Work Text:
There are smears of charcoal up his forearms, between his fingers. Black crescents under his fingernails. If he could see his face right now, it’d probably look like he just descended through a chimney. The crisp white of his school shirt is now clouded in various shades of gray, possibly forever. He’d be upset about ruining it, but there’s no room in his heart to be upset. He’s only relieved, all the determination unwinding out of him as he sits back. Pleasantly satisfied, a weary grin on his face. The clock on his bedroom wall says it’s two in the morning. He holds out his finished assignment, admiring it, unable to suppress a proud sigh.
It looks great. Anyone would be able to tell that he had poured blood, sweat and tears into getting this project done. He feels giddy, thinking about what it’ll be like when he turns it in. Will tomorrow be the day he finally earns Uzui-sensei’s approval? Perhaps even Uzui-sensei’s praise?
After so many months of trying for it, it seems that he is chasing after the impossible. He’s pretty sure at this point that no amount of effort is enough for Uzui-sensei. He’s been shot down again and again, his work has been labeled arbitrary and ill-conceived more times than he can count. He’s shed a lifetime of frustrated tears in the name of earning a good grade in art class. It’s the only class he just can’t seem to do well in. And Uzui-sensei keeps telling him he needs him to try harder, to do better, to put more heart into it.
Well this time, Zenitsu has done his utmost. His absolute best. He literally cannot try any harder at this than he already has. He’s gone through a whole box of charcoal sticks and a whole pad of expensive charcoal paper. The cost of the materials have burned an irreparable hole in his wallet.
Now that he’s finally stopped to breathe, he can feel a miserable ache in his dominant hand. Worse is the stiff crick in his neck, a byproduct of curling over his desk all night long.
He assesses his work for a long time. Then he sets it down, getting up to stretch, letting out a tired groan. Rubbing at his eyes. It’s hours past his usual bedtime, and he can already tell that it’s going to be hard to stay alert at school tomorrow.
It takes him another half hour to scrub the charcoal off of his skin in the bathroom. The opaque water seems as if it’ll never run clear. But eventually it does, and by the time he’s getting into his pajamas, it’s almost three o’clock.
Before he goes to sleep, he sprays his project with fixing spray— and in retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to do that in the enclosed space of his bedroom. The fumes are making his head spin, and he feels a little hallucinatory as he shuts off the light and crawls into bed.
Praise from Uzui-sensei… is it crazy to anticipate it? Maybe. But Zenitsu is sleepy enough to indulge the fantasy of it. He’s done his best to create the possibility of it happening. It’s in god’s hands now. Or Buddha’s hands. The hands of whoever is running the show. He knows it’s possible to earn Uzui-sensei’s favor, because it seems that every kid in his class has managed to do it. Every kid besides himself.
Well tomorrow, that’ll change. He’s sure of it.
***
“The anatomy is completely off,” Uzui frowns. “And you went way too heavy on the shadows. Where are the highlights? Didn’t I tell you to be less sparing with the highlights?”
Zenitsu stands there, mouth agape. It feels as if the world is collapsing around him. He should’ve expected this.
“Your worst crime is that these are totally flat. You were supposed to render ten realistic hands. Three dimensional. If I wanted to see poorly drawn manga I would’ve agreed to mentor the otaku club.” Uzui slides the paper back across the desk. “You need to start over. From scratch.”
Zenitsu feels his throat tighten. He feels his exhausted, sleepless eyes begin to sting with tears.
“But… it’s due tomorrow! If I start over now, I’ll never finish in time!” he protests, voice strained.
“Well, that’s your problem, not mine,” Uzui shrugs. He leans back in his desk chair, folding his hands behind his head. Snapping his gum. Zenitsu grits his teeth and clenches his fists. He cannot punch a teacher in the face, no matter how desperately he wants to.
“At least give me an extension!” he pleads. “I can’t possibly redo the whole thing in one night!”
He watches Uzui turn it over in his mind. The decider of Zenitsu’s academic fate could not look more blasé about the matter if he tried.
