Work Text:
Cold and Melancholic. Subtle pitter patters of the light rain just outside the house Mitsuya was residing in, the weeping sky creating a blue atmosphere in the environment. Everything felt constricted- suffocating even, everywhere Mitsuya looked; the black shadows in the corner of his eye seemed to get bigger, crawling through every corner and ridges of his house. Mitsuya has never felt so lost before, just some hollow shell of what he used to be. It should have scared him in some sense, it should have made him feel at least devastated, but it was numb all over, his fingertips, his legs, his neck, everything.
He craved the touch of his lover, the soft whispers of sweet nothings into his ears and slight graze of his lips onto the crown of Mitsuya’s head. Hakkai, Hakkai, Hakkai. It was all Mitsuya could think about, his lover not once leaving the palace of his mind, he couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse, every night and day, he swears he could hear his dead lover’s whispers in the air, shivers crawling onto Mitsuya’s body whenever he hears it. He would turn around to see if Hakkai was there, but he knew. Mitsuya knew he was long gone, he accepted that the moment Hakkai’s body ran cold in his arms when he found him.
People have been saying that life was unfair, how life was cruel and unforgiving to everyone, but Mitsuya never really took into account how true that was until Hakkai died; What pained Mitsuya the most wasn’t the way Hakkai’s touch felt freezing on his skin, or the way Hakkai’s cheeks were sunken, or the way his lips were in a dull shade of blue, no no , what pained Mitsuya the most was the way he didn’t get to be there in Hakkai’s last moments. Hakkai died alone, without anyone embracing him on his way to Death’s door; How could Mitsuya live while knowing that he wasn’t even there in his lover’s last breath? If only he-
No. Mitsuya has to stop with ‘if onlys’ if he wants to heal. But does he want to heal? Is a person who wasn’t even there to comfort his dying lover worthy of healing ? Mitsuya can’t bear a life without Hakkai beside him, where he wouldn’t be hearing Hakkai’s little teases and comments while Mitsuya works on his paintings, where he wakes up everyday with soft grazes of Hakkai’s lips on his own, where Hakkai would comfort Mitsuya whenever he feels frustrated when his paintings weren’t what he envisioned to turn out. Hakkai, Hakkai, Hakkai- when will Mitsuya finally feel Hakkai again ? If he could just paint Hakkai and bring it to life then-
Oh. Was that all he had to do? As naive and outlandish it was to think that his painting would come to life, it gave him hope. Yes as faux as it was, Mitsuya didn’t care, he’d rather cling onto this shred of false hope than accept that Hakkai would no longer be by his side, maybe he was masochistic for doing this, not allowing himself to accept his death and move on, but he doesn’t want to move on. A life without Hakkai? He’d rather take a blade and slash it across his abdomen than live it.
And so Mitsuya picked up his worn out brush and started sketching his lover, not even stopping a second to look at what he was drawing. Why should he? He's memorized and encrypted each and every feature of Hakkai into his head, every moment of his hands wandering Hakkai’s body every night were not put to waste, it was on pure instinct at this point to know where each specific mole or blemish was to be painted on the paper.
Mitsuya remembers it, the time when he and Hakkai would spend their time under the soft glaze of the moonlight hitting their bare skin as they held each other before going into slumber, the little exchanges of affection and fulfillment that would leave them high off of each other. Mitsuya does his best to put this into paper, desperate to at least gain some comfort and sense of security from the painting, he could almost see the vibrant but soft tint of cherry on Hakkai's cheeks if he was to see Mitsuya painting him.
"Is this really how you see me? I'm flattered Taka-chan"
Mitsuya's breath hitches, his brush an inch from touching the paper. "No. Don't look behind you, he's not there, you know that." Mitsuya mutters to himself, trying to get a hold of himself. But he cranes his neck anyways, his eyes landing on Hakkai's old kimono that he wore when Mitsuya found his body.
Fuck. Mitsuya can't look away for some sardonic reason, why is he doing this to himself? It's funny in a way, how he can't handle the thought of Hakkai not being beside him, and yet he can't stop staring at the kimono that was a painful reminder of his dead lover. Mitsuya wets his dry and cracked lips with a swipe of his tongue, his grip on his brush tightening.
He averted his eyes in what felt like hours and continued painting, not once did he take a break, a thin layer of sweat on his face as he stayed in his seat. He moved almost robotically, like a puppet being manipulated by it's puppeteer in front of a whole audience. Each shade and pigment had to be perfect, it had to capture Hakkai's image perfectly.
Oh, but Mitsuya knew no amount of work and effort could capture Hakkai's image; Hakkai was just like that, unequivocally distinct and in lack of better words, imperfectly perfect. It kind of angered Mitsuya in a humorous way, how dare his lover be so uncapturable and perfect, how dare Hakkai be so special. Although Mitsuya knew that was what made him fall in love with him in the first place.
The poets wouldn't even be able to shed a light on how complex Mitsuya’s feelings towards Hakkai was, but at the same time, it was simple; Mitsuya adored Hakkai dearly. And that's why he was doing all of this, painting his dead lover so he can forever remember him and the way he made Mitsuya feel. Forever engrave this feeling into his heart no matter what.
.
.
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Mitsuya Takashi
Renowned Painter in the Edo Period
Birth: August 12, 1787
Death: June 12, 1852
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Mitsuya pushed up his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, his eyes squinting at the name engraved on the worn out gold plate in the wooden stand in front of a painting. "Huh." Mitsuya hummed. "He has the same name as me, and died on my birthday too, how humerous." Mitsuya huffed a breath in amusement.
He was in an art museum full of old paintings from the Edo period, analyzing and learning them for an article he was writing. " The One Who Fell in Love with His Painting " it's titled. Well, for now that is, Mitsuya still has to come up with a more original name.
Mitsuya averts his eyes from the golden plate and settles it on the painting that was hung up on the wall. There stood a man with long blue hair pinned with a gold kanzashi, a vibrant red kimono hung over his body and his head facing to the side. On his face, lay a scar near the corner of his lips, lashes long and grazing his rose tinted cheeks. Beautiful, that was what he was. Utterly bewitching.
" Beautiful right? It must be so flattering to be seen this way. "