Archive of Our Own

Miya Atsumu didn’t mean to slam the door when he got home. He didn’t mean to stomp up the stairs. And he definitely didn’t mean to shut himself inside his room for the entire night—not even letting his twin brother Osamu come in when it was time to sleep.

In retrospect, Atsumu knew he’d have to get better at diffusing his frustration. But he just couldn't help it. Not right now at least. 

It took Osamu banging on the door for nearly an hour the next morning for Atsumu to finally give up and let him come in.

“We share a room, ‘Sumu,” Osamu snapped as soon as the door opened. “You can’t just lock me out!”

Atsumu mumbled an apology he only half meant. 

Osamu must have noticed just how upset he was, because he didn’t even demand that Atsumu try again on the apology.

“What happened to you?” His twin frowned at him, crossing his arms. “You didn’t even come down for dinner last night. Don’t tell me Kita-san berated you for stealing brushes again—cause if that’s the case, I think yer being overdramatic—“

“I didn’t steal any brushes!” Atsumu snapped, falling gruffly onto his desk chair. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders tightly.

Osamu sent him a look.

“Any more brushes,” Atsumu corrected stiffly. 

“Then what happened?”

Atsumu remained silent. He turned to face the window, trying to look anywhere but his brother’s face. 

Osamu strode across the room, sitting opposite of Atsumu at his own desk. 

“‘Sumu…” 

“He said I’m not being creative enough.” 

Osamu frowned at this, “Kita-san?”

“Kurosu-san.” 

It wasn’t new for Atsumu to receive critique. As art students, both he and Osamu had gotten their fair share of criticism and teaching over the years while attending classes and schools. Atsumu wasn’t even sure why he was so upset over one small discussion he’d had with his art teacher, Kurosu Norimune. But by the time he had exited his class yesterday, he could practically feel smokey fumes leaving from his ears. 

“Why’d he say that?” Osamu watched Atsumu carefully. He was used to Atsumu throwing tantrums—whether it was about food, school, or art, but this was different. Both he and Atsumu knew that.

“We got a new assignment for winter break,” Atsumu said. “It’s an open-ended prompt.”

Since Osamu was an artist as well, he was aware of the occasional difficulty that assignments could bring. But unlike Atsumu, who worked with oils, Osamu preferred charcoal and pastels. They attended the same school, but not the same classes, and it was rare for their schedules at the school to align—unless it was for a break, such as now.

Atsumu didn’t know what kind projects Osamu had been assigned for the break, but Osamu didn’t seem too worked up about it—not like Atsumu at least.

It wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last that he wished he and his brother could share mediums. It might have made this entire assignment easier. They could’ve done some tag-along work that matched each other’s or something. Anything to avoid facing this assignment head on. He wasn’t usually a runner, but this assignment had him more worked up than usual. 

Atsumu had always struggled with the more open-ended prompts. Maybe that’s why his teacher had given it to him in the first place. Whenever he was assigned something with more clarity, he had no problem painting what he needed to. But the open-ended left too much unclear. To Atsumu, it felt like being handed an unassembled chair and being told to construct it with no instructions. His reluctance towards open-ended prompts had been an on going struggle between him and his teacher. His teacher insisted there was more for Atsumu to do—more he could do if he just reached for it, but Atsumu didn’t know how to do more or what there was to reach for.

What more is there than what he can see and decipher in front of him, anyways? That’s what he didn’t understand. 

“What’s the prompt?” Osamu asked.

Atsumu reluctantly reached for his bag and pulled out a crumbled piece of paper.

He threw it at Osamu and it bounced off the boy’s chest and to the floor. His twin scowled before swiping it up and flattening it on his desk.

“Self-Portrait, huh?” Osamu asked after reading it.

“That’s what I thought,” Atsumu said. “But when I tried to clarify with Kurosu-san, he said that wasn’t what he was looking for.”

Here’s the thing, the prompt could be a self portrait, if thats how the phrasing was interpreted.

Winter Break Assignment Prompt: Create a Painting of How You See Yourself.

Atsumu had figured it would’ve been simple enough. He’d painted plenty of self portraits for class before, and he could always use Osamu as the model since they pretty much have the same face. The only stark difference between the twins was their hair, Atsumu’s being dyed a brassier blonde, Osamu’s a silvery grey, and their personalities. Osamu could be described as the calmer, more reasonable twin (untrue), and Atsumu the more stubborn and obnoxious twin (kind of true.)

Kurosu-san had made it clear that a simple self portrait wasn’t what he was looking for though, so no matter how much Atsumu and Osamu looked alike, Atsumu knew he’d probably wouldn’t have much use for him this time. 

“It’s a painting of how you see yourself, Atsumu,” his teacher had said. “I’m not asking you to simply look into the mirror and draw what’s there. You have to broaden your horizon. You’re not being creative enough with this.”

It was harsh, but a part of him knew it was true. Maybe that’s why it got to him so much. The only problem was that Atsumu didn’t know how to be more creative. How does one just… be more creative, anyway? He’d thought that if you weren’t born creative, then you just weren’t creative. Tough luck. But the way his teacher had said it made it sound like Atsumu already had the creativity in him, and he just wasn’t using it.

Well, if it was in him, he’d sure like to know where the hell it was!

“You didn’t blow up in his face after he told you that, right?” Osamu sent his twin a doubtful look.

“Of course I didn’t!”

“Cause you sure did blow up once you got home.”

“I get it!” Atsumu snapped. “I just…” his shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to do about it. He won’t take a regular old self portrait, but how else am I supposed to tackle this?”

Osamu stared at the paper in silence. It was rare for Osamu to take Atsumu’s art issues this seriously—but, then again, it had been awhile since Atsumu had gotten this worked up over a single assignment. 

“How long until it’s due?” Osamu asked.

Atsumu shrugged. “The end of the month?”

“That’ll give you a few weeks to work on this,” Osamu handed the prompt sheet back to Atsumu, who took it begrudgingly. “You don’t have to figure it out right away.”

Atsumu knew it was true, but it didn’t make it any easier to just sit around and take his time.

And despite Osamu’s reassurance, soon two weeks had passed by without Atsumu even picking up his brush (though not for lack of trying.)

