s collar and yank him close, close enough for their lips to crash and slot and adjust again and again and again. Relief is fuel in his veins as he tangles his own fingers into Yaku’s hair, overcome by the need to touch, for every time he’s longed to touch and has forbidden himself, for as much as he’s dreamt of the caress of this skin, for as long as Yaku will allow him.
It’s high noon when Yaku wraps naked limbs around his neck and tugs him into the sheets.
He leaves his work untitled.
Shoulders shaking, Yaku lingers at the doorway, fully clothed, his back to Tetsurou.
“Kuroo.”
He wonders where the Tetsurou’ s have gone, if that was meant to be all he would be granted — his name, mouthed against his skin, again and again, a vastitude of times, an infinity enclosed by a few hours of sincerity — yet he tucks himself tighter into the sheets, reluctant to let the bitterness get the best of him. After all, he knew this was coming.
“Yaku.”
(So this is what it feels like to kiss a living work of art, and have it turn into stone instead.)
“I can’t allow you what you want.”
Kuroo chuckles lightly, aware that the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. This was never about me, he wants to scream, but he knows better. “When will you allow yourself what you want?”
The late afternoon sun casts shadows all over. It’s going to get cold soon.
Yaku flinches, and his face might be hidden from him but the painter knows he’s clenching his jaw. “Stop talking like you know me. You’re not my friend.”
You draw him like a stranger.
But Morisuke is not a stranger.
He hasn’t been for a while.
“Oh, really?” His eyes sting, and he fights the frustration threatening to spill, wretched out of him by the tight grasp of exasperation. “Do your friends know that when you’re really happy, you look up to the sky? That when you read, you have to pronounce the words aloud to focus?” Catches the way Yaku throws his head back minutely, he almost sneers. “That when you’re upset you raise your chin just slightly, as if to force your distress down your throat? You’re right, maybe I’m not your friend. Maybe I never intended to be your friend in the first place.”
Yaku stills, and Tetsurou stills too, or maybe it’s just time, finally taking a deserved break in the dusty corners of a guest room that never quite felt like home.
“Don’t go to China,” he blurts before he can think better of it.
The shorter doesn’t turn, voice clipped. “Are you asking me?”
It’s quiet for a moment. And he sighs, deep, exhausted, defeated by the reality of the situation closing up on him. “What right do I have to ask you?”
Yaku’s hand clenches violently around the doorknob.
“Looks like I’m not the only coward.”
He slams the door behind him.
***
My dear friend Tetsurou,
I hope this letter finds you — and that it finds you well.
I am pleased to tell you that Kyoto is treating me kindly. The ambience is less frenetic than what we are used to, but I still cannot help but miss our afternoons together.
Naturally, I have been thinking about the discussion that has been plaguing us for a long time. I would like to think that furthering my studies has cleared my mind. Lately, I have concluded that perhaps perfection is a state of mind. It comes to you. You welcome it. It blesses you once. Finally, inevitably, you let it go, and await for it to find you once more, or to never find you again.
I cannot say I have found my answer, but I deem that I cannot afford to be scared of perfection anymore. I wouldn’t have the guts to call myself an artist if I, myself, didn’t strive to create something I can love so dearly. At least for now, I will choose to welcome it, and refuse to despair once it leaves me behind.
I greatly anticipate your thoughts on the matter as well as news on your stay, and hope you aren’t exasperating Kenma with your tyrannical schedule.
Wishing to hear from you soon,
With affection,
Kai Nobuyuki
***
The only light in the room flickers in the palms of Yaku’s hands.
The portrait stands in front of them. So polished that even in the dark Tetsurou thinks he could kiss it, and it’d come alive against his lips.
"It's perfect,” Tetsurou avows, dimly. “This is the best I can ever do."
And this time he sees all of him, all of the stranger Yaku isn’t anymore, all the familiarity in the poignant glare and the biting remarks stuck on his lips even in the stillness of the dried paint, and it’s excruciating.
Somehow it’s ridiculous that all it took to find perfection was to let his heart shatter.
(To let it fall. To let it ruin him. To just let it. How can he ever wish to paint anyone else, anything else but Yaku Morisuke?)
His subject stares in silence, like he knows he’s not done, like he’s waiting for the punchline, or the punch, or both.
"And I hate it,” Kuroo finally murmurs, voice so soft it’s almost a hush. “I wish it would disappear."
He hears a sharp exhale, but he doesn’t pay mind to it, fingers rattling at his sides.
“Don’t go to China.” The words feel ironically familiar.
Yaku glances at him from the corner of his eye.
“Are you asking?”
He holds his gaze.
“What if I am?"
His heart grows unsteady, and he’s ready to beg, to kneel, anything to learn just what it would take them to stop being cowards.
“A reason,” Tetsurou watches as Yaku’s mouth curves up at the edges, sharp as knives. “All I needed was a reason.”
And this time it’s Yaku who surges forward, candle in his hands, and flings it straight to the canvas.
And the portrait catches fire.
And Tetsurou could swear he catches fire, too.
His whole body bursts like raw lava when Yaku’s hand finds him, scorching hot on his forearm, his finger stinging as if plunged once more into melting wax.
He’s hit by the faint realization that maybe he's been burning all along.
***
My dearest confidant Nobuyuki,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing from Tokyo with two reasons in mind.
Firstly, I wish to thank you once again for guesting Morisuke in Kyoto for the past few weeks. I am pleased to hear that he is not causing you any trouble and that you will be escorting him to Tokyo in July. Father and I put together our entries, and we esteem we have enough for an apartment in the outskirts from which I will still be able to meet up with clients, and where Morisuke can access whichever apprenticeship he prefers.
The second motive for my letter is that I wish to relieve myself of feelings that I doubt I am capable of expressing out loud. For this reason, I attach an additional paper to this envelope; an untitled draft I started one fateful day during my stay and never completed, nor will I ever complete.
The first time Morisuke posed for me, I knew that he wouldn’t stand to be contained in the premises of a piece of paper. He likes to joke that he is my muse. He doesn’t seem to realize that he is the artist, and the art, and the brush all at once; he doesn’t know that he creates me and re-invents me with each word he speaks.
Catching fire, I have learned, is like perfection. You’re blessed with it once, and maybe never again. I must be terribly lucky, because my wildfire feared extinguishing as much as I feared watching it go.
The secret lies here: most of the time, fire catches you before you catch it.
In this once-in-a-lifetime, fortunate case, my advice is simple: you stop running. You just let it.
Hoping not to bore you with my feverish feelings, I entrust you with this sketch that I cannot bear to look at for the fright of seeing it burst into flames under my eyes.
Looking forward to meeting you again in July,
Sincerely,
Kuroo Tetsurou