Work Text:
Kiyoomi dreams.
He dreams of sun bleached linens billowing in the breeze, of waves kissing the shoreline, lapping gently at every cleave of cliff, of orange blossoms and sweet morning dew as spring yields to summer. He dreams of bright skies and carefree laughter, of glittering stars and soft candlelight. Yet most of all, Kiyoomi dreams of a honeyed gaze and sea salt smile so utterly striking it could render the gods to their knees with its tenderness.
The glowing visage leans in, radiating its warmth in waves which ripple through Kiyoomi’s entire being. This, he is convinced, is what divinity must be like. He is held fixed, enamored by the multitudes of light in one’s eyes, witnesses the subtle curve of mouth and curl of tongue, and could almost feel the hushed whispers embrace him. It reaches out to take him by the hand, seeming to hold all the promises of Elysium.
Only for him to wake.
The bedsheets are cool. Dawn had long since withdrawn her rosy fingers from the horizon, rendering his bedroom fairly dim as the pale yellow light of morning fades with the sun’s steady ascent. If he closes his eyes, Kiyoomi could sense the lingering remnants of his dream, of an afternoon breeze and citrus trees, before it finally slips away.
He could not afford to be too pressed by its disappearance. The Muses could only be so kind. It was an artist’s duty to fully execute their vision. The goddesses merely sow the seeds, what with their lyrical intuition and attunement to the soul. To have the afterimages of his own muse linger behind his eyelids for so long past waking was a gift in and of itself, and on this auspicious morning, the Muses have granted Kiyoomi more than enough.
He gets to work.
Kiyoomi rises, threadbare linen sheets pooling around his waist before he exchanges his night clothes for his daily chiton - slightly dyed to a warm beige to offset his pale skin and mildly cinched at the waist. He takes a small bottle from his bedside table and pours a generous amount of perfumed oil into his palm before working it into the skin of his arms and shoulders, the long column of his neck. Deft, calloused fingers artfully tie the leather straps of his sandals.
He prepares for the day under the guise of a calm, assured routine, yet in actuality his heart and mind alike are racing. Kiyoomi rarely dreams, let alone remembers them, but here he stands, the ghost of a tender caress encircling his wrist and dragging him through the motions, drawing him in like ships in search of a weathered haven. His fingers twitch in anticipation. He can almost feel the desire to create pooling at his fingertips like melted candle wax. The phantom grip around his wrist squeezes back in response.
He pads down the hallway and past the foyer’s atrium, sunlight streaming through like a beacon. Such intensity only seemed to further indicate that great Helios and his chariot have indeed fared well beyond scaling the initial slope of morning. He mustn't waste any more daylight.
With half a thought, Kiyoomi grabs a piece of fruit from his kitchen before slipping out the door. Although he was by no means a starving artist, nor was he among the socialite end of the spectrum, thus earning him but a small, humble abode to call home, as well as, a short distance across the courtyard and herb gardens, his beloved workshop.
Tendrils of ivy climb up the front wall, framing the large birch barn doors. If he peered more closely, he would find the beginnings of a small nest, a collection of twigs and leaves and sediment, cradled in an opening between the vines. Wild strawflowers bloom at his feet, pockets of yellow peeking out of the earth and reaching up to the sky with petaled fingers. The cool reign of winter had given way to mild spring sun and it seemed all the realm's flora and fauna were stretching their limbs as they awoke from their slumbers.
And for the first time in a while, so too has Kiyoomi never felt more awake.
Dust clouds around him, lingering in the air and curling around his ankles like ribbons upon opening the workshop doors. Various statues and vases litter the interior perimeter, each more beautiful than the last. Some are painted white, some highlighted with gold, while others are left bare in its natural form, stark veins of pitch contrasting against the grain of ivory marble. Many of them are commissions due to be delivered to some of his devoted patrons. The others are simply the result of testing designs or a desire for a distraction. Despite this, Kiyoomi is pleased with only a mere handful of what he creates. He finds himself forever chasing a certain call, a certain feeling , while he works, in the hopes that he may fully actualize it, yet he continually falls short. He always seems to find some flaw.
Light filters in through the shuttered windows onto his desk. The papyrus and charcoal beckon to him. He feels a brush of wind past his face, as tender as a hand tucking his hair behind his ear. His skin ripples with gooseflesh.
Kiyoomi. A voice whispers, like a flickering candle.