He had spent the weeks tossing and turning in his bed, racking his brain for ideas, and attempting at sketches—leaving most unfinished. He scribbled and scratched and broke a lot of pencil lead (Osamu had made the wise decision of hiding his own supplies, not wanting them to fall under the same demise.)

Rather than Osamu, it was Suna Rintaro who had first gotten fed up with Atsumu’s moping.

“Why don’t you just go to the art museum?” He stared down at Atsumu, who was currently sprawled on the floor. “You look pathetic.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sunarin” Atsumu glared up at him.

Suna was a reoccurring appearance in the Miya household—him being both Atsumu and Osamu’s best friend. Suna attended the same high school and art school as the twins, but he worked in sculpting, so the only time the three of them ever saw each other at school was in the halls, or when they were in their academic classes.

“What’s the art museum gotta do with this, anyway?” Atsumu rolled onto his stomach.

Suna plopped onto Osamu’s chair, shrugging indifferently. “It can help when yer in a pit.”

“I’m not in a pit,” Atsumu said tersely. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Osamu hummed from his bed. 

Atsumu glared at his brother.

“I’m just saying,” Suna propped his feet on Osamu’s desk, earning an unimpressed look from the grey-haired boy. Ignoring the look, Suna continued, “It doesn't hurt to try. Better than moping around all day.“

“I’m not moping.” 

“Maybe not, but yer definitely souring the morale around here,” Osamu quipped easily, flipping a page in his comic book. “I swear it’s been strictly cloudy for the past couple of weeks—talk about artistic influence.”

“Shut yer mouth!” Atsumu stuck his tongue at his brother.  

Both Suna and Osamu laughed, before they fell into a conversation about when they thought it would start snowing and how much they weren’t looking forward to school starting up again. 

It left Atsumu to think on the floor. He rolled over again onto his back and stared at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head. 

He’d been more surprised than anything when Suna suggested the museum. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone there. 

It’s not that his love for art had faded over the years. If it had, Atsumu wouldn’t be as upset as he was over just one, simple assignment. But as time passed, Atsumu had given his attention more towards making art than looking at it. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t looked at art at all in the past few years, it was just that, when he did, he did so fewer and farther between.

And even though he did like the idea of visiting the museum, it felt like a waste of his time. If he wanted to see art so badly, couldn't he just look it up on the internet?

But Atsumu then realized that maybe Suna was (unfortunately) right. At least by going to the art museum he was doing something. The past two weeks had been the most unproductive in his life. It’d be better to at least attempt to enjoy the exhibits at the museum than sit at home and break some more charcoal sticks (Atsumu was pretty sure Osamu had hidden all their charcoal for this exact reason.)

It wasn’t until Atsumu and Osamu went to sleep the next night that he revisited the matter.

Osamu brought it up first.

“Hey, ‘Sumu,” his brother said quietly. He was lying on the bunk below Atsumu, but in the silence of the night, he could still hear him clearly. 

“Yeah, ‘Samu?” He replied, rolling to his back.

“I think you should try the museum.” 

There was a beat of silence.

“Sunarin even said he’d lend you his membership card.”

Atsumu sighed. “I dunno, ‘Samu. Just cause it works for Rin, doesn’t mean it’ll work for me too.”

“But you should at least try something,” Osamu insisted.

“I have been trying!” Atsumu snapped, suddenly feeling frustrated. “That’s all I’ve been doing!”

“That’s not what I meant, ‘Sumu,” Osamu said, his voice growing incredibly soft. “I know yer trying. I just think it wouldn’t hurt to try something new.”

Atsumu folded his hands across his chest and he stared up at the ceiling.

“It’s the weekend tomorrow anyway,” Osamu said. “Give yourself a break—a real break,” he emphasized before Atsumu could protest. “You need it. We’ve both seen the kind of slumps Sunarin can get into. If it helps him at least a little, it’s gotta be enough to help you.”

“I’m starting to think nothing will be enough to help,” Atsumu admitted. He was tired. He hadn’t even done anything in two weeks, but he felt so tired.

“You just haven’t found the right thing yet, ‘Sumu,” Osamu assured him. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Atsumu didn’t reply. He closed his eyes, sighing deeply.

“Promise you’ll try it?” Osamu asked one last time.

“Yeah,” Atsumu relented. “I promise.”

They both fell silent after that and Atsumu assumed Osamu had fallen asleep. 

He wasn’t sure how long it took him to finally go to sleep, but by the next morning he felt no more rested than he had the night before. It felt like a chore to keep his eyes open and his head felt airy and unfocused. 

He decided to keep his promise to Osamu though, and the next day when Suna came over, he asked if he could use his museum membership card to visit.

Both of the boys looked surprised that Atsumu was actually going to go, but Suna quickly recovered, pulling out his wallet and handing the card to him.

“Don’t lose it or yer buying me a new one,” Suna warned.

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu waved him off, sliding the card into his own wallet. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Take this,” Osamu threw a coat at Atsumu. “It’ll be cold outside, and knowing a museum, it’ll probably be even colder inside.”

Atsumu took the jacket and without another word, he found himself lumbering down the route to the local art museum. The December air was crisp against the back of his neck and Atsumu hunched his shoulders, trying to keep as warm as possible. 

It was a long walk, but Atsumu hadn’t gone outside in ages so he didn’t feel particularly upset about it. Breathing in the fresh air felt like a small relief to his lungs.

It was only as he climbed up the smooth, concrete steps leading to the art museum that he realized just how long it had been since he’d last been there.

As a kid, he used to visit weekly—him and Osamu racing to the door as if they couldn’t possibly wait another minute to see the hundreds of displays waiting for them inside. 

It all felt so much simpler back then. Back when he and Osamu would draw whatever they wanted whenever they wanted to. 

A sudden bitterness ran through Atsumu. A part of him wished it was still like that. There was no pressure, no critical eyes, not judgement. 

He knew it wasn’t fair to feel that way, however. It was his own choice to be taking classes anyway. If he hated it so much, he could’ve quit a long time ago.

But for Atsumu, quitting was never really an option—no matter how hard it got. He’d rather fail completely than abandon a piece or project. It was one of the only reasons he had convinced himself to go to the museum in the first place. 

The inside of the museum was only a few degrees warmer than outside, and Atsumu was suddenly incredibly thankful that Osamu had insisted he wear a coat. 

