Work Text:
Yatora had paint in his hair.
Yotasuke scowled at it over his easel, paintbrush limp between his fingers, his sketchbook open on the floor beside him. He'd barely begun, only a rough splotch of color in the upper corner that felt right, but he'd looked up when Yatora had knocked over his water bottle, spending the next several minutes apologizing profusely to Shinda-san beside him as they mopped up the spill, and he'd noticed the blue in his hair and now he couldn't look away.
Infuriating, honestly. This was supposed to be a silent workshop, a casual atmosphere where they could work on whatever, and instead of doing any actual painting, all Yotasuke could think about was how stiff Yatora's hair was going to be if he let it dry like that, how hard it was going to be to get out.
If Yaguchi tried to run his fingers through his hair the way he liked to do when he got frustrated, his fingers would catch.
Probably how the paint got in there in the first place, to be honest.
What a mess he was. Yotasuke hated mess.
And yet, he didn't quite hate being around Yatora. In fact, they'd been spending more time together than ever recently. They'd even gone to the park the night before, because Yaguchi had gotten it into his head that he'd wanted to try painting the stars. It had been colder than expected, and they'd barely gotten their canvases up before it had begun to rain, a thin cold sheet of water that had drenched them both immediately and ruined their work.
Yatora had immediately peeled off his jacket, mouth running at top speed as he tripped over himself to apologize, promising to buy Yotasuke a new canvas, even as he wrapped the jacket around Yotasuke’s shoulders, leaving Yatora himself in nothing but a thin t-shirt. He hadn't seemed to notice, too busy racing around gathering their supplies, but Yotasuke had stood there for a moment, chilly fingers curled around the fabric of Yatora's jacket, noting the way the material of the shirt outlined the muscles in Yatora's shoulders.
Yotasuke realized abruptly that he was smiling at the memory and hastily ducked his head, ears warming as he considered who around him might have seen. But no, when he chanced a glance upwards no one was even looking in his direction, too focused on their own works.
Yatora was his friend, that much was clear. Plus, he'd said he was, and Yaguchi wouldn't lie to him to spare his feelings. He didn't do that, wasn't that kind of person.
Yotasuke had never had a friend like Yatora before. Especially not one who made him feel like this.
After all, he'd seen plenty of paint in plenty of people's hair, but he'd never wanted to cross the room and scrape his nails through the strands to comb it out.
Yatora probably wouldn't even think it was that weird if he went over there and did it – probably lean into him, bloom into the touch like a flower opening for the sun.
Yotasuke dabbed his brush onto his palette, painting nearly without realizing, thinking about sunlight and the way his blood warmed when Yaguchi beamed at him as he streaked the brush across the canvas.
He glanced up again, over the edge of his canvas, to where Yatora was now standing back several feet, squinting at his canvas with a familiar expression on his face – a determined sort of scowl, mid-process, figuring out color or perspective or maybe even changing his theme.
Whatever it was, Yotasuke was positive it would be something that would make him stop and look twice.
Yaguchi's art tended to do that these days. He'd gotten very good very quickly and more than once Yotasuke found himself stopping to look, eyes skipping over lines and planes and perspectives. He'd told Yaguchi that, once, and Yatora had promptly burst into tears, something that had made Yotasuke scurry backwards several steps in alarm.
I just, Yatora had said through a watery smile. I really admire your art, Yotasuke-kun. You’re so good and I— it just means a lot, ok?
Means a lot? A couple of words from Yotasuke meant that much to him? Ridiculous. And yet, he hadn’t been able to quite tamp down on the rush of warmth that had bloomed in his cheeks. He'd had to look away, unable to meet Yaguchi's eyes. They'd changed the subject, but Yotasuke hadn't forgotten.
He went back to his easel, dabbing his paintbrush in the golden yellow and swiping it through the middle of the canvas. He stared at the streak for a second, at the sheer starkness of the bright color against the canvas, before sighing. He stood up, putting down his palette and crossing the room, heading for Yatora. There were only a few people left in the room, working silently, heads bowed. The others had mostly stepped out for lunch or another class. Yotasuke doubted Yaguchi had even noticed he was hungry.
He stopped at the canvas and waited. After a few beats, Yatora looked up.
He smiled, that same delighted grin that always seemed to dance across his face the first time he laid eyes on Yotasuke – whenever they'd meet up to go to the art supply store, or they'd see each other on the train platform on the way someplace, or even when they'd meet up for lunch after a class they'd both just shared. He always seemed so happy to see Yotasuke, even when every bit of Yotasuke twisted, confused beneath his own skin, bewildered at the very thought of someone being that delighted to see him.
His heart had started responding, though – that was the truly terrifying part. Whenever Yaguchi would beam at him, would lift his arm and wave, nearly dropping his art supplies all over the sidewalk, Yotasuke's heart would beat just a little bit faster. His cheeks would warm and he would hunch his shoulders, hiding in his scarf and praying Yatora didn't ask why he was so pink.
"Yotasuke-kun!" Yatora said, lowering his paintbrush. "Are you taking a break?"
Yotasuke opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned. Slid his gaze left to look at Yatora's canvas.
And oh. Oh, it was lovely. It was soft, pinks and swirls of light – abstract, certainly, but it made him feel...