“Uzui-sensei… please. ”
“Hmm… how about this.” Uzui sits forward, leaning over his desk. “Come back to me at the end of the day. We can work on it together.”
“Really?” Zenitsu brightens, allowing himself to be partially hopeful.
“Yes. Don’t be late, though. I hate waiting around.”
“I won’t be!” Zenitsu promises. “Thank you, sensei!” he gathers his backpack, heading for the door. The bell goes off out in the hallway, a shrill ring that signals the end of lunch period.
The drawing gets left behind. He has no attachments to it now. It’s unsatisfactory, which is more than enough for him to wish it didn’t exist at all. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t create something better with the aid of some one-on-one help.
***
Zenitsu all but sprints down the hall, checking his watch, feeling his stomach flip with anxiety. He’s ten minutes late, and his one instruction was specifically not to be late. But Tanjirou had been showing him some delightful videos of dogs skateboarding, and then they had fallen down the rabbit hole of animal skateboarding content. When Zenitsu checked the time, he had fled the computer lab without giving Tanjirou so much as a goodbye.
He prays Uzui-sensei won’t be too mad, racing forward as fast as possible, weaving around startled students. He bursts into the art room and slams the door behind himself.
“Sorry I’m late!” he shouts, trying to catch his breath. Uzui gives him a look so glaring it could melt polar ice caps.
“I specifically told you to be on time,” Uzui grumbles. “I’m already doing you a favor.”
“Yes, I know, I’m sorry,” Zenitsu pants. He feels small under Uzui’s oppressive glowering.
“Fine,” Uzui mutters after a moment. “Take a seat.”
Zenitsu nods, heading over to the spot he usually takes, right by the windows. The light outside is softer at this time of day, a prelude to a sunset. It’s easy on the eyes, and he’s glad for it. His senses feel overworked from such a long day.
He settles into his stool, unpacking his supplies from his backpack, spreading them over the work table, arranging them neatly. Uzui sits down beside him, scraping his stool closer.
“Before you start sketching, let’s begin with an exercise,” Uzui tells him. “First, close your eyes.”
“Okay…” Zenitsu does as he’s told.
“Good. Hold your hands out. Palms facing up.”
Zenitsu’s brow furrows. He wonders where this is going… Uzui-sensei has always been weird. Surely it’ll make sense in a minute.
He feels fingers intertwining with his own. His eyes fly open.
“W-Why are you holding my hand?!” he yelps, trying to draw his hand away— but he can’t, Uzui’s grip is effortlessly firm.
“Will you relax? I’m trying to teach you something. Now close your eyes.” He gives a slight squeeze to Zenitsu’s hand. Zenitsu scowls, but he obeys nonetheless, letting his eyes fall closed once more.
“The main issue with your work was that it looked flat. You’ve been drawing what you see instead of truly understanding the mechanics of what you’re drawing.”
Zenitsu frowns, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I want you to notice the shape of my hand,” Uzui continues. “Think about the fact that you’re holding something with volume. Think about form. Something that has weight and takes up space.”
Form… Zenitsu ponders this for a second. He thinks about the heft of Uzui’s hand in his own. The tangle of their fingers together. The small pocket of heat trapped between their palms. His own hand is slightly clammy, and that’s something he tries not to think about. Instead he uses his free hand to do some examining. Running his fingers over Uzui’s knuckles. Observing, just like he’s been instructed to do.
Uzui-sensei’s fingertips are a little rough. It makes sense, he works with his hands. The places where a brush or pencil would rest in his grip are more callused than others. There’s the smooth surface of his nails– he always has them painted glossy and garish colors. Zenitsu has heard of students placing bets on what color they think might be chosen next. People must be really bored, placing bets on things like that.
Zenitsu unlaces their fingers, turning Uzui’s hand over, tracing the creases of his palm. Memorizing the shape. And strangely, he’s noticing things he usually overlooks, when his eyes are open and he’s trying to translate his own hand into a realistic image. Proportion takes on a new definition, when he’s feeling instead of seeing. He opens his eyes, adjusting to the fluorescent lighting, letting go of Uzui’s hand.