Chalky white sculptures stood in the high ceilinged room just past the long arched entry. He remembered how many times he and Osamu had shrunken at the sight of them as children, scared by their penetrating gaze. It made him laugh to himself—fond of the memory.

Atsumu shifted his gaze to the 3D displays in the lobby. It wasn’t any historical work, simply contemporary art made by university students who had either sold or donated their pieces to the museum. 

He wondered if maybe one day his work could be sitting in a museum. The idea seemed so far away.

If he was struggling with an assignment as simple as creating a painting of how he saw himself, then how could he expect to really get anywhere anyways? It wasn’t that Atsumu was bad at art. He knew he wasn’t. But at the end of the day, he could never feel satisfied with what he made. He was always comparing, trying to reach higher and higher. 

That’s what made Kurosu-san’s words all the more confusing to him. Was he not trying already? Was he not already using everything he had to improve? The amount of nights Atsumu had ignored in order to paint, the schoolwork he’d missed, the meals he’d skipped… Kurosawa-san made it seem like it had all been for nothing.

He hesitated.

As nice as it was to visit the museum (though he would never admit it out loud), Atsumu didn’t have the time to be doing this. He had only one week to finish a complete painting and he could barely even pick up a brush without wanting to throw it across the room.

He almost considered just turning and walking out of the building, jumping straight into his messy bed, and refusing to leave, but when he remembered his brother’s insistence towards him going and how disappointed Osamu would be if Atsumu showed up at home too early, Atsumu pressed his lips in a hard line and trudged his way to the ticket booth. The least he could do is make this one trip for Osamu, even if it wouldn’t help.

There were several exhibitions available at the museum and Atsumu read the list above the ticket booth slowly.

1. Impressionism to Modernism: Monet to Matisse

2. Vermeer — Yellow and Blue

3. Hokusai: Mad About Painting

4. The Natures of Tawaraya Sotatsu 

5. Young Society Art Featuring: Tokyo, Sakusa Kiyoomi, 17

6. Picasso’s Portraits: 1881-1973

Atsumu tried not to stare at the fifth option, Young Society Art Featuring: Tokyo, Sakusa Kiyoomi, 17. The number seventeen seemed to dance around in Atsumu’s head—making fun of him. Atsumu felt both completely envious and incredibly angry at himself.

He could only dream of having his own exhibit at seventeen—an age which he had just passed only a few months ago.

He peeled his eyes away from the list, deciding that he didn’t need another reason to feel like shit today.

“What will it be?” The young female worker asked with a smile.

“Ah,” Atsumu had little interest in anything available. “Got any recommendations?”

The girl contemplated before replying, “I’d go with the Picasso exhibit—he’s a personal favorite of mine.”

“Then I’ll go with that,” he plastered his best smile for her.

The girl beamed at him, and began to print his ticket. She made a few enthusiastic comments about the exhibition—Atsumu pretended to listen—and once he swiped Suna’s membership card and received his ticket, she wished him an enjoyable visit. 

Atsumu tried his hardest not to cringe. He was sure nothing about this visit would be enjoyable.

As Atsumu climbed the stairs to the second-floor exhibition, he mindlessly flipped through the brochure he had received with his ticket. It held small introductions to each exhibit available at the museum. Atsumu figured he might as well know what he was in for. 

It’s not that he didn’t know who Picasso was—didn’t everybody at least a little? But he had never studied the man and what little he had seen made almost no sense to him at all. 

He began to turn to the portion about Picasso, but stopped at the section before when he saw the Young Art Society exhibit. Atsumu wondered just what kind of artist Sakusa Kiyoomi had to be to earn a whole exhibit for himself—at seventeen no less.

He was startled when he saw a few of the teen’s highlighted works.

Atsumu had always considered himself a talented artist. He knew that he was. He also knew he had skill. Nothing had really ever made him doubt that. 

But this…?

Sakusa Kiyoomi’s art wasn’t just good. It was beautiful.

A surge of bitterness ran through Atsumu as he tried not to stare breathlessly at the pamphlet. If this was how his work looked on a magazine, how much better did it look in person?

Sakusa Kiyoomi’s painting all held similar themes and color palettes—Atsumu assumed they were all apart of a series. They consisted of pale pinks and creams, with darker greys and blues to add contrast. It seemed elegant, quiet, and defined.

But most of all, his works seemed empty—or rather, lonely.

The loneliness reminded Atsumu vaguely of Vilhelm Hammershoi’s work. Simple and still.

From what he could see, Atsumu figured Sakusa’s style wasn’t particularly unique—realism with impressionist-like brush work, but there was still an overall air to his work that screamed: This is who I am.

They were exactly the type of works Atsumu knew he had never been able to make. 

Atsumu shoved the brochure into his back pocket—so much for not feeling like shit. He was suddenly glad to go to Picasso’s exhibition despite not knowing much about the man. If he had been stuck seeing Sakusa Kiyoomi’s work, he would’ve gone home in an even worse mood.

As he approached the entrance to the Picasso exhibition, he pulled out his ticket. He showed it to the employee checking tickets, and then entered once being nodded in.

He was immediately greeted with contrasting colors on every wall. He cringed at the sight. The paintings in the opening hall were all abstract portraits, full of ugly colors and confusing structures. Atsumu wasn't even sure if he could call them portraits. They looked like a bunch of random shapes and lines mashed together into something barely coherent.

He didn’t see how viewing the abstract portfolio of this artist would help him with his assignment, but at least he knew what not to do.

The dread formed again when he remembered his assignment. When Suna recommended he come here, surely he hadn’t had this in mind—no sane person would.

As a new chill settled into his spine, Atsumu decided he had no interest in the hall and turned to the first room. It didn’t take long for his eyes to glaze over, and as Atsumu walked further and further into the maze of paintings, the only feeling that arose inside him was a growing sense of claustrophobia.

Sometimes he stared blankly at the geometric portraits, sometimes he scratched his head in confusion at the metallic-looking patterns. Occasionally he would find surprisingly realistic portraits and stare at the meticulously placed strokes in awe.

He wondered why an artist so talented in realism would prefer a style that distorted and disfigured features, rather than complement them. It wasn’t like Picasso couldn’t paint his figures realistically. So why didn’t he?