Before he knows it, the charcoal is in his hand, scratching and gliding against the pale page. As eager as he is, Kiyoomi knows it is best to take the time to capture the imagery while it still lingers, lest he have a half-finished statue. He’s careful not to smear the soot of the material, but the side of his hand somehow ends up smudged with dark grey anyway. Small dustings of charcoal bits litter the tabletop as he languidly, yet desperately sketches away. The few pieces of charcoal that do end up on his draft are a prominent contrast to the creamy texture of the papyrus, resembling beauty marks not unlike his own.
Kiyoomi pauses at the realization, before gently blowing the pieces away. It was as if the gods were mocking him, stringing up and along into another creative spiral. He no longer wishes to perceive his likeness in his work. It would hurt less, to separate himself from his art, so that when he tastes the bitterness of unfulfillment on his tongue, he does not mistake it for self-disgust.
Instead, he pours his heart into the sketch towards his vision, chasing that feeling of warmth and security and light. Kiyoomi sits hunched over the table as all his feelings pour out of him with no end. His heart pulses louder with every stroke of the charcoal in feverish anticipation, ever the image of a man possessed.
Slowly, yet assuredly, a portrait starts to take shape. The subtle curve of mouth, a soft bow of an upper lip. A gentle slope of nose and eyes which patiently gaze up at him. Take all the time you need , it seems to say. There is time. We have time.
Kiyoomi thinks of cotton clouds coming into shore, embracing the horizon line, and as he does so, his hand never stops, wrist flitting across the page. When he pauses, he is met with unruly waves which curl into the shoreline of the portrait’s visage, gracing the tide pools of the collarbone, softening the strong angles of the jaw.
His eyes flit over every detail, almost in disbelief that he had managed to capture a mere fraction of what the Muses beheld him. Long, weathered fingers tremble as they hover above the papyrus, afraid the draft would crumble to ash at any moment.
He reaches for the clay.
Kiyoomi finds solace in the ritual act of drafting, of the transition from page to model; reassurance in how he is free to construct and abide by his impulsive, artistic whims with abandon, for the clay is just as mutable as he; fortitude in that just as Prometheus so graciously shaped man out of the earth, so too does Kiyoomi mold the material from whence he came to give birth to his own creations. A mortal playing god with all the defiance of a forsaken titan.
He leans to drop his hands in the water bucket next to his stool, lets the cool liquid pool in his cupped hands, before sprinkling it over the clay. Strong and assured fingers massage it into the material, making it surrender to his touch and meld together. This, too, is what Kiyoomi loves about working with clay. Building life from the ground up. Getting acquainted with the face - or reacquainted, for that matter.
He works as if his actions were not his own. Kiyoomi ardently pinches, pokes, and prods at the bust with expertise as a profile starts to take shape. His hands cradle the to-be skull as he thumbs in the indents for the eyes' pupils. He takes care in catering to the pronounced geometry of the portrait, carefully adding lumps and pieces of clay to its foundation. Slope of nose. Divot of chin. Curve of ear.
He finds himself cupping his vision's face.
The detailing of the eyes have yet to be touched. The clay lumps together in random places, not completely smoothened in his haste, and nowhere near as refined to the measure that is deserved, but it is there. The warmth and light and adoration.
And the wondrous thing about clay is that there is nothing delicate about it. Nothing permanent in its existence. Kiyoomi is free to chase after his muse, make any and all changes as necessary just as guaranteed as Helios rising in the east. Having the option to start over as many times as needed, as he wishes, is incomparable in its freedom. A breath of fresh air and its own siren song all at once.
Spellbound, Kiyoomi reaches for a piece of wood, contoured and sanded down to sit comfortably in his grip. He takes the smoothened end to every prominence of the face, every rough edge. Kiyoomi gently smooths over swelling cheekbones, sweeps over an arch of brow. He swiftly picks up another tool, one with a thin point, and shifts his attention to the detailing. He can only stare as the features come together, as he is subject to a developing gaze.
When he is finished, the fatigue hits him like a swelling wave meeting its crest and running up the shore. It induces such a dreamlike state, he doesn't register the sound of his tools clattering to the workshop floor, nor the ring of shadows casted by the works around him. There is only the soft glow of the oil lantern he barely recalls taking the time to light, the sun making headway on its descent. And there is the portrait, always the portrait.
Long, weary fingers ghost over the planes of the face with reverence. Kiyoomi never found himself to be a pious man, but he could build a religion out of this sight - a sight which he is sure he would devote each and every lifetime towards, time and time again. Let the gods be damned on the righteous mountain they so preside and let the townspeople who kiss their feet be free to cast him out for heresy because he has never been witness to divinity such as this, and it isn't even the final product.