“Well, what did you notice?” Uzui asks.
“Your hand is warm,” Zenitsu admits, not really thinking about his answer. “Kind of rough, but only at the fingertips. The back of your hand is weirdly soft. It’s nice.”
“I meant what did you notice about form? ,” Uzui says, exasperation creeping into his tone.
“Oh,” Zenitsu chuckles, eyes diverting. He shifts, trying to fend off his own awkward energy. He grants himself some forgiveness– it’s been a tiring day.
“I guess I noticed the way everything is connected. When you bend certain fingers, other ones bend automatically. And the tip of your thumb just barely reaches the base of your other fingers… length-wise…” he rambles. “I think I understand what you meant about how I’ve been looking at it as something flat.”
“Alright, I’ll accept that answer. I want you to take another stab at the assignment, and apply what you’ve observed,” Uzui instructs, getting up.
“You’re not going to sit here with me?”
“I’ll come check on your progress. I have stuff to grade. If you have a question, you can let me know,” Uzui supplies, going over to sit behind his desk.
Zenitsu sighs, unsure why he assumed that Uzui-sensei would stay by his side and oversee his process. He flips to an empty page in his sketchpad, lamenting the fact that he had run out of charcoal paper the night before. This will have to do. Uzui will probably make him throw away the first five attempts anyway. So in a certain sense, it’s a good thing he’s using up cheaper paper.
He spends a little while trying to pose his hand in a way that won’t be too challenging to replicate as a drawing. Then he gets to work. The room is silent save for the scratch of charcoal on paper, and the sporadic clacking of Uzui’s laptop keyboard. Zenitsu gets lost in his efforts, letting his concern over time constraints fade away into the background of his mind. He gets so absorbed in it that he flinches when Uzui is suddenly leaning over his shoulder.
“Correct that pinky, it shouldn’t be that long,” Uzui tells him. Zenitsu nods, promptly erasing as best as he can. But charcoal never really erases. It just sort of… migrates around the paper.
“Start the drawing over. You’ll never get those marks off the paper,” Uzui tells him, before heading off and leaving him to fend for himself.
Every so often, Zenitsu will start to believe he’s getting the hang of things. That he’s improving, making the suggested changes and producing something better each time. But it’s foolish to allow himself to hope, because every time Uzui comes around, Zenitsu gets told he needs to redo what he has done from the very beginning. When he checks the time, he’s flummoxed to find that an hour and a half has passed, and he still has nothing to show for it. Nothing beyond the sea of balled-up, paper failures that he finds himself swimming in. At one point, Uzui comes to stand over his shoulder, watching and saying nothing. It makes Zenitsu want to shield his work with his forearm, to hide it away from such a voyeuristic stare. And Uzui keeps reaching to take his charcoal from him, demonstrating adjustments. Pointing out flaws. Circling around like a vulture.
Another half hour passes. Zenitsu pauses to stare out the window. The sky has shifted into a murky mauve color, and underwhelming sunset if he’s ever seen one. He braces his cheek against his palm, breathing a dejected sigh. At this rate, he’ll barely get one hand fully rendered– let alone all ten.
“You should sit in my lap while you sketch,” Uzui casually suggests from across the room.
“W-What?! Why?!” Zenitsu balks, sitting upright, whirling to face him. Uzui glances up from his laptop.
“So I can puppet your useless arms around. And correct your mistakes as you make them. I keep having to bend over to help you out, and it’s getting annoying.”
“That makes no sense! Your teaching methods are absurd! And I’m not getting anywhere with your help!” Zenitsu huffs.
“Fine then. If you don’t want my guidance, I’ll spare both of us the headache and leave right now,” Uzui shrugs, shutting his laptop. He tucks it away in his crossbody bag, collecting his things, slotting paperwork away in the drawers of his desk. Zenitsu watches him, stunned. Only blinking out of the stupor when Uzui crosses the room to go.
“Wait!” Zenitsu calls.
“For what? More of your whining?” Uzui scoffs. “Have fun failing my class,” he winks, turning away to open the door.