His restless nights seemed to have slowly caught up to him. Atsumu hadn’t even realized he had been staring at a painting for nearly ten minutes, mind trying its hardest to understand what Picasso could have possibly painted. It was only when an awkward cough from behind him resonated in the high-ceiling room that Atsumu finally stirred.

He turned, blinking his eyes back into focus. 

A taller boy stood a few meters away. He seemed like he was waiting for Atsumu to leave. He wore a long black coat that reached nearly to his knees. His face was half covered by a burgundy scarf, wrapped cozily around his neck. If Atsumu wasn’t mistaken, he could make out the pale blue of a surgical mask over the man’s nose from under the scarf.

It was hard to tell, but he didn’t seem much older than Atsumu. He stood with hunched shoulders and he had a lanky frame—as if his body couldn't keep up with how quickly he was growing. 

Atsumu shifted away from the painting slightly, realizing he had been closer to it than he’d thought. Hogging had always been something he’d grown up doing—when one had a twin there was no telling what would go missing or what would get stolen if he didn’t not share. But the painting on the wall definitely wasn’t one of the toy trucks Osamu and Atsumu fought over as kids. And it definitely wasn’t his to hog in the first place. 

Atsumu was halfway to apologizing and asking how long the boy had been standing there waiting, but he soon aborted the words when the boy spoke.

“Are you done?” The boy’s voice was flat and irritated. His face remained neutral, as if he hadn’t just been completely rude to the person in front of him.

If someone asked Atsumu later, he would blame it on his terrible week, but he couldn’t help feeling provoked.

“No, I’m not,” Atsumu’s eyes narrowed, tone mirroring the boy’s. “Guess you’ll have to come back later.”

A flash of annoyance swept through the boy’s eyes and for some reason Atsumu felt like he’d won.

“You’ve already been staring at it for more than ten minutes,” his voiced clipped back, muffled from the pale blue mask. “How long does it take? Just take a picture and move on.”

“It’s not your painting, first of all,” Atsumu all but snapped. “And observing art takes time. You’re in an art museum, what do you expect?”

“I expect people to not take fifteen minutes staring at a single piece!”

“Well, these aren’t exactly open books!” Atsumu glared. It was true. He had a hard time figuring out what half of Picasso’s work meant. And if he did happen to figure out, he couldn't understand why in the world it was painting like that.

The painting in front of him was no exception. If he were to be honest, Atsumu would admit that he couldn’t even tell what the painting was supposed to be. It looked like the artist had slapped a bunch of random colors and shapes together and made some… witch-looking flower?

The only reason he had been staring at it for so long was because he couldn’t figure out why—despite its confusing composition and colors—the painting seemed to be so quiet. 

“Don’t tell me you’re having trouble understanding that.” 

Atsumu didn’t appreciate the boy’s tone.

“Don’t tell me you’re not!” Atsumu exclaimed. “How the hell should I understand this?”

“It’s a portrait! And even if you couldn’t understand, there’s an entire plaque that explains the painting next to it.” The boy squinted at him with inky eyes. His tone was patronizing, as if he couldn’t believe Atsumu could be so stupid—which only fed Atsumu’s desire to be as complicated towards the dark-haired boy as possible, because, sure, he was a lot of things, but he knew for a solid fact that he wasn’t stupid. Not stupid enough to deserve that tone, at least.

Atsumu scowled. “I’m well aware of the plaques, thanks. I just don’t like to read them until after I’ve decided for myself what the art is about. Reading it beforehand is like a spoiler.”

The boy raised an eyebrow, and he shifted his weight. “Have you even studied Picasso?” 

The question surprised Atsumu, but not as much as the incredulous tone the boy had asked it in. 

What was that supposed to mean? Picasso’s work couldn’t be that much of a wonder. He wasn’t obligated to study him just so he could see his work!

Atsumu eyed the boy. What was this guy’s deal anyway? So what if he was taking awhile on the painting? It’s not like he had any right to judge—hell, if he knew Atsumu had been standing there that long then he was just as bad! That means he had to have been waiting for just as long!

“No,” Atsumu replied tersely. “I haven’t studied him.”

“Then how do you expect to understand anything here?”

“Listen,” Atsumu sent a cool look at the boy. “It’s art. Anything is possible. Everyone knows that. Isn’t the entire point of it to be up for interpretation?”

“Not when the interpreting takes fifteen minutes and causes other people to have to wait on you.”

Atsumu hadn’t felt an urge to tackle someone so hard since Osamu had squished all his vine charcoal the day before Atsumu’s charcoal piece was due. (That day had ended with Osamu being forced to run to the store and replace it—best case scenario if you ask Atsumu).

“What’s yer problem even?” Atsumu snapped. “Can’t you just come back later? You don’t own the museum!”

The boy shifted his weight and hesitated, like he was reluctant to answer.

Atsumu waited though, partly to cool his temper and partly to hear what he had to say.

It was a few moments before the boy released an irritated sigh.

“I’m leaving soon,” he said. “And this is my favorite room. It’s the whole reason I came to the exhibit.”

Atsumu was sure words couldn’t begin to describe the confused expression that swept through his own face.

“Excuse me?” 

The dark-haired boy shifted uncomfortably again.

“You came here to visit a room?”

“No,” He snapped, glaring at Atsumu. “I came to this room, because it’s my favorite.”

“That’s literally what I said.”

“You said it incorrectly,” the boy replied stubbornly.

“Are you this much of a grouch to yer friends?” Atsumu asked. 

“No,” the boy’s brow lowered further—if possible.

“Let me guess,” Atsumu said cooly. “Is it because you don’t have any?”

“At least I’m not being the asshole here!” The boy replied, his look scathing. 

“I’m only being one because you were first!” Atsumu rebuked.

“Are you this annoying to your friends?” He asked, turning the question on Atsumu. In the heat of the moment, Atsumu realized the boy was speaking with a Tokyo accent.

“Yes!” Atsumu shouted. “But at least they still like me!”

“That’s hard to believe,” he scoffed. 

“Screw off,” Atsumu flipped him off. “If yer going to be such a snob about it, I’ll just leave, Grouch.”

“It’s Sakusa,” the boy—Sakusa snapped. “And please, be my guest.”

The name caused Atsumu to still.

Sakusa? It sounded familiar. 