Well, it made him feel warm, of all things, warm and soft and the way he felt when Yatora wound his scarf back around his neck whenever it slipped, the callused skin of his fingers just missing the skin of Yotasuke's own throat. Like champagne bubbles racing up the side of a flute.
"Well?" Yaguchi asked. He shifted. "What do you think?"
Anxious for feedback, as if he still didn't think he was good enough. That Yotasuke would scowl and call him weak, call him useless, call him an impostor, tell him to get out, to pick a different passion.
"Like I said," he said shortly, unable to stop tracing the soft curves of the light (and when had Yaguchi mastered light so effortlessly?) with his eyes. "You just keep getting better."
"Really?" Yaguchi sounded touched, and without looking at him, Yotasuke knew exactly what expression would be on his face. He had a sketchbook at home, shoved beneath the corner of his desk, with that expression etched out on half a dozen pages. Sure enough, when he did finally look, it was like staring into the sun – wide eyes, lashes long against his cheek. The curve of his smile. The paint in his damn hair.
"You have paint in your hair," Yotasuke said, irritated by the entire conversation, and before he could stop himself, he reached up and slid his fingers into Yaguchi's hair.
Yatora went stock still, mouth still partly open, lips pink as his eyes got imperceptibly wider. Yotasuke ignored him, ignored the racing of his own heart, the tremble he could feel shuddering down his arm and pinched the dried paint between his fingers.
"You'll never get this out," he said, gently scraping at it with his fingernails. Even blunt as they were, they did the job, flecks of blue paint peeling away from Yaguchi's bleached hair, revealing the platinum color underneath.
"I..." Yaguchi croaked and oh, his voice was rough, lower than usual and hoarse, scraped raw on its way out of his throat.
Yotasuke was abruptly on fire.
He snapped his hand back, neck going scarlet and took a step back, then another.
"W-Wait, Yotasuke-kun – " Yatora began but Yotasuke was already turning away, desperate to get away and even more desperate to turn back.
He marched back to his own canvas, looking down at the few halfhearted streaks of color that arced across his work. He stared at it for a long moment, lips pressed together as he forced himself to ignore the heavy gaze of Yatora from across the room. Then he picked up a bottle of golden yellow paint and grabbed his canvas. He pulled it off the easel, putting it down on the floor before standing over it and squeezing the bottle. Paint oozed out, forming a thick dollop in the middle of the canvas. He grabbed his paintbrush and dropped to his knees, forcing the paint out over the canvas – over and over until the entire thing was covered.
The world fell away. All that existed for Yotasuke was the canvas in front of him and the images slowly coming together in his head. The blue was next, after the yellow, careful not to smear it together and make green. He wanted layers, not blends – speckles across the golden background. He wanted it to feel the way Yaguchi's rough voice made him feel, the explosion of heat and the blood pulsing just beneath his skin, rushing to pool in his cheeks, his neck, the hollow of his own chest.
You like him, whispered a tiny voice in the back of his mind. You really, really like him. Don't you, Yotasuke-kun?
He sat back on his heels, paint smeared on his hands, on his knees, his shirt. The sun was pooled in a different part of the floor now and the room was full again. The lunch rush must be over.
He was starving, he realized. But the first layer was done – now it could dry and he could eat. He looked up, neck stiff from where he'd bent over the canvas, and saw Yaguchi's easel was vacant. The canvas was set to dry, the paint supplies put away.
Disappointment, sharp, cutting just beneath his ribcage and he looked away, beginning to gather his things. He carefully picked up his canvas, replacing it on the easel.
It was... different. But perhaps it was the good kind of different. Yotasuke wondered if Yatora would like it. He wondered if he'd even show him. The thought sent a jolt of irritation through his chest and he scowled. This had all been so much easier when he hadn't really cared what the strange boy with the bright hair had thought of his work.
Yotasuke reached in his pocket, pulling out his phone to check the time.
Two unread messages. Both from Yatora.
He swallowed.
going for lunch - don't forget to eat!
And then, half an hour later –
finished lunch. want to go for a walk when you're done? (✧ω✧)
As he stared at his phone, wondering how quickly he could scarf down his bento, another message chimed.
you don't have to if you're busy working!!
Yotasuke's thumbs slid over the keyboard, hesitating over the characters. The last time they'd gone on a walk, Yatora's hand had bumped his no fewer than three separate times – Yotasuke had counted, half buried in his scarf, a tiny thrill shooting up his arm to his chest every time they'd brushed together.
Maybe this time, Yaguchi would reach out and take his hand.
sure he typed back, quickly before he could change his mind. Immediately Yaguchi sent him another emoji and Yotasuke imagined it, the two of them walking down the sidewalk, enjoying the way the sun painted the streets.
He took another look at his canvas, letting his eye go critical, ignoring the emotion tied to the piece and trying to study it objectively. Good color, clear direction… but perhaps lacking something. Maybe still a little unsure? Almost like... almost like it was afraid of itself, still. Uncomfortable showing its hand.
Yotasuke clicked his tongue and turned back to his paints, repacking them away and setting aside the brushes to be washed.
Perhaps he'd ask Yaguchi his opinion after all. Ask him what he felt when he saw it. What he thought it might be missing.
Ha. Wouldn't that be something, to turn around and find that Yaguchi had been holding the missing piece, all this time?
"Stupid," mumbled Yotasuke. He checked his phone one last time, then grabbed his bento and walked straight out of the room, leaving the canvas behind him to dry on the easel without looking back.