Work Text:
“Stay still,” Yotasuke demands, huffing and turning his gaze back to his canvas. In front of him, Yatora sits on an old stool, his hands gripping the edge of it in between his spread legs. His expression is cocky, amused if anything, as he allows Yotasuke to paint him.
“But Yotasuke-kun,” he whines in complaint, his lower lip jutting out in a pout, “my back hurts from being in the same position the whole time.”
Yotasuke shrugs, reaching for the viridian green color in order to paint Yatora’s platinum hair. “You’re the one who proposed this, so don’t be annoying now.”
“Can you blame me, though? I’m curious to see how you see me, Yotasuke-kun.” Yatora’s smile is big and toothy, and he even takes a second to send a wink Yotasuke’s way, chuckling lightly when the shorter boy flushes and turns his attention away from him almost instantly. “Also, am I close enough to you? For the painting, I mean. Do you need me closer?”
Yotasuke shakes his head, his brushstrokes confident and steady, unwavering. He can feel Yatora’s eyes on him; the way they scrutinize him and the way he paints, the way he holds his brush, the way a frown almost unnoticeably makes a home on his lips. Yotasuke can feel this and more. His heart is beating as if he had never truly been alive until this very moment, and Yotasuke can’t do this.
It’s been a few weeks since he told Yatora he wanted to learn to love art again. Ever since then, the two of them have been undeniably getting closer, and it scares him. Whether it be because Yatora suddenly calls him in the middle of the night, telling him to come out because they have to see the world at dawn, or because he randomly texts Yotasuke pictures of his doodles and asks him to give them names—yes, names—the truth is that Yatora has become a constant in Yotasuke’s life, and with him also comes art.
Doodling something stupid and sending it to Yatora in response to his own; texting him whenever he has a fight with his mother simply because it helps him distract himself, it helps him forget—and being told to put his feelings into a sketch. Bad sketches, full of short, messy lines and too many dark colors.
Being told they’re beautiful, and feeling himself cracking a smile.
And now, in this case, painting a portrait of Yatora because he insisted he wanted to see it. Without any guidelines, without any established palette or style; he wanted Yotasuke to have fun with it, use all the colors he wanted, and go crazy with the composition.
“You’re not having fun, are you?” Yatora’s voice startles Yotasuke out of his thoughts and he blinks at him, confusion etched on his features.
There’s a comfortable silence in the room, adding to the warmth and slight domesticity of it all. Yatora snorts and stands up, making a beeline toward Yotasuke and plainly disregarding the complaints that immediately start to escape from his dry lips. Once he’s standing in front of the shorter boy, Yatora levels him with a pointed look and Yotasuke’s resolve breaks.
“I—” he swallows past the lump in his throat, directing his gaze to his socks. He wiggles his toes as the cold wave of realization hits him and his voice is weak when he admits, timid, “I’m not.” It's an ashamed confession, a dashed hope. “I’m sorry.”
Almost instantly, a grounding voice, “Don’t apologize.”
And then, Yatora’s slender fingers graze his own. He gently takes the brush from his hand and chooses a random color—vermilion—before painting a few brushstrokes in random places. His lips, his clothes—which are definitely white—and part of the background. Then, he gives the brush back to Yotasuke and smiles.
“Do you want to finish this painting together, Yotasuke-kun?”
“We have to let it dry for a few days before we can continue,” Yotasuke says matter-of-factly, a hand on his hip as he stares at their work.
It’s a mess, truly, full of saturated colors with very light grey values and therefore little to no color harmony, but it’s… satisfying, somehow. It doesn’t look bad, but more like a fight between two opposites: Yotasuke’s color palette has been carefully chosen to accompany Yatora’s bold choices and, in a way, he thinks it fits their personalities, too.
One of them isn’t afraid of thinking outside the box, isn’t afraid to make a painting that isn’t perfect—is having fun, is loud, and has passion running through his blood. On the other side, the other sticks to what he has learned. Tries his best to make it look worthy enough, striving for a perfection that doesn’t exist, and is always quiet. He looks way too deeply into everything, thus missing the beauty of simplicity.
“It looks great, huh?”
Yotasuke and Yatora, two extremes that, at first sight, won’t mix. But with some blending and using the right tools, with the right words, the right touches, they might become the greatest piece of all time.
The corners of Yotasuke’s lips twitch, tilting upward. “You look like some kind of alien, though, with all those bright colors you added.”
Yatora’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, their blue so deep yet so gentle and comforting that Yotasuke thinks maybe drowning in their ocean wouldn’t be too bad of a thing. “Guess that’s how I see myself, then.” He turns to Yotasuke, tilting his head to the side—looking much like a puppy—and inquiring, “But do you see me as someone gentle, Yotasuke-kun?”
The question catches him off-guard and Yotasuke is sure it shows in his face, for Yatora’s grin only widens and he arches a brow, anticipatory. He looks smug and, hell, so freaking beautiful that Yotasuke wouldn’t mind starting a new painting of him right now in this pose.
“W-What?”
“I mean, your colors—they’re gentle and somewhat cold. Even a little bit dull, honestly,” Yatora says, not a single of his observations wrong. He scratches his neck. “I was just wondering if that’s how you see me.”