He examined the boy in front of him, who was watching Atsumu with an expectant look.

“Sakusa?” Atsumu repeated.

Sakusa’s face changed into something unreadable. 

Atsumu could have laughed. “What? Don’t tell me that’s yer exhibit downstairs!?”

“And if it is?” Sakusa asked, tilting his head challengingly. His shoulders seemed to rise though, as if he was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. 

“Great,” Atsumu rolled his eyes. “So not only do you have a whole exhibit, but yer also a pretentious grouch. Yer really the packaged deal, huh? Why are you even here when you’ve got a whole exhibit waiting for you? What? Sick of seeing people ogle at your work?”

Sakusa’s glare deepened to a whole new level of ferocity.

“That’s not true,” his voice was low.

Atsumu suddenly felt angry—angrier than before at least. He knew it was just all of his stress finally overflowing and Sakusa (however prickly he was) was just unfortunate enough to be the receiver of it all, but something in Atsumu finally broke.

None of it seemed fair. 

He didn’t mean to feel so jealous of Sakusa, but he did. The guy had a whole exhibit! At seventeen years old no less! He had a style. He had skill. He was good. He was better. 

All at once Atsumu felt like throwing up.

What might’ve been a blow up suddenly drained Atsumu down to the bone. 

He fell into a crouch, head dropping to his knees. His arms were hunched over his ears, but he could still hear a startled noise leave Sakusa’s throat. 

A deep sigh shuttered through Atsumu’s entire body. He felt weak and exposed, but he was too exhausted to care. 

Suna was wrong. This wasn’t helping at all. The only thing the museum had done, was show him that he’ll never be anywhere near the level of all these artists. 

It was a few minutes before either of the boys moved.

Sakusa seemed to be too startled by Atsumu’s sudden break down to go anywhere. It was a miracle a random passerby hadn’t walked in and interrupted the whole thing.

Atsumu looked up, clenching his hands to try and stop them from shaking.

“Sorry.”

Sakusa seemed even more surprised by the apology. He stared at Atsumu, eyes wide.

“It’s…” Sakusa began, but his voice died out. His gaze flickered to the paintings on the wall, and then back to Atsumu. “Are you…?”

“Nope,” Atsumu answered the question before he even had to finish. “Definitely not okay.”

It was a pain to admit—especially after their previous interaction, but Atsumu knew that lying would be even more pathetic in the moment.

Sakusa swallowed thickly. He still stood frozen, as if he was uncertain if he should make a run for it, or finally brave a step into the room.

“Really,” Atsumu finally stood, running his hands through his hair. Despite the cold air around him, a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. “I’ve just been… stressed out lately.”

It didn’t change the fact that Sakusa was equally as prickly, but Atsumu felt too tired too continue arguing. 

Sakusa’s eyes flickered from him to the paintings again. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but was hesitating to do so.

Atsumu figured Sakusa’s movements probably meant he was waiting for Atsumu to leave. This time, Atsumu didn’t fight it. But as he began to walk towards the exit, Sakusa’s voice stopped him.

“I’m stressed out too.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sakusa looked like he regretted saying them. He cringed at himself and glared at the floor. Atsumu had a feeling it wasn’t him Sakusa was upset at though.

Despite Sakusa’s visual reluctance, he continued talking. 

“That’s why I came here—the work in this room, it just… it speaks a little,” for an artist, Sakusa seemed unused to talking about how art can feel—or maybe he was just unused to talking about feelings in general (or maybe he just didn't want to have to say this to Atsumu of all people.) “I was just upset that someone else was in here too. I wanted to be alone.”

Atsumu didn’t know how Sakusa could expect to find a room alone at a museum on a weekend during winter break, but he decided not to provoke the taller boy any further.

He took the chance to look around the room again. Most of the paintings were a blue, melancholic color. They were almost as depressing as Atsumu’s art situation. He wasn’t sure why Sakusa would want to come here when he was stressed. If anything, the art only dampened Atsumu’s mood more.

“I’m sorry too,” Sakusa’s apology surprised Atsumu just about as much as his did to Sakusa.

“Thanks,” Atsumu mumbled.

They stood in an awkward silence for a moment.

“Um,” Atsumu scratched the back of his head. “No offense, but why would you come here if you were stressed out?”

Sakusa immediately took it the wrong way, because his glare returned (not as strong this time) and he seemed to cave into himself, making his body seem smaller. 

“Were you not in here too?” He asked, somewhat defensively.

“Well, yeah,” Atsumu admitted. “But not for these paintings. My friend said going to the museum would help with… stuff,” he trailed off. “Anyway, I’ve kind of just been”—he waved loosely—“wandering around.”

Sakusa looked at him skeptically. “You were staring at that painting for fifteen minutes.”

“I know,” Atsumu huffed. “But it’s not exactly easy to get this stuff.”

He felt like they were back to their original conversation. This time, he could only hope it didn’t go as bad as it had before. 

“I was in here because of Picasso’s Blue Period works.” Sakusa blurted, his eyes flickering from Atsumu to the paintings and back again.

Atsumu’s eyes skimmed the paintings again. It was true that the majority of them were of blue tones. The name was fitting, but he still couldn't see why this would help Sakusa if he was stressed out. 

At Atsumu’s silence, Sakusa must have felt obligated to explain. 

“His Blue Period represents uncertainty—in both Picasso’s life and in his art style.” Sakusa sounded as if he were reading from a textbook. “Maybe there’s nothing particularly great about it, but he’s honest.” He paused for a moment. “He’s not trying to lie to anyone about his paintings. He doesn’t pretend to be great in his work all the time. I was lucky enough to be here the same time his work was on display.”

Atsumu’s stomach twisted at his words.

“I just…” Sakusa looked like he didn’t want to continue speaking. “It helps me realize I’m not the only one.”

Atsumu watched Sakusa for a short moment, then turned to the painting he had been staring at earlier. 

“I have an assignment I can’t figure out.”

Sakusa’s brows lowered again, but for once Atsumu didn’t think it was a glare—this time, it was more out of confusion.

“For art?” The taller boy asked.

It was then that Atsumu realized he’d never introduced himself as an artist.

“Yeah,” he said. “It should be easy, but it’s not and I don’t know why.”

Atsumu chewed his lip. 

