Work Text:
It had been another day without him .
“I’ll just have one coffee to-go, please.” The cashier nodded, printed out a bill for Kuroba before offering him to take a seat whilst his drink was being made. Recently, instead of drinking hot chocolate like he used to, Kuroba had been obsessed with coffee . He, himself, doesn’t exactly know why, but his mind told him to order it whenever he comes to cafés or so. (Maybe it’s because it used to be the other’s favourite too.)
It didn’t take too long before his order was done, placed nicely on the counter for him, and his name was called upon. Thanking the cashier, Kuroba took the coffee that he was given, picked up his belongings and quickly left the shop. Taking a sip, he quickly navigated his way back home. It sure was a long walk down below the sunny weather, but Kuroba paid no mind to it. His mind was occupied with something else.
When he got home, Kuroba fumbled to get his keys, unlocking the door. Once he was inside, he immediately entered his art room, picking up a brush and continued with his unfinished painting from earlier.
Every stroke he drew, all turned out into one same thing. He should be concerned about it. But instead, he doesn’t. Kuroba doesn’t mind about the fact everything turns out the same as always, but at the very least, there’s still a smile on his face. (Though Kuroba doubts he couldn't keep it together longer.)
The room was silent. Too silent than how the artist would like it to be. He had spent the past few weeks staying in his art room, rarely leaving the place unless there’s some special occasions or so. Kuroba picked up the coffee cup on a nearby desk and took a sip as he stepped back to admire the drawing he just made.
“Another failure.” He murmured beneath his breath. Placing down the cup, he picked up the canvas, harshly breaking it apart before throwing it into the trash. Kuroba’s breathing got unsteady because of how much power he used to break the canvas apart. Surely it hurted to do so, but he can’t seem to keep his calm seeing the art that turned out to be something he didn’t like. Then, he turned around to take a different canvas, setting it up again on the stool.
Without him noticing, somebody had entered the room the artist was in. “Kaito.” A familiar voice called out to him, but Kuroba didn’t turn back to look at whoever was behind him. He picked up a paint brush, dipped it into some watercolour and continued on with his painting. Seeing that the boy doesn’t care about just being called, the voice spoke again. “You should stop this soon, Kaito.”
“It doesn’t matter, Aoko.” Kuroba placed his paint brush into a cup of water, washing off the paint on it. Putting down the palette, he turned over to face the person - Nakamori’s daughter - Aoko, and took a few steps closer to her. “It’s not like you can stop my passion.”
“But Aoko’s serious.” She stood up straight, facing the boy in front of her. Taking a look at what Kuroba had just painted, Aoko just sighed heavily. He’s painting that again. “Aoko’s concerned about Kaito’s mental health. If Kaito’s not okay, we can-”
“I’m perfectly fine, Aoko.” The boy cut her off before she could finish her sentence. He’s okay and there’s nothing to worry about. At least that’s what he thinks. Kuroba can clearly see the worriness in the other’s eyes. He glanced back at the canvas placed behind him, everything was alright. “I don’t get why you’re trying to stop me.”
Seeing that there’s no use in trying to protest with Kuroba, Aoko just sighed. “Yet, if Kaito really needs a shoulder to lean on, she’s always here and is welcome to help.” A fond smile appeared on her face. There’s nothing she can do to stop the other, but still, she’s happy that Kuroba isn’t going insane any moment now. (Surely so?)
The tension in the room somehow feels quite high, giving a kind of suffocating feeling to her. Said aroma is probably from Kuroba… When Kuroba turned back, Aoko had already left. He’s alone in the room, again. If it were the old Kuroba, he’d say he hated it. But as times passed, things have changed. Kuroba shook his head as he picked up a pencil, starting out simple lines. No, he shouldn’t worry about it. If he’s going to be isolated in the future, so be it.
Suddenly, one spot on the canvas colour got blurred out. Kuroba bent down to examine it, ah, it somehow got wet. Wet? But he doesn’t remember accidentally splashing water onto it? Just then, Kuroba brought his hand up to his face, wiping gently. A small ‘ah’ was the only thing that left his lips the moment reality hit him in the face.
It was his tears.
Yet, why? Why is he crying? Kuroba glanced around his art room only to see papers and canvases scattered everywhere, all with the same design. Kudou Shinichi’s face. He had only painted the detective in the past months. Portraits and art pieces that contained the other’s face are everywhere . Tears kept flowing down his cheeks and he hated it. He hated the fact that it wouldn’t stop. Turning back to face the main canvas where he was painting, it had revealed it all.
A portrait of the famous detective - Kudou Shinichi - who was once a person that he’d fallen in love with.
Kuroba grabbed his head, his legs started to give out. The next thing that the artist knew was that he was already on his knees, crying his heart out. With each painting he drew, the face of the main character slowly got smudged away. It had been so long. Kuroba had started to forget how the other looked like .
“Please come back to me.” He cried out in desperation, yet, that won’t change the fact that he could never bring the beloved person back.