Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sound of shoes colliding with the marble floor repeated in a monotonous manner. Yusuke kept his eyes on the source of the only sound echoing through the hallway. He tried to match his breathing with the rhythm of his mentor's gait as he trailed behind him. He’d learned better than to fall in stride with the short, grey haired man who walked proudly ahead of him. It would be a few seconds before they reached the grand, glass doors at the end of the walkway. Yusuke couldn’t bring his head off of the floor. The extravagance would serve as a pleasing view had he the ability to look without feeling nauseated, but he couldn’t allow himself to distract from a moment like this. It belonged solely to Madarame.

Over the course of his time as a student, several of these events would occur. He would be pulled from painting to accompany Madarame to an art gallery where there were always strict rules, one of which stemmed from Madarame’s insistence that accompanying him was the highest privilege his students could receive. It was forbidden for students to engage–so Yusuke didn’t. He inhaled deeply in an attempt to clear the impulses from his mind, but a single look at the grandiosity around him should be inconsequential, right? These were the kinds of thoughts he had learned to push as far back as possible. Madarame was right, this was his event. Yusuke knew he should feel content in even hearing the reverberation of sound through the large halls with spotless floors.

He heard doors open, and a clear line where the floor transitioned from marble to dark wood entered his limited vision. It too was polished, and he felt the lack of resistance as he stepped forward. Madarame’s pace quickened, suddenly appearing hesitant and inexperienced. He sighed softly, bracing for the usual rush of voices and people that were par for the course when entering a gallery with his mentor.

Right on cue, it began. What sounded like hundreds of voices arose from the distance. They sounded excited and happy. Yusuke appreciated the change of pace. Joyful emotions were his favorite to witness and capture on canvas. He was drawn to the shapes of people's smiles on the streets and the sounds of bliss that escaped their lips since he was younger, young enough for such a view to be seen on Madarame’s face. It had been two years since a genuine smile fell upon his mentor's face but only seconds since he allowed his eyes to drift upon the ingenuine curling of his lips. Yusuke darted his eyes back to the floor.

“This is wonderful, I wonder what it could mean.”

“The technique done with the dark purple and silver here evoke such a feeling of restriction.”

Yusuke’s head jerked up. He quickly forced it down and swallowed the words building in his throat demanding release. “It isn’t hopelessness,” he thought. It was meant to depict the growth out of hopelessness. They were wrong, and he couldn’t say a word about it.

“That was the goal,” Madarame replied.

Yusuke felt nauseous. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the side, swallowing harder. This work wasn’t his anymore; every stroke belonged to Madarame now–that was the cost of this life. Yusuke clasped his hands together behind his back, squeezing them tightly to restrict his mouth from opening. He wished desperately to tell the crowd and the world the true meaning of the piece. “They’re wanting copies of art they don’t understand the true meaning or intention behind, why?” Yusuke thought. He didn’t understand them, nor could he understand how Madarame could encourage their incorrect interpretations. He had told him what the painting was meant to express–well he tried. The evening he went to his mentor with a full canvas, Madarame ushered him out of the room soon after he brought the painting in. Yusuke remembered feeling like the speed with which his words flew from his mouth was incomprehensible. He was only given seconds to bask in the pride of his own accomplishment after weeks of work, but it was no longer his. It would no longer share the meaning which each brush stroke worked to capture.

“Let it go,” he thought, tensing his jaw.

_________________________

Yusuke walked quietly next to Madarame after they left the gallery. On the sidewalk, outside of people’s gaze, Yusuke was given some leniency. The air was warm and humid. It felt suffocating when paired with the silence that fell between Yusuke and his mentor. He had so much to say, so many questions about his painting and Madarame’s betrayal of its true meaning. He would never ask any of them. Instead, he drove his nails into the skin on his thumb, allowing the sharp spike to shock him out of his defiant ideations. He was going back to the home Madarame allowed him to have after all, and not many received that privilege.

“I have business to handle tonight,” Madarame said once they reached the front door of the shack.

“Understood,” Yusuke murmured. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside. His mouth began to form the word ‘goodnight’ as he quickly turned back, but Madarame was gone.

Yusuke shut the door and locked it, two sounds that echoed through the wooden walls of the home, uninterrupted by any other sound. It was pitch black and silent. In a different time, Yusuke would be greeted by the other students. They used to run down the stairway asking how it went; not many received the privilege of accompanying Madarame, after all. Yusuke would smile weakly at them. He would say it was ‘fascinating’ or an ‘interesting evening,’ and everyone would smile, uncaring about the repetitive nature of his answers.

Yusuke flicked on the light switch–the usual flicker of the light over the kitchen persisted. He had long wished someone would change it, though the available options were slim. There used to be enough people in this house to fill the dining room table. It now held tightly to a growing layer of dust, taunting Yusuke with the reminder of the irreversible silence that consumed the shack. Most of the seats hadn't been utilized in so long that they stuck to the floor; Yusuke preferred not to sit there anyway. He bit the inside of his lip after feeling his stomach growl; he was starving. His thoughts were so distracting during the exhibit and the school day preceding it that the need for food hadn’t had the chance to register. It was truly a human desire; he wasn’t sure when it started feeling like a burden.