No, Yotasuke wants to say. The words scratch the walls of his throat, aching for freedom. I see you as someone full of vibrancy in a world made out of monochromatic colors. I see you as a bright blue, the kind that blankets Shibuya in the mornings, the kind that you so dearly love.
But instead, and because Yotasuke has never been too good at expressing or dealing with his emotions at all, the only thing he can manage in response is a choked-up sound—embarrassingly similar to a whine—and a twitch of his lips before he fixes his gaze on the floor again, unable, unwilling to see Yatora’s disappointment.
He wants to scream his truth, wants to paint it so clearly that everyone will overlook it, but he’s stuck in the same way he always has been, is, and will continue to be. Because Yotasuke doesn’t know how to be honest with himself, because he’s his own worst enemy, because he doesn’t know how to escape the claws of his emptiness. Always settling for something boring, always fearing he will fall if he tries to step out of his normal.
And, worse of all—Yotasuke doesn’t know how to, doesn’t think he’d be able to do Yatora justice. He wants to be loyal to the artsy that he carries, and yet, no matter how perfectioned his skill is, he doesn’t think he could ever do it.
His hands were made to paint, after all, but not to create art.
Gentle and strong arms hesitantly wrap around Yotasuke’s frame, the touch oozing with affection even through the layers of clothes. For a beat, it feels as if the world has stopped and Yotasuke can allow himself to breathe in the scent of Yatora’s cologne, bask in the warmth of his touch.
“So you don’t.”
Yotasuke’s eyelashes flutter as he peers up at Yatora, his eyes wide with surprise. He feels floaty, as if this was a dream and not reality because Yatora is hugging him—no, he’s embracing him, and Yotasuke is letting him. It feels nice, comforting; he doesn’t want the moment to end.
“What?” he asks in a small whisper of a voice. He knows the answer; is aware that Yatora can read him like an open book sometimes, even if Yotasuke tries his best to keep his nonchalant front up.
“If you saw me that way, then you would’ve had no trouble in saying it to me, Yotasuke-kun. You’re blunt like that.” Yatora smiles, this time fondly, his cheeks blooming a pretty red. “But you didn’t say anything, and you have this conflicted look on your face, so I’m assuming I’m wrong. I do hope you see me differently, anyway; maybe a bit closer to the way I see you.”
That piques Yotasuke’s interest, and he finds himself resting his chin against Yatora’s chest so that he can look at him and search his face with his eyes. Yatora looks timid, something Yotasuke isn’t used to, but there’s happiness living in his irises, wild and free and raw.
Yotasuke feels as if his heart is gonna burst at the sight of Yatora, the grounding feeling of his body, the hidden connotation of his words that Yotasuke understands, but that wants to hear. “And how’s that? How do you see me, Yaguchi-san?”
The sun is setting outside, colorful hues of orange bleeding into the studio through the open window and dying everything with their beauty—the most precious colors of life, an explosion of emotions that would make even the loneliest person in the world feel welcome.
“Like art. You, in my eyes, are the truest form of art.”
And Yotasuke feels welcome. Oh, he feels so welcome in Yatora’s arms, so human for once as the blond’s words make their way toward his wilting heart and bring it back to life, blooming a garden full of roses there.
He can’t help it. The silence bleeds into his skin, creates a kind of tension that Yotasuke has never felt before, and he knows it’s now or never.
It’s now or never.
Wrapping his arms around Yatora’s waist, Yotasuke stands on his tiptoes and leans in closer to Yatora, letting go of a breath when their eyes meet halfway through. It’s his first kiss. He has no idea of what to do and it would be awkward if he backed away now—plus, he really, really wants it to be Yatora.
So he presses his lips a bit roughly against his, then panics and is about to completely pull away, maybe run and hide for the rest of his life, when Yatora’s grip on him tightens and he presses a softer kiss to his lips.
He’s patient with Yotasuke, letting him set the pace, and soon enough Yotasuke finds himself pressed against a wall and panting heavily against Yatora’s spit-slick lips whenever they take a moment to breathe.
It’s a slide of mouths full of yearning and fondness. Something that feels so real, so good, so honest, that Yotasuke can’t help but think this is another form of art.
Kissing Yatora, having him close, touching him without restraints or any fears.
“You know, back in new year’s, when I told you I liked you—” Yatora whispers the words gently against his lips as he rubs their noses together, “—I meant it. I like you, Yotasuke-kun. I really do.”
Yotasuke hums, worrying his lower lip between his teeth and teasing, “Do you hate me so much that it makes you sick, too?”
Yatora’s face falls, his eyes widening, and he rushes through his words as he tries to explain. He looks scared, for once. Regretful in a way. “I didn’t—I meant it like—”
“I know.” Yotasuke captures his lower lip between his and pulls at it before resting his forehead against Yatora’s. There’s the hint of a smile in his voice when he repeats, for good measure, “I know.”
He knows. Yotasuke also hated Yatora so much that it made him sick, after all. Looking at it now, maybe he knew all along; maybe Yotasuke knew, from the very first moment his eyes met Yatora’s, that this guy would turn his whole world upside down.
And that he would let him.