Create a Painting of How You See Yourself. The words daunted him. It’s a question Atsumu couldn’t answer. Something he couldn’t figure out and was too afraid to admit he couldn’t figure out. It made him ask himself questions like, Who am I? Question Atsumu wasn’t ready to confront.

He looked over at Sakusa, remembering the taller boy’s pieces. The stillness. The loneliness.

“Your art,” he said slowly. “It’s a lot of self expression right?”

Sakusa look startled by Atsumu’s words.

His eyes shifted from Atsumu, to the floor. “You could… say that.”

“How do you do it?”

It must not have been quite the question Sakusa was expecting. He paused, frowning up at Atsumu. 

“How do I do it?” He repeated, confusion evident in his tone. 

“How do you paint yourself without really painting yourself?”

Sakusa watched Atsumu carefully, as if he was dissecting him with his eyes alone. 

His gaze suddenly shifted to the painting Atsumu had been looking at earlier. 

“That painting,” the taller boy nodded his head towards it. “It’s a painting of Olga.”

The name was unfamiliar. He wondered if Sakusa expected him to know who that was. The boy, however, didn’t seem as derisive as before, so Atsumu swallowed his pride and took the bait. 

“Who’s Olga?” He asked.

“One of his lovers. Picasso often created portraits of Olga,” Sakusa answered.

“I’m sure I would’ve noticed if there were more of… this around here,” Atsumu scowled. The painting was too distinct for him not to have noticed anywhere else.

“Did you even look at the paintings?” The scoff returned to Sakusa’s voice, it was lighter than it had been before though.

“Yes,” Atsumu bit, glaring at him. “This is my first time seeing his work, though! How am I supposed to notice everything?”

“That’s disappointing—“

“Shut up!”

“I mean it,” Sakusa said lowly. It was enough to stop Atsumu from snapping a quick reply. “It’s a shame to not have known his work.”

There was a beat of silence.

“He’s an abstract artist,” Atsumu said plainly. “I don’t paint abstract.”

“He’s most defined by his abstract,” the boy corrected. “But Picasso painted in many styles.”

Atsumu had easily noticed that. This room alone showed a severe contrast in his work—the type of contrast you wouldn’t see in most artists. He could easily recognize the consistent styles of artists like Vermeer, Courbet, Degas, and Van Gogh. But Picasso’s work was so… broad. Besides his most obvious abstract, his unclear style left Atsumu confused.

He still didn’t understand what this had to do with him though. 

“How does this…” Atsumu began hesitantly, “How does this have anything to do with my question?”

Sakusa rolled his eyes from over his mask.

“It has a lot to do with it, if you choose for it to,” he replied. “Like I said, Picasso painted Olga often. He has a variety of paintings of her.”

“Er, right?”

Sakusa sighed tiredly. “Follow me.”

Atsumu didn’t feel like listening to Sakusa and his stupid sighs, but his curiosity ultimately won him and he soon found himself following the taller boy through the maze of paintings.

It was like Sakusa knew the exhibit by heart—which had to be impossible. The Picasso’s Portraits exhibition was available at the museum for one week—it only had three more days until it closed. He wondered how many times Sakusa had come here in such a short time.

It made sense that Sakusa was at the museum often though—especially with his exhibit only a floor below them. But if he had an exhibit, why would he be spending all his time up here?

“Are you lost?” Atsumu asked skeptically when it seemed they were going in no certain direction.

Sakusa simply sent him a glare and continued walking.

One thing Atsumu did notice, was that every time they walked into a room with more than three people, Sakusa would turn and find a way around. Unless they were in the main hall—which was full of people and unavoidable—Sakusa seemed to avert away from people as if they were the plague. 

Atsumu wondered if that had anything to do with the surgical mask on his face.

It turned out Sakusa wasn’t lost—though Atsumu was half convinced they had ended up at their destination more by chance than memory—and soon they came to a stop in a smaller, cream painted room. 

Atsumu studied the works on each wall. They were mainly drawings—charcoal and pastel. Most of women, a few of gruff looking men, and one of three ballerinas dancing. Even in the sketches, the figures seemed disproportionate. 

He approached the drawing closest to him, which was of a woman sitting—but instead of having a head, she had a backwards G looking shape in it’s place. He wondered what kind of reaction the woman had when Picasso graced her with that drawing.

“It’s over here,” Sakusa said, pulling Atsumu from his observations.

Sakusa was standing near a group of paintings. One of them had the same blue tones as the ones from the last room, and Atsumu guessed Sakusa was showing him more of Picasso’s Blue Period work, but when Sakusa gestured to a painting, it wasn’t the one he thought it would be.

Atsumu stared at the portrait. It was realistic, with a woman’s features cleanly defined. But it was much less the realism, and much more of the quietness that streamed off the painting that struck Atsumu. The palette was simple, with the sitting woman wearing a layered bronze dress, and her brown hair pulled back into a bun. Her expression was bored, as if she was staring off into space—completely uncaring that her portrait was being painted. 

It wasn’t like Sakusa’s paintings—which were, yes, quiet, but more so lonely and empty. This painting portrayed the woman as the silent type—a woman of few words.

And despite neither of the portraits looking the same, he felt it was familiar. 

Just like this one, the portrait from before was also so… quiet.

“Olga,” he said, realizing.

Sakusa nodded.

“But it’s…”

Better? Tangible? Not purple and green?

Atsumu didn't know what word he should use to describe it.

“It’s just Olga,” Sakusa said with a half shrug. And he was right. Maybe that was the only way it could be described.

Even though the colors, shapes, and forms that were used were completely different, they both just seemed so… Olga.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Atsumu was still staring at it. “This is one is so clear! Why is the other one so…?”

“Abstract?” Sakusa supplied, facing the portrait again. “It’s Picasso’s thing.”

“But why?” Atsumu frowned. “If he can clearly express what he needs to like this, why go through the effort of changing it?”

“Is that what you think?” Sakusa sounded unimpressed.

Atsumu glared at him. “Oh, sorry. What was I supposed to think? That it made complete sense?”

“People don’t make sense,” Sakusa said irritably. “And appearances lie.”

Atsumu stared. This time it was at Sakusa, rather than the painting. 