Drunk with fatigue and adrift in his wandering thoughts, ones of ambrosia and orange blossoms, of afternoon sun and high tide, Kiyoomi feels his eyes droop and draw to a close, heart full.
◈
It is growing dark when Wakatoshi finds Kiyoomi slumped over the table, the sun and oil lantern alike burning low. A head of dark curls is smushed into the crook of his arm while his other hand seems to be left to rest gently cupping the cheek of a clay model. It is the same position the commander had found the artist in earlier.
He had stopped by to collect a commission - a gilded vase of sorts, the general was not one to share unnecessary detail - in late afternoon, politely striding in through the opened barn doors. Kiyoomi had long since trusted the commander to not upset the atmosphere of his concentration when working, as well as to, more importantly, be apt not to touch anything. Wakatoshi has been a welcome spectator ever since.
Yet today he had walked in to find the artist curled over his table, shoulders hunched. The commander dutifully scanned the room, noticing his charge along the shelves to his left, before finally taking note of what drove his friend to exhaustion. The clay visage seemed to bore into his soul with its gaze. Kiyoomi was always talented in drawing out the fluidity of life in his works, but this, Wakatoshi finds, seems to crackle alight in its crafted grandeur.
So too, does the portrait continue to glow now, saturated in the dwindling embers of the setting sun. If Wakatoshi bore a bit more childlike whimsy he would say the clay looks as if it were about to come to life, but as he does not, he merely sets down the fresh block of marble procured from the quarry from his lever - the commander had enough wits about him to arrive with a gift of goodwill in exchange for disrupting the artist's rest.
Wakatoshi calmly dusts his hands free from the powdered stone, before gently shaking his friend awake. Kiyoomi stirs, mouth curled into a grimace in bearing the weight of wakefulness as he opens his eyes. The commander watches the moment of realization grace Kiyoomi's features as the latter registers the material beneath his palm, still lightly cupping the model's face, watches his head shoot up and stare in complete awe of it.
Wakatoshi clears his throat, jerking Kiyoomi out of his reverie. "I came to collect the general's vase, but thought it best to let you rest just a while longer," he says, motioning to the bust and papyrus strewn across the workshop. "It seems you have been busy."
"Ah, my apologies for making you wait," Kiyoomi looks down, bending his fingers down as to ease the tension in his wrists. "One could say it's just a bit of spontaneity."
"One should not work themselves into exhaustion by a mere whim, Kiyoomi." Wakatoshi pauses to consider him and takes a deep breath, before walking back towards the entryway. A large hand slides across the marbled stone. "Yet contrary to your words, I suspect this to be a project for which you care deeply for, and opted to save you some time."
Kiyoomi's eyes widened, fully taking into account the stone which he so failed to notice. His tongue tripped over consonants. "Wakatoshi, you couldn't possibly-"
Wakatoshi merely raised a hand. "Consider it payment for all the times you've let me sit in on your work. It seemed you needed the extra rest, as well."
"I-," the artist turns, flicking his eyes back towards the clay figure, no doubt already beginning to plan the carving, before returning his gaze back to his friend. "Thank you, for this kindness, Wakatoshi, as well as your companionship. It means a great deal."
"I am glad." the commander states resolutely. "Unlike other projects I have bore witness to, you have never seemed more awake, tired as you are. I look forward to seeing the finished product."
Kiyoomi manages a warm smile as he rises from his stool. "Yes, you shall be among the first to know," he says as he scans the shelves, stopping at the second row from the top. He lifts the custom vase to Wakatoshi in offering. "Send the general my regards."
The commander accepts graciously with an incline of his head. "I wish you well on your projects."
Kiyoomi rests his hand against the cool stone, feels the rough edges underneath his fingertips, and lifts the other in farewell as Wakatoshi turns to leave. "And I, you."
His work has just begun.
◈
Just as working with the clay is unique in that it is the act of creating with abandon, by building up and out, Kiyoomi finds that carving stone is the polar opposite in its distinctions. It is the dual prospect of not only unearthing the precious stone itself from the ground, but uncovering and dredging out the potential which lies within as well, which entices him. The idea of creating something beautiful, something with a permanence that may far outlast himself and his vulnerabilities, has an incredible reassurance to it known only by a few. A whisper of a legacy spread through gentle hushes of the earth.
The more difficult aspect of carving, however, is making the hundreds of thousands of decisions in how and where to chisel off a corner of stone, fretting over how much stone should be removed, and ultimately hoping that, upon translating that idea through the hands and the tools which they hold, it was not the wrong conclusion.
Which brings Kiyoomi here.