Zenitsu jumps from his seat, racing over.
“No! I didn’t mean it!” he cries, grasping the sleeve of Uzui’s sweater. Uzui stops, looking back at him quizzically.
“I don’t want to fail!” Zenitsu insists. “I don’t want to be a failure… so please don’t go…”
Uzui takes in the sight of those doe-like eyes gazing up at him. The desperation in Zenitsu’s charcoal-streaked facial expression.
“Fine,” he relents. He crosses back over to his desk, setting his bag down. Sitting back in his chair. “Show me you’re serious, then.”
Zenitsu hesitates, standing in place for a moment. Then he goes to gather up his supplies. Approaching nervously. He stops a few feet away from Uzui’s desk, holding his blending tortillons tight in his fist. Then he comes over the rest of the way, eyes downcast. Climbing into Uzui’s lap and settling there. Spreading out his work materials in front of him. He holds himself rigidly, fidgeting, unable to get comfortable. Uzui wraps an arm around his middle, securing him close. It only seems to make him more restless.
Zenitsu stares down at his closed sketchpad. His chest feels fluttery, his pulse threatening to dash away and leave him for dead. He drums his fingers on the desk, biting the inside of his cheek. Trying not to think about things like Uzui-sensei’s body heat. Or the strong arm locked tightly around him. Or the subtle scent of cologne invading his senses and turning him woozy.
“Well, are you going to draw something? Or are you just going to sit there?” Uzui asks. Zenitsu startles from the sound of it, torn from his thoughts.
“Ah, y-yeah… sorry,” he mutters, flipping his sketchpad open. He wrestles his focus back to the task at hand. Drawing. Art. Right…
He gets back to work, feeling intensely aware of the fact that Uzui is watching. He tries to ignore it, and he almost manages to. But every time he starts to forget that there are eyes on his ongoing effort, Uzui will interject with a suggestion. Murmured tips and tricks. The gentle adjustment of the hand Zenitsu is using as reference. Placing it at a better angle. Showing him how to lay down the blacker shadows, how to utilize the tortillon correctly. Uzui’s hand folding over his own, guiding the circular motion. It’s supposed to be educational, yet Zenitsu finds he cannot retain anything he is being taught. He keeps thinking about the tone of Uzui’s instructions. The quiet, patient cadence of his voice.
Zenitsu hunches over his project, like he always does when he’s making a genuine effort to focus. Doing so also gives him the advantage of feeling as if what he is doing is hidden. Less scrutiny, more privacy. He almost feels cross-eyed as he continues drawing. The crick in his neck returns, reminding him of the endless night he had spent slaving over this stupid assignment., He rubs at the back of his neck, trying to ease the stress, before returning to his chore.
Uzui’s eyes focus squarely on the smudge of charcoal left behind on Zenitsu’s nape. He studies the blonde baby hairs above it. Cute yellow curlicues that peak out from under his regular hair. He wants to touch it, find out if it’s as wispy as it looks. His habit of visually analyzing everything and anything was something he could never shake, after earning his BFA. Every course had drilled that practice into his head. He wouldn’t be able to undo his endlessly critical eye even if he tried. Even now, he finds himself thinking about how he has the very same problem that Zenitsu is currently displaying, of hunching over his own projects for hours. He’s ruined his own back doing that, and it irks him to see a student do the same. Especially when Zenitsu reaches back for the second time to absently rub his neck, dusty fingers leaving behind another grayish mark on his skin.
Uzui brushes his fingers over that mark. Zenitsu jumps, charcoal snapping in his hand. He laments for all of five seconds, before getting utterly distracted by Uzui’s touch. He can feel a thumb working gently over the aching tendons of his neck. Uzui’s fingertips pressing circles, chasing the soreness away. He sighs contentedly, shoulders slumping, eyes fluttering closed.
Uzui drags his knuckles over the ridges of Zenitsu’s spine, up and down, drawing a shudder out of him. Carefully unwinding his tension. Smiling as Zenitsu slowly melts in his arms.
“Feels good?” Uzui asks softly.