“You realized it was Olga before I told you,” Sakusa continued, shifting slightly—maybe uncomfortable under Atsumu’s gaze. “That means you could sense the same thing from both paintings. It doesn’t matter how it’s expressed, does it? The messages are still the same.”

Atsumu knew that—he always had. The entire point of being an artist was to express ideas and thoughts through art forms. It’s one of the first things he was taught in school.

It doesn’t matter how it’s expressed. The messages were still the same. 

For some reason, it felt like he was understanding what that meant for the first time.

“Picasso,” Sakusa made a small wave around the room, “his art, his career. All of it shows how differently you can express things—how you can express people. It just shows that sometimes theres more to you than what people can see—more to you than your outward appearance.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Atsumu felt exposed. He hadn’t told Sakusa that much about his problem—he’d only brushed the surface. But the way Sakusa talked—it was as if he knew everything about Atsumu.

“When you asked me the question,” Sakusa shrugged lamely, “it sounded like you were having issues with expressing yourself. Since you probably wouldn’t have figured it out yourself, I thought I should show you that there isn’t always one answer.”

Atsumu blatantly decided to ignore the jab in Sakusa’s words, mainly because he was to caught up in everything else the boy had said. 

There isn’t always one answer. 

He stared at the painting of Olga. Even though this painting and the one from before looked nothing alike, they still were the same. 

He recalled Sakusa’s paintings. How, though there were barely any figures present, they all seemed so definite. So personal.

Suddenly he could see it a lot clearer than he had before. 

It didn’t necessarily have to be a drawing of him to be him. How hadn’t he realized this earlier? It all seemed so obvious to him now.

Create a Panting of How You See Yourself. 

Was this what Kurosu-san had meant? Is this why he’d said Atsumu needed to broaden his horizon?

Atsumu swallowed thickly. It was as if the storm in his chest had suddenly dissipated, leaving only a light drizzle in its place. 

“If you see a person as blue, then they’re blue. If you see an apple as a car, then it’s a car,” Atsumu found himself repeating words Kurosawa-san had told him ages ago. 

Sakusa watched Atsumu closely.

”I didn’t get it then,” Atsumu said.

But now it suddenly seemed to make sense. 

“This is oddly… nice of you,” Atsumu muttered, gaze flickering to Sakusa.

Sakusa’s scowl returned. “It’s not like I’m mean.”

“Not right now, maybe,” Atsumu couldn't even count on his fingers how many times he had received a scowl, glare, or insult from the boy—and he had only just met him! (Not that he was any better.)

“I just…” Sakusa looked like he was grappling for words, “I know what it’s like—to struggle, I mean. It sucks.”

Atsumu wasn’t sure how to believe him. How could a high schooler with a whole exhibit on himself know what it’s like? Had Sakusa even had the time to struggle before he was already winning? Atsumu would give anything to have an exhibit on himself. He’d give anything to just be seen like Sakusa was currently being seen.

But Sakusa hadn’t once mentioned his exhibit—nor was he looking at it right now. Atsumu wouldn’t have even known what kind of artist Sakusa was if he hadn’t read the list earlier. And he had a sneaking suspicion that had Atsumu not asked, Sakusa would have never admitted to having his own exhibit. 

Atsumu watched Sakusa for a moment. 

“Are you avoiding your exhibit?” It wasn’t the first time Sakusa looked surprised by Atsumu’s questions. 

The boy’s eyebrows shot up, and then he suddenly looked guilty and regretful, as if he had been caught red handed. 

The boy sighed and looked back at the portrait. 

“I told you earlier,” he said, shrugging noncommittally. “Blue Period.”

“Eh, so even those who have it all have issues, huh?” Atsumu mused.

It was the wrong thing to say, because Sakusa’s shoulders immediately hunched and he stepped away from Atsumu. 

“I don’t have it all,” Sakusa glared at him. 

“You have more than most,” Atsumu frowned at him.

“You make it sound like I didn’t work for it.”

Atsumu realized this as well.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he admitted, looking away. “It’s just… I would kill for an exhibit—a lot of people would. You can’t blame me for feeling a little bit jealous.”

“No,” Sakusa relented. “But it’s not always… everything.”

Atsumu couldn’t help but wonder what it was, then. 

He remembered Sakusa’s words about Blue Period. How he appreciated the work because it made him remember he’s not the only one.

What did that mean?

Not the only one who what?

If Picasso’s Blue Period represented uncertainty, what did that say about Sakusa?

Unlike the Blue Period, Sakusa’s art didn’t betray that he was having any problems. It didn’t betray any sort of misery. And he wasn’t sure how work that spoke so clearly could be lying.

He’s not trying to lie to anyone about his paintings. He doesn’t pretend to be great in his work all the time. Sakusa’s words resurfaced in Atsumu’s head.

Was Sakusa lying? 

If Atsumu considered it, though it didn’t radiate misery, he realized Sakusa’s work never seemed to feel positive. It was straightforward—blunt even, but it was also still, as if frozen in time.

He glanced at the dark-haired boy, who was staring at the painting of Olga with a blank look.

He really did look lonely.

Maybe he… but Atsumu shook his head, clearing the thought away. He barely even knew Sakusa, no way could he expect to be able to correctly analyze him like that!

Atsumu almost felt embarrassed for trying, and was suddenly glad Sakusa was distracted with the paintings.

Just as Atsumu tried to mull over something to say to break the silence, a voice from behind startled them both.

“Kiyo!”

They shared a confused look, before Sakusa snapped his head in the direction of the voice.

When Sakusa found whoever had called, his face turned slack, as if he were suddenly bored with the whole ordeal already.

“You can’t just run off like that! Your parents freaked out!” A boy with brown hair who looked to be about the same age as Sakusa ran up to the tall boy. “This is like the third day in a row.” The boy’s eyes fell on Atsumu and he sent Sakusa a curious look. “Who’s this?”

Sakusa seemed ready to answer, but he stopped and frowned at Atsumu.

It was then that Atsumu realized he had never given Sakusa his name.

“Miya Atsumu,” he nodded towards the brown-haired boy, gaze flickering to Sakusa.

“I met him earlier,” Sakusa said. He looked reluctant to go any further into it.

Atsumu didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t feel keen on having to admit that the only reason they knew each other was because they had fought over a painting.