Alone to his own devices, the oil lantern burns bright once more as he works, chisel and mallet in hand. He had long since committed the initial masonry of the statue, of carving away large areas of stone as dictated by the prominences of the clay bust, so that the model may be reduced to its simplest geometries. Kiyoomi gripes, muttering to himself for failing to model and draft the anatomy of the statue in his haste, thus having no choice but to take a leap of faith and place trust in his capabilities lest he risk the clay drying out.
Nevertheless, a physique takes shape. Broad shoulders accentuate the curvature of the neck and provide a framework for the body as it extends down and out, into a stream of the long and sculpted sinew of the arms. A lean torso complements the curves and dips of the clavicle just as high tide reaches towards its tidepools in a caress of seafoam, an almost seamless connection.
His hands, although blessedly steady, seem to tremble as he bears witness to the strong legs and toned thighs which practically burst forth from the stone, as if seconds away from launching up and into the sky like a bird.
Kiyoomi works himself into a rhythm, the clatter of tools and slide of sandals across the floor in time with each piece of stone chipped away and sanded down. He works himself into a trance, really, enraptured in the melody created in this space. There is no other sound but that which is shared between himself and the statue, all else fading to a gentle hush. It creates a sense of peace and balance so delicate in its sacrality that Kiyoomi finds himself slightly swaying, cast adrift in his focus.
He gently brushes away an accumulation of dust on the statue’s hand with a feathered tip. With half an idle thought, Kiyoomi lifts his right hand to gently align with that of marble before he turns to peruse his station and to select his next tool, as if even losing contact with the stone will disrupt his devout concentration. Lost in the rhythm, his other hand incidentally brushes a scroll, knocking it off his workstation and onto the floor.
Kiyoomi reluctantly breaks contact with the statue, dragging his fingertips across its palm, tracing where the heart line would be, to turn and pick it up, when the lantern’s glow seems to intensify, elongating his stooped shadow far more than was reasonable for the lingering volume of oil remaining. Kiyoomi turns, and the scroll in his hands clatters to the floor in shock. The sound echoes like drums in his ears.
Before him stands his statue, or what should be his statue. His eyes trail up as he finds it is no longer marble, but rather an all-encompassing vision of shimmering gold. Words seem to abandon Kiyoomi as he stares agape at the light, for it was as if Apollo himself had materialized in his workshop.
Stricken by the passing thought, he reflexively kneels to the floor and bows his head, curls obscuring his vision. Kiyoomi is no stranger to tales of those who believe themselves worthy of witnessing true divinity. He braces himself, waits for the other divine sandal to drop in response to his perceived impudence.
Instead, a glowing hand enters his field of vision, extended in gilded offering. Slowly, Kiyoomi lifts his head once more, and is greeted with the sun.
Kind eyes and a blindingly bright smile. Freckles that glitter like stars. The light, it seems gentler now. Softer. It is like the last hours of pooling amber as Helios retires his chariot for the day and before Nyx drapes her cloak of stars upon the earth – yet different in its poignancy, somehow. Kiyoomi feels cradled in it all the same. He feels safe, like a promise fulfilled.
Wordlessly, Kiyoomi reaches for the outstretched hand, too in shock to register the feeling of callus-like grooves where smooth marble should be, of a radiating warmth, yet no thrum of a pulse save his own. Kiyoomi rises, yet the vision stays slightly crouched, still holding Kiyoomi’s hand. The shimmering afterimage raises the hand and dramatically draws it close to their own lips – and if words were not still lodged in Kiyoomi’s throat, he would have breathed a laugh at the absurdity of it all – before rising and guiding Kiyoomi into a gentle twirl. Kiyoomi feels as if the stars were hung into the sky for the first time.
The vision encourages Kiyoomi to spin out, fingertips just barely connecting the length of their wingspans, before drawing him in in another series of twirls until they are back to chest. At this, a laugh does indeed bubble out from Kiyoomi’s chest, because he can’t truly comprehend that he is dancing with this vision – his light, and Hypnos help him, if this is a dream and it must end, may it last just a moment longer.
Kiyoomi sighs and closes his eyes as he leans back into the vision, nestling his face along the side of that of shimmering gold and feeling cradled in their arms. He feels alight, kindled by the well of devotion and affection and warmth welling in his chest. When he opens his eyes, Kiyoomi spins out and the two dance and dance and dance throughout the night.
Yet all that a stranger would see is Kiyoomi, swaying to the lone beat of his heart in a lifeless marbled embrace.
◈
"You look dreadful," Komori tells him the next morning.