He crossed his arms and walked toward the fridge, pulling open its door. It took force; the fridge was another of the long unimproved facilities the house offered. Inside sat barren shelves with only a few condiments–unfitting for a meal. The edges of Yusuke’s lips curled into an expectant smile, but his heart sank. “Of course,” he thought.

There was hardly any food in the house now, and when there was it was never enough. With the money Madarame made, he could only afford rice and beans, occasionally fruit yet never something like meat or snacks. When there were other students, they would all stand in the kitchen and prepare simple meals. The companionship filled their stomachs with the nutrition that their small portions never could. Yusuke hadn’t felt full in years. He could still hear the ghosts of laughter and curiosity swim through the stagnant air when he stood still. It was comforting in a way which made his throat feel tight and his ribcage feel like it was pressing down on his lungs hard enough for them to shatter.

Yusuke made his way upstairs, accompanied by the creaking of the hardwood steps. The company was welcome. He turned his room light on and surveyed the familiar scene. His easel was empty, lacking the canvas that was taken to the gallery that evening, and by Madarame days ago. It appeared almost skeleton-like as it stood rigidly against the floor.

Yusuke’s bedsheets laid neatly tucked into the thin mattress lining the floor. He had arranged them in that manner this morning. Even with puffed and rolled sheets, the set up looked no more like a bed than it previously had. He knew if he laid in it now it wouldn’t feel like one either. He instead opted to sit against the wall. He turned his light off and sat down, pulling his legs toward himself and wrapping his hands around his knees. From here he could look out of his windows and see the night sky.

The reflection of passing car lights shining into his dark room held him a step back from the pit of isolation vying for his attention. It was a cloudless night, one where he could see the stars. They never seemed to know loneliness in such a vast space filled with the presence of other objects.

Had he gone back a year, he would have walked in this room preparing to sleep only to find another boy against the same wall. He would’ve sat down next to him and questioned his unfamiliar behavior. They would have watched the sky together, using books they had collected to find constellations and stifling their laughs to not alert Madarame.

This wasn’t a year ago. Yusuke knew even if he could go back it wouldn’t be the same–and he would have hoped it wasn’t. That boy deserved to be anywhere but beside Yusuke that night, and the several nights they found themselves sitting together. He should have been free from under the roof of the worn down shack and free from Madarame. He should have been free in a way that didn’t require his name to be etched on a tombstone and printed on the covers of newspapers. It was never freedom, not when he left one confining space for another.

In Yusuke’s dreams he was happily exploring the countryside, maybe with a new family of his own. Maybe he never really died; Yusuke had never been allowed to attend the funeral, after all. But, he knew better than to interpret his thoughts as anything other than denial. He tried to pretend it was as okay and misunderstood as Madarame claimed it to be but he couldn’t. He was angry, and the anger pulsed through his freezing arms clutching tighter around his knees and through the hot sting of tears that fell through his face. He longed for guidance–for company–so much so he let the tears stream down his cheeks, but no one was coming to save him.

In the darkness of the empty shack, Yusuke put his head into his knees. He wanted to drown out the sounds of his own thoughts. They played in his mind in the same tune as Madarame’s voice. He hated it. They called him a coward–and he was. He hadn’t even had the courage to pick up the constellation book on his desk, and it had been a year. Each day he came home to dusty furniture, he refused to clean them. It would have brought a feeling of comfort, seeing things as they were before, Yusuke thought. But he couldn’t bear the reminder that time had passed.

His eyelids felt heavy as he stared out of the window. He played with the idea of letting them close for a few seconds. He opened them quickly. Sleep was threatening to release him of his memories, and begrudgingly he let it, with tear stains that stiffened his shirt and tightened his face.

_________________________

He awoke to sunlight pouring through his window. Its intensity left little room for shadows. Yusuke could feel its hot rays shining onto his exposed limbs, warming them from the outside. It was a comforting feeling if not for the light that flooded his vision once he opened his eyes. He looked up and pain shot through his neck. His head fell to the side at some point in the night, and the pressure wasn’t ideal, according to any posture book he had studied. He stood up and staggered, seeing blue dots along the floor after turning his eyes from the window. In the heat of the sun, his forehead felt cold; he was lightheaded. He scanned the room as quickly as his eyes would allow without making his head feel like it was spinning. A week old water bottle became the focus of his intention as moved toward it with a hand remaining on the wall to steady himself. He removed the cap and sank into the floor, pouring the liquid into his mouth. It was warm and tasted of minerals. He hesitated before swallowing; warm water always left a sickly feeling in his mouth.