“Mmhmm…” Zenitsu breathes.
“You need to be sitting up straight when you work,” Uzui chides.
“Okay…” Zenitsu answers distantly. It’s clear he didn’t hear the advice at all. He’s too busy enjoying himself. Sighing again when Uzui’s fingers dip underneath his shirt collar, working at the edges of the ache. Magicking all the stress out of him for another quiet minute.
“Alright, that’s enough of that,” Uzui announces, removing his hand. “Back to work.”
Zenitsu makes a small noise of disappointment. That entire thing felt like it had lasted for thirty seconds. It’s taking longer for him to reenter reality than it did for him to leave it in the first place. He blinks down at his progress, upset to find that he still has more than halfway to go. He selects a fresh piece of charcoal from his pack, pushing aside the one that he had broken in half.
He goes right back to slouching with that same terrible posture. Uzui rolls his eyes, bracing a hand over Zenitsu’s chest, forcing him to sit upright.
“I told you not to slouch,” he says sternly.
“I forgot!” Zenitsu insists.
“Yeah. You were off in LaLa Land,” Uzui remarks, pulling Zenitsu a little closer. Resting his chin on Zenitsu’s shoulder, assessing his artwork.
“Well, well, looks like you’re actually drawing decently,” he comments.
“Am I really?” Zenitsu chirps. His heartbeat picks up speed, pounding against the hand Uzui has splayed over his chest.
“Don’t get cocky about it,” Uzui warns. “You have more to do. Keep going.”
“Right.” Zenitsu says, a twinge of fresh motivation in his voice. Uzui pulls back, letting him work. Occasionally offering corrections, a helpful tip here and there– but at this point, Zenitsu is doing things mostly on his own. Diligent and wordless as the time passes by. He begins losing steam after another hour. He slows considerably, stopping and starting, over and over. He slumps, head dipping forward. Drawing hand going slack, the charcoal stick rolling out of his grip and onto the desk. His breathing turns drawn-out and lazy.
“Zenitsu-kun…” Uzui says gently. Zenitsu doesn’t respond, so he takes the opportunity to touch those baby hairs at his nape. Discovering that they are as wispy as they appeae to be. Silky.
“What are you dreaming about, hmm? Expensive sweets? Cheerleaders?” Uzui muses aloud. Zenitsu remains fast asleep.
Uzui manages to grant him about ten minutes of rest, but then he finds himself getting bored. He reaches up, taking blonde locks between his fingers. Giving Zenitsu’s hair a little tug.
“Zeniiiitsuuuu, wake up,” he sings, tugging until he feels Zenitsu start to stir.
“Huh? What?” Zenitsu mutters, shifting to rub at his eyes.
“You fell asleep.”
“Oh…” Zenitsu yawns. “Sorry… I didn’t sleep much last night. I was working on that thing I showed to you during lunch,” he mumbles.
“I see. You’re a very hardworking boy,” Uzui smiles, ruffling his hair. Zenitsu moves away from him, going tense. The tips of his ears have turned pink. Uzui immediately grapples with the impulse to nip at them. He banishes that desire from his mind, instead he retrieves the charcoal, placing it back in Zenitsu’s hand.
“You’re almost finished, Zenitsu,” he points out. “Just some cleanup and refinement left.”
Zenitsu looks down at his work. Sure enough, it’s mostly finished. He is seized with a sudden excitement to get this stupid project over with as fast as possible. He goes back in, darkening his shadows, careful to avoid the bright white highlights that Uzui-sensei had helped him create. Using a blender to soften some midtones out. Blowing the dust off the page to keep it from spreading. Blending a little more. He pauses, looking the whole thing over for what feels like the millionth time.
“I think it’s finished…” he announces, holding it out for the both of them to see. Hoping to god that Uzui-sensei will agree, because he isn’t sure he can put any more effort into this thing.
Uzui looks it over, scanning for anything else that could be changed or reworked.
“I think so too,” he finally says. “It looks complete.”
Zenitsu breathes a sigh of relief. He wipes the sweat from his brow, pushing out of Uzui’s lap to get up and stretch.