Kiyoomi spares him a withering glance from where he sits in the workshop threshold, sharpening his tools. Come daybreak, he woke up alone, slumped against the pedestal of the pale, unmoving statue with a devastating crick in his neck from the crooked angle of his slumber, before being ever so blessed with his cousin’s entrance. He scoffs, before turning his attention back to the blunt chisel in his hands.
“Hail, to what do I owe the pleasure of such fine compliments doled out from such an esteemed company?” Kiyoomi retorts in a flat tone.
While leaning against the barn door, Komori rolls an offshoot of ivy between his fingers idly, feigning interest in the veins of the waxy leaves – and ignores Kiyoomi completely.
“Oh, I was just in the village making the rounds,” he hums. “Putting in a good word about my friends, and what have you. But gods, were the people buzzing today! Of course, the Festival of Aphrodite is tonight, but I mean, let me tell you, Kiyoomi, this fellow has been the talk of the agora lately–”
“I am going to have to stop you right there,” Kiyoomi interjects, pointing the freshly sharpened chisel up at the fiend next to him. “Because now I know you’re lying. There is nothing to gossip about concerning me, especially when I only talk to the townspeople when they are my clients. So what exactly are you ,” he gestures with his chisel up and down in Komori’s general direction, “scheming?”
“Don’t you think that’s the reason, perchance, as to why they talk about you?”
Komori is met with the measured scrape of the flat chisel against the whetstone.
His cousin sighs and drops the vine, the cloak of his theatrics seeming to shrug off his shoulders. He switches tactics. “Why don’t you come to the village center with me?”
Kiyoomi’s eyebrows furrow. “You know I don’t care what the people think or say about me.”
“Yes, yes, so you say,” Komori acquiesces with a bow of his head and mock-flourish of the hand. “But I know there is still some iota of you that just might. It’s in your nature.”
Kiyoomi chuckles darkly, bending his head down over his knees, curls dangling. “It really isn’t. I was just lucky enough to have the right person notice the skills I have worked for and earned.” He raises his head to peer up at Komori. “Lucky enough to have it be built upon. That’s all. Also, quite frankly, it’s none of their business.”
Such luck is something Komori will never quite get a grasp on, a concept which they’ve both skirted around in conversation several times. This one is no different.
Komori meets his stare directly. “I think that is all the more reason for you to connect, to know the lives of the people you create for and gain an even greater sense of fulfillment and satisfaction. Beats brooding and staring at stone until your oil burns out.”
Kiyoomi is reluctant to admit his cousin may indeed be making a speck of sense. He sighs and hangs his head between his knees again. “Hypothetically,” he starts, “what would you even expect me to do if I were to go into town?”
“I don’t know,” Komori says as he lifts both hands in a shrug, “Buy some figs, take a walk, ‘accidentally’ run into Commander Ushijima–”
“I should have never introduced you to Wakatoshi.”
“– literally anything, because I think you deserve a break!” Komori declares dramatically with his hands on his hips. “I mean, Holy Hera in a handbasket, when was the last time you weren’t in either this workshop or your house?”
“You seem quite irritated today, did your fisherman not greet you this morning?”
“That is besides the point.” Komori points accusingly at him and raises a rounded brow. “And he's not mine quite yet, so stop deflecting.”
Kiyoomi inspects the strawflowers at his feet with disinterest before answering. “I dried my laundry out by the orange tree.”
Komori lets out a muffled groan as he sinks to the ground, head in his hands.
“The orange tree,” he deadpans. “You did your laundry. By the orange tree. Are you, perchance, referring to the orange tree that is literally in your yard?” He swings his arm out to gesture disbelievingly at the silhouette in the distance, its leaves rustling gently in the breeze. “Because that does not count. At all.”
“Well, you didn’t specify. If you want to disparage me, you have to be accurate.”
Komori can’t help but release another sigh before letting a chuckle escape his lips. “I swear, you’ll become married to your work, if you aren’t already,” he mumbles to himself.
At this, Kiyoomi turns to glance back through the open door of the workshop, toward carved marble glowing pure white under the midday sun. Pieces of an illusory melody drift through his subconscious as his eyes travel along the sculpted arms, down to the very fingertips which so reached out to him – or seemed to.
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Kiyoomi murmurs.
With half a mind, he hears Komori’s retort before continuing on about what’s happening in the village, but he doesn’t register any of it. Kiyoomi makes the occasional noncommittal noise as he continues to gaze at the marbled figure waiting for his return.
In spite of his company’s antics, Kiyoomi could not help but feel the flutter and warmth of afternoon sun expanding in his chest.
◈
Kiyoomi should really know better.