“Komori Motoya,” the boy, Komori grinned. “I’m Sakusa’s cousin.”

Atsumu had to raise a brow at that. They seemed little to nothing alike, in both appearance and personality. Komori seemed like the type to have a constant, easy going smile on his face. Sakusa on the other hand, was more the type to have a never ending glare 24/7.

Komori turned back to Sakusa, a more urgent look surfacing. “Your parents want you to come back downstairs. There’s some kind of interview they're setting up in ten minutes.” 

Sakusa went ridged at the words.

“Didn’t they say—?”

“Yeah,” Komori looked both sheepish and upset for Sakusa. “But you’ll have to take it up with them later. Sorry, Kiyo.”

Sakusa sent a reluctant look towards Atsumu.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Atsumu shrugged. “Go do your famous-artist things, Kiyo.”

He grinned at the nickname.

Sakusa did not. 

“Do not call me that,” he demanded. “It’s already bad enough with him,” he glanced at Komori, who was smiling as if Sakusa had just complimented him.

“Hm,” Atsumu racked his brain for something else. “Omi, then.” Atsumu decided.  

“That’s even worse.” Sakusa grumbled.

“It’s perfect,” Komori laughed. “Glad to see you’re making friends, Kiyo!”

”He’s not my friend.”

But Komori was checking his watch, frowning. “We should hurry, Kiyo. I’ll leave you to, er, say your goodbyes—do not run away again!” Komori warned before sprinting towards the exit—startling several visitors in the process. “Nice meeting you, Atsumu!”

Atsumu waved after him.

“Seriously,” Sakusa was glaring at Atsumu. “I won’t acknowledge you if you start with the nicknames.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to carry the conversations from here on out, Omi,” Atsumu grinned. He could see why Komori would like using a nickname on the dark-haired boy. It received exactly the type of reaction you would want from someone like Sakusa. “Or would you prefer Omi-Omi? Omi-kun? Grouch, maybe? What about Sea Urchin?”

“Sea Urchin?” Sakusa looked scandalized.

“Cause they’re prickly like you.”

“I think I preferred it when you were just insulting me.”

“You don’t mean that!”

“I do,” Sakusa said firmly, eyes flickering to the clock on the wall. His face immediately turned cold after reading the time. “Komori is right. I have to go.”

Atsumu nodded, but neither of them moved.

“I’ll see you around?” Atsumu said, rocking back on his feet slightly. He felt shy for some reason. 

Sakusa looked at him skeptically. “I live in Tokyo.”

Atsumu shrugged, “I have my ways.”

The dark-haired boy looked unimpressed. “We’re not even friends. Why would you go all the way to Tokyo just to see me?”

“Just cause we’re not friends yet, doesn't mean we can’t be.”

“Right,” Sakusa replied doubtfully.

“Yer hopeless, Omi.”

“If you’re done insulting me,” Sakusa glared at Atsumu again. “I’ll be leaving.” 

He turned briskly, running his hands through his curly black hair. His strides were long and swift—as if with each step he was growing more and more impatient. 

Atsumu smiled.

“Good luck, Omi!” He called.

Sakusa didn’t turn, but Atsumu could have sworn he heard a low you too come from his direction. 

Atsumu watched the tall boy until he disappeared into the exit. Though the museum was still bustling with people, it felt oddly emptier without Sakusa’s presence next to him.

He turned to take one long look at the portrait of Olga before turning and leaving for the exit himself. 

He had an assignment to do. No point in waiting around anymore. 

On the way out, Atsumu tried not to look for Sakusa. 

He also tried not to feel too disappointed when he didn’t see him.

The walk home was just as cold as the walk to the museum had been, but this time Atsumu wasn’t as affected by it. It was like his body was buzzing with energy, keeping him warm and ready for action. Despite not knowing what exactly he wanted to paint yet, he felt relieved, almost like he’d already finished and turned the completed work in. 

When Atsumu got home, there was a savory smell wafting through the air. It meant either his mom or Osamu were preparing food.

Sure enough, when he entered the kitchen, Osamu was cooking alone. Suna must have gone home.

He wondered how long he had been gone for. 

Osamu’s eyes shot up immediately upon Atsumu’s entrance. 

“Yer back,” he said in lieu of hello, setting down his bowl full of some sort of batter.

“I’m back,” Atsumu nodded.

He pulled off his coat, and passed Osamu to their room. 

It didn’t take long for his twin to follow him in, watching Atsumu as if waiting for something to happen.

Atsumu merely tossed the coat onto Osamu’s bed—earning a scowl—and plopped down onto his chair, contemplating where to start.

They fell into a long silence.

After awhile, Osamu left to go finish preparing his food, but not without sending a wary eye to his brother.

Atsumu stared at where Osamu had been standing, before pulling out a piece of paper and scribbling a name on it. 

He knew he probably wouldn’t be forgetting this day anytime soon (if ever), but it didn’t hurt to put it in pen.

When he finished, he shoved the paper into his desk drawer.

His eyes then shifted to his sketchbook, which was laying haphazardly on the floor.

Atsumu scooped it up with one motion, and began his search for a pencil that wasn’t broken. It took him to climb up the shelf in their closet to find where Osamu had stashed all their supplies. Soon though, Atsumu had his computer open and full of references, and he was sketching away. 

The ideas were still vague, barely even there, but he still felt like he’d accomplished something.

It was another hour before Atsumu set down his sketchbook and closed his computer. 

Whatever Osamu was making, the smell was getting stronger, and Atsumu realized how little he had eaten that day. It was like he was finally hungry for the first time in weeks. 

When he re-entered the kitchen, Osamu was still alone, but this time he was pulling the food out of the oven (Atsumu could never tell what exactly Osamu was making until he was eating it.)

Osamu brushed his hands on his jeans after setting down the pan, turning to Atsumu.

“So?” He said, expectantly. 

Atsumu frowned.

His brother gave him an unimpressed look at Atsumu’s confusion. 

“Did it help, ‘Sumu?”

Atsumu didn’t even have to think about it.

“Yeah,” he said. “It did.”

He didn’t feel like explaining that it wasn’t the museum that had solved his issue, but rather a fed-up and moody artist who snapped at him for hogging a painting. 

But that was fine. 

For now, at least, he was happy to keep his interaction with Sakusa all to himself.