“Can I leave it in the back for tomorrow?” he asks wearily. Uzui nods, handing it over. He watches Zenitsu stroll to the other side of the room, where he stops to stare at the picture one last time. A small smile appears on his face, as he sets it down on top of the drying rack. A terrible place to put it. Uzui will have to move it later.
Zenitsu puts away his things, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Aren’t you coming downstairs too?” he asks Uzui.
“No, I still have grading to do.”
“Oh, okay. Well… Thank you for the help.” Zenitsu grins, waving a smudgy hand as he steps out the door. “See you tomorrow, sensei!”
He closes the door behind himself, a pep in his step as he walks down the empty hall. For once, he has a good feeling about art class tomorrow. And he’s excited to finally, get a good night’s sleep.
***
Critique goes beautifully, everyone in the class gives him nothing but positive feedback. The only negative comment had come from someone who said that the hands turned out looking girly, but that they couldn’t be girls hands, because no girl would sit to be a model for him . That had sent a few titters through the room. Zenitsu had to bite his tongue and try very hard not to act on his urge to get into a verbal altercation. He had to remind himself that actually, the rest of it had gone very well, besides for that one remark. The drawings had been modeled off of his own hand, and so what if they looked girly? Girly hands are excellent! All in all, he could put a positive spin on it. And so he had left that class period feeling confident. He knew he did well, even Uzui-sensei insinuated it! And Uzui-sensei has never, ever hinted that he has done well on anything , up until this project. He’s sure to get good marks. And the anticipation of getting his grade back has him feeling light and assured for the rest of the day.
It’s another few days before they get their score sheets returned. Uzui-sensei hands them out one by one, going down the rows of worktables. Zenitsu sees his peers light up as they look over their scores. By the time sensei gets to him, he’s practically vibrating in his seat with eager impatience. Uzui-sensei holds out the folded sheet with a neutral face, delivering it just like always does. Zenitsu snatches it up, nearly tearing the paper as he unfolds it.
His jaw drops when he sees the number.
A glaring ugly, bright-red 68% is scrawled and circled in the top margin.
Is this even his score? Surely this must be a mistake! His eyes scan the page, and sure enough, his name is right there. Along with a scathing review in each commentary section. Apparently his shading was wonky, and the light source was unclear. His anatomy had been ‘lacking vitality’, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. There are actually paragraphs of critique here. He stares at the paper hotly, reading none of the words. Feeling mocked by Uzui-sensei’s perfect, swirling handwriting.
The sound of the bell cuts through his trance. The class period is over. Everyone begins packing up and filing out. Uzui-sensei has gone back to his desk. He’s shuffling sheafs of papers around. Zenitsu stalks over.
“What is this?!” he cries, flapping his score sheet in the air.
“Your grade,” Uzui replies, nonchalant as he staples things together.
“How is this my grade?! You oversaw my whole project!” Zenitsu shrieks. Uzui looks up from what he’s doing, wearing a hardline expression.
“Agatsuma. You will not speak in that tone with me. I am your teacher, ” Uzui reminds him, voice unwavering and authoritative. Zenitsu shrinks back.
“I worked so hard…” he whimpers. “Why? Everyone else in the class got good marks…”
“I don’t know,” Uzui shrugs. “Maybe you needed to work harder.”
Work harder?! Zenitsu wants to tear his own hair out at the sound of that! He cannot possibly work any harder. He had done his absolute best! There is no going up from here!
“Maybe you need a little more one-on-one help,” Uzui suggests. And he gives a smile that is so full of mirth, Zenitsu feels himself on the edge of exploding into animalistic rage.
“I’m usually available once classes are over for the day. Feel free to reach out and arrange something with me,” Uzui offers. He sits back in chair, and his smile takes on an infuriating slant. “You better hurry to your next class, by the way. You’re going to be late. Seems you have a lateness problem.”
Zenitsu grits his teeth and clenches his fists. His score sheet crinkles in his grip.
But he cannot punch a teacher in the face, no matter how desperately he wants to. No matter how badly they deserve it.