One would think, after his however-many years of living, that Kiyoomi would have learned by now, but alas, he has not. It seems he still bears the weight of childhood naivety.
The world had seemed to stand still in his workshop, stone dust seeming to be suspended in the beams of sunlight streaming in through the window and curling around Kiyoomi himself, rendering him like a butterfly stretched in pooling amber. He stared, breathless at the stark vision before him.
A strong posture with all the regality of Mount Olympus, accentuated by a set of broad shoulders and tapered waist.
A resolute jaw line softened by stone as it flowed down the long column of the neck and into the dips of the collarbone.
And Hera, help him, the eyes.
A pair of eyes which seemed to gleam with an adoration to match Kiyoomi’s own, alight despite the stillness its medium dictated.
The statue was finished.
Gooseflesh had rippled across his skin bearing the weight of such a gaze. Then, a breeze had drifted in from the open barn doors, gently swirling around the dust and curling Kiyoomi closer. It seemed to caress his cheek, beckoning. Guiding.
The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. Shouyou. Kiyoomi thinks, startled. A name.
Unwittingly, he drew closer, sandals sliding across the floor, his hand extended to just barely brush across cheekbones with the pad of his thumb. Kiyoomi opened his mouth as he stared into the face of the mesmerizing statue, and could almost feel the shape of the name on his lips – before the doors behind him slammed all the way open with a loud clatter.
“Gods, you jumped so high, Kiyoomi!” the daemon at hand squawked, cackling. “You looked like a drenched cat just now.”
Kiyoomi heard a vase teeter on its base and blessedly steady itself in the corner. He released the breath he had held and let the tension bleed out of his shoulders, eyes shut tightly.
The slide of his wretched relative’s sandals was audible against the stone floor as he walked around to face him, chuckles dying on his lips. “Oh, that was a good one.” Kiyoomi practically heard the mirthful tears being wiped away.
Kiyoomi felt the daemon draw closer. “Kiyoomi,” Komori stage whispers. “You alright?”
Kiyoomi hadn’t bothered to open his eyes. He let out a heavy exhale through his nose. “If you ever want to see your fisherman again, I suggest you exit the barn. Slowly.”
Komori suddenly whistled a jolly tune as he nonchalantly tiptoed backwards through the open doors, admiring the artwork as he went. Kiyoomi sighed the greatest and longest sigh to ever occur.
Upon collecting himself and exiting the workshop, Kiyoomi found that at some point in his earlier efforts to feign conversation, he had agreed to accompany Komori down into the town proper and to the temple to pay respects, per ritual of the annual festival. Again, Kiyoomi truly should have known better.
So here Kiyoomi finds himself, having reluctantly left the embrace of his beloved creation and comforts of his abode to trek the dirt path down the cliffside where he so presides and down into one of the busiest celebrations of the town. What he would give to have had a few more minutes alone, to actually feel the weight of the statue’s name on his tongue and breathe it to life. He sighs and scuffs up dirt with his sandals, dodging stones as he walks.
Komori, still whistling a moronic tune, pauses and tugs on Kiyoomi’s chiton to get his attention. The two squint, Kiyoomi lifting his hand up against his brows for shade, and peer out at the scene before them.
For all his reluctance, even Kiyoomi admits that the town looks breathtaking.
Nestled in the valley where the rolling hills and the cliffsides upon which Kiyoomi presides meet the cerulean sea, the town is alight with the twinkling glow of oil lamps and torches lining the streets like rivers of starlight, all flowing into the main stretch and leading the way to a grand marbled structure on the eastern shore, brilliant in the late afternoon sun – the Temple of Aphrodite.
From here, Kiyoomi could just make out the small figures of the townspeople milling through the streets, slowly making their way towards the temple, and faintly there, the thrum of music, seeming to pulsate through the earth.
Komori grins at the sight. "Let the record state, I'm going to make you eat your words tonight, dear cousin."
Kiyoomi finds it hard to tear his eyes away from the sight and manages to raise a disbelieving brow. "I'd very much like to see you try."
The two continue to amble on down the path, spells of comfortable silence interspersed with Komori talking about everything and nothing all at once – admiring how the clouds puff together like fish scales against the sky, recounting a recent bet he made with a foreign merchant, muttering about rethreading his sandals. It is when they encounter the fork in the road between the town and the quarry that Kiyoomi's mind starts to wander.
He sees how the sun shines and forms a halo around Komori's head before him and instead sees hair threaded with glowing light, wondering what it would be like to have his statue to be the one with him here, to see the vision which danced with him throughout the night come alive under the afternoon sun.
If Kiyoomi closes his eyes, the breeze rolling in from the sea feels like brushes of a kiss on his cheeks, on his forehead, and finally on his lips with the faintest hint of salt. It was as if now the roles have shifted, with the statue reacquainting themselves with the face of its devoted maker. In a way, Kiyoomi thinks, so too has he been created anew.
He does not remember the last time he had felt so fulfilled, so eager, to return to his statue's embrace and whisper its name over and over. What Kiyoomi would give to see the figure lie under an orange tree, light filtering through waxy leaves and silk blossoms onto warm skin. What Kiyoomi would give to hide away with his vision amongst the cliffside pools where not even the unrelenting reach of the tide would faze him.
What Kiyoomi would give to feel a heartbeat against his own.
He tastes the syllables of the name on his tongue again. Shouyou , he thinks not daring to speak it aloud until he returns to its presence. The sun's rays perforate the scalloped edges of the scaled cumulus above and wash over him, when there, a voice as soft as candle light whispers his name in turn.
Komori's voice ripples the surface of his reverie. "Surprised to see you smiling so widely while in town, if at all, to be honest." Kiyoomi whips his head up in time to narrowly miss grazing an ivory column before registering that they have indeed finally crossed over into town.
The people which once seemed so small from his cliff have an excitement and energy which emanates off of them in waves. Garlands of flowers and herbs wrap around the columns and swing from storefront entryways. The patter of sandals as children weave through the crowds act as a backdrop to the sound of music drifting from the center market, while lanterns and lamps light the way towards the harbor where the Temple presides.
It all passed by Kiyoomi in a blur, too entranced by the thoughts of his muse. "We made good time getting here," is all he can manage.
Komori nods, scanning the small crowd which lounged near the musician as they walked past. Kiyoomi follows his gaze, watching as young children dance along to the rhythm. "Yes, well I knew you would hate the crowd come sunset and thought it better for you to go to the Temple early."
Kiyoomi tears his eyes away to peer at the different food stalls. "That is pleasantly considerate of you."
"And that's why I'm your favorite relative. Come on, you can say it," Komori says, placing a hand to curl behind his ear expectantly.
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at the dramatics of it all. "Only by default," he deadpans.
"I can think of no better way to win," Komori shrugs.
It is not long after that the two find themselves staring up at the esteemed Temple of Aphrodite, marbled flooring and columns glowing in the afternoon light. The scent of frankincense and smoke become more and more apparent as Kiyoomi walks further up the steps and crosses the threshold of the grand arch and inside.
Oil lamps line the walkway, continuing to guide the queue closer towards the inner sanctum where an altar for burnt offerings sits before an elegant rendering of the goddess of love herself. Acolytes and other attendants that were not conducting ceremonies or tending to the temple made themselves available near the altar, their long robes making it seem as if they were gliding across the stone floor.
When it is Kiyoomi's turn, he cannot help but stare into the flames but for a moment. He watches the smoke trail up and into the ceiling, the light refracting off of the gold of the goddess's likeness. Kiyoomi gently tosses his offerings into the altar's fire before shutting his eyes.
If it is true that the gods may grant us all things, I pray to have a companion like my ivory, to be able to fully devote myself to the ivory which I hold so dear.
At this, the flames leap higher, once, twice, and thrice more in the air into a column of its own making, burning bright. Kiyoomi makes his way to the exit in silence, suddenly feeling very wistful, heart heavy in his chest.
◈
Unbeknownst to the sculptor, at the time of his offering a bird – a dove native to the inlet – resting near the rafters at the top of one of the marbled columns had indeed heard his plea. It spread its taupe feathers and swooped down and out of the temple to the town. Keen eyes tracked a head of dark curls weaving through the crowd, departing from his companion.
Instead of fighting his way back through the crowd, the sculptor took a much more barren path leading to the sea. The bird felt the catch of the wind underneath its extended wings as it glided overhead. It watches the stretch of footprints on the sand steadily increase as the sculptor makes his way towards the cliff sides. The sculptor does not hesitate nor falter on his path, maintaining a steady trajectory beyond the reach of the waves' foamy fingers.
At this hour, Helios is preparing for his final descent across the sky, with the light of his chariot dancing across the surface of the sea in a mosaic of glittering blues, golds, and whites.
At this hour, the sandpipers have long since retired from evading the flowing tide, while the ghost crabs begin to wake from their slumber.
At this hour, a lone sculptor wishes to be loved.
The bird continues to fly, watching with careful eyes as the sculptor steadily climbs the dunes, parting the beachgrasses and seaoats swaying gently in the breeze for him to pass. He continues to climb until he has made his way to a dirt path, leading to a sole residence at the top of the cliff. The man's movements grow slower, as if a heavy weight was placed on his slender shoulders. The bird cannot help but let out a small cry in encouragement.
It slightly folds its wings to float down closer to the sculptor. The bird watches as the man instinctively turns to walk into a large barn as opposed to the smaller dwelling at the top of the hill. As the sculptor crosses the threshold, the bird gently drops into a nest burrowed within the ivy which crawls up the barn door exterior. From this vantage point, the bird only needs to peer its head around the corner to find the sculptor standing before a figure of ivory, glowing in the saturated oranges of the setting sun.
Long fingers and calloused palms come up to cup the statue's cheeks, and weary eyes come to a close as the sculptor rests his forehead against that which he carved.
If Kiyoomi were not so entranced with the feel of the stone under his fingertips he would have heard the sweet birdsong from the entryway, yet as he had no reason to believe he wasn't truly alone, he failed to realize that he had led Aphrodite herself back to his workshop – for the leap of the flames at the Temple altar were symbol of her favor.
"Well, well, dearest, I think you've waited long enough, hm?"
All that Kiyoomi registers is the distant flap of wings before his life is forever changed.
◈
Kiyoomi's eyes are shut tight, his breath heavy in his ears. The lingering heat of the setting sun behind him contrasts against the cool, smooth surface of the marble on which his forehead rests and fingertips grasp. If he focuses hard enough, he can hear the notes of a song meant only for him and for his vision, one meant to be heard under pale lamplight and starry skies.
Much like their dance, this too happens slowly, and then all at once.
Warmth seeps into his fingers. A tickle of breath on his cheeks. Kiyoomi's eyes dare to flutter open.
Obsidian meets amber meets pooling golden sunlight.
Kiyoomi's entire world stands still. He stands there, mouth slightly agape, as he stares transfixed into the most beautiful face he has ever seen. He feels his lower lip tremble in disbelief as he registers the warmth that is indeed spreading through his fingers and palms, setting the twin moles which rest above his brow alight.
His mind is running leagues a minute. Can this be true? Is this real? After so many years of unfulfillment and trials upon trials and error, can he really be so lucky to have this happen to him? Am I dreaming once more?
Kiyoomi dares to mumble the name he so unwittingly had bestowed upon his statue, his vision. His voice is barely above a whisper.
"Shouyou?"
Instantly, Kiyoomi is met with a sea salt smile that leaves him so overcome he is convinced that even the tide has been suspended in time. He is greeted with a voice as warm as summer sun and as soft as starlight.
"Hello, Kiyoomi."
And all at once, the waves coming crashing forth as devoted lips meet lips instead of stone.
Everything is warm, feverish even, as Kiyoomi tries to wrap his head around the series of events that led him to this point, but all thoughts evaporate from his mind the moment strong warm hands reach up to grasp at his own, his own which now cradle the back of his vision's – of Shouyou's neck – before kissing him back just as passionately
Kiyoomi doesn't dare close his eyes. He knows that if he were to lose sight of this beautiful person, it would all end up being the makings of Morpheus, another dream to fade with time.
He tears his mouth away to pepper kisses all over Shouyou's face, the rise of his cheekbones, the arch of his brow, the slope of nose, the curves of closed eyelids – any inch of skin, of flesh and bone, Kiyoomi can reach.
He trails down the strong column of the neck like the tide rushing upon the sand and it is like coming home.
Laughter, clear and bright, reaches his ears as he noses at Shouyou's collar bones.
"May I see you?" This beautiful, stunning, ethereal vision of a person asks him, running his thumbs across Kiyoomi's cheeks, wiping away a steady stream of tears. Only then does he belatedly register the taste of salt on his tongue.
Kiyoomi dares to look up, heart in his throat. "There you are," Shouyou hums. Kiyoomi stares in absolute awe before pressing his face against the crook of Shouyou's neck once more.
"I have waited..." Kiyoomi swallows. "For so long and I–" He looks up into the most loving gaze, amber sparkling in the setting sun. "And I don't want to lose this, lose you . Not now. Not ever."
Shouyou grins, and Kiyoomi feels his heart burst into a thousand stars.
"We have time, Kiyoomi. We have nothing but time, my love."
Kiyoomi surges up to press his lips against Shouyou's once more.
He has never felt more alive.
◈
And if you one day find yourself on this beloved isle, one which holds its Goddess and the Muses above all things, you may come across a flowering cliffside to find two figures amongst an orchard of citrus trees, forever dancing in time to the beat of their hearts.