He stared at the floor until the temperature of his forehead felt akin to that of the rest of his body. It didn’t take long, and quickly he got up and got ready for school. He showered and let the cold water fall over him, soaking his hair and his skin. The chill that surged through his body was inescapable, making his muscles tense. He had read in an article months ago that cold water was meant to refresh and help with focus. So, there was a benefit to it as there was with every service he had access to in the shack. This was okay and very rejuvenating, he decided. Things were good here, they were familiar and safe. He knew he wasn’t in the position to ask for more when Madarame was kind enough to take him in. He would repeat this phrase to himself when doubts formed in his mind, and would force his lips to curl upward, in hopes that feigning happiness would bring about the actual feeling. It wasn’t as easy a task as it used to be.

He put on his uniform. It fell just short of being crisp but it was free of wrinkles. Yusuke steamed it every night, and the machine did an adequate job. He reached for his bag and headed down the hall. Madarame’s room was empty–he hadn’t returned home yet. Yusuke’s eyebrows dropped and a small frown replaced his neutral expression. Ever since the other students left, Madarame spent some nights away from the house, yet he would always return in the morning and smile while telling Yusuke to have a good day. The interaction was small, but it had become an expected act, one Yusuke felt was akin to care. It made Yusuke smile–he would bow and thank his mentor before walking out of the door. The gesture relieved the ongoing burden of his loneliness for a few minutes. He wasn’t allowed such freedoms this morning, but he couldn’t keep from going through the motions. He turned towards the house's interior once he reached the door. His head fell toward the floor before quickly rising. “Thank you,” he whispered and smiled–a genuine smile, though it was small.

His legs moved in a cadence that allowed for him to lose track of their exact motion as he walked from the house. He found himself engulfed in the scenery around him. It never changed. The quiet streets near his home transitioned into a bustling city. People rushed from place to place through the train station. The train to Tokyo always took off at the same time and was always packed. Yusuke was huddled between two business men as he stood on the train. There was beauty in this, he thought, in the indomitable will people had to move forward with their days and their life. Witnessing dedication was almost as captivating as joy, so he never took issue with the crowded streets. It all served as an artistic reference, that’s why Yusuke would feel the strain of approaching tears when he watched people walk along the streets, lost in conversation. Today, he found himself feeling envious as he fought back the nausea that always settled within his throat. He wished to know what everyone spoke of, and he tried to ask, but his approaches were quickly denied–met with furrowed brows and quick steps away from him. He settled for deciding that their conversations were not as important as he imagined. Perhaps they felt alone too and only the faint shadows of connection could be found in the words that rattled off of their tongues. Yusuke nodded to himself, that had to be it.

His school day was a blur, one which ended as soon as it began. In gaining the status of being an honor student, Yusuke was a year ahead of his classes, which left him with only three each day. They were art related with the exception of an anatomy and health class, but that as well served as a reference for the body's function and structure. This class was his favorite. He treasured finding his seat in the front of the room and hearing lectures on the different facets and needs of the human body. Each lesson felt so foreign, as though he were being taught of an undiscovered organism. The different bodily structures which flashed on the screen but they never felt like his own. Hunger, desire, and pain–human desires which were the subject of the lesson. As words left his teachers mouth and images illuminated the darkened classroom he began to question if he ever truly experienced any of them. His symptoms weren’t the same as the ones he read from the board, but people around him seemed to understand. When called upon, they could speak confidently about the effects those feelings had on their bodies. When it was Yusuke’s turn, the words fell flat. Nausea was the only physical feeling he felt when faced with such struggle, yet even that feeling was so routine he assumed it was meant to be an ongoing sensation.

“I believe I feel regular when faced with those feelings,” Yusuke said.

The shoulders of his classmates fell and his teacher’s brow raised. This must have been the wrong answer. Sighs could be heard across the room along with quiet laughter escaping through people’s lips. Yusuke looked around; he couldn’t interpret the meaning behind their staring. The question was in regards to his experience, was it not? As the lesson continued, Yusuke’s confusion only grew. There appeared to be emotions far beyond what he had felt and decided to capture. There was much he knew he didn't understand, but he had no means of changing that. The feelings that bubbled inside of him each day were as trapped as he was, to the extent it felt as if they never properly existed at all.

_________________________

After his classes ended, his feet reluctantly followed the path out of school and toward the train station. He could go home, to the shack, and surround himself with art materials to study, but he didn’t want to. Madarame wasn’t home anyway, and he was granted some leniency with his day to day activities. He shuffled through pamphlets along the train station walls. His fingers flipped through advertisements for jobs and new deals before landing on one near the back. “Hidden Gems: Cafe Leblanc,” it read. The building depicted looked quaint.

“In Yongen-Jaya…Hm,” he said aloud, garnering a few glances. He took the pamphlet in his hand as he glanced at the map of the station. A decision was already made before his body started to move.

The train ride to Yongen-Jaya felt less tense than the one he took to Tokyo that morning. He was surrounded by families with young children and older individuals going back to their homes. There was a softness to the lull of the train against the railroad. It flowed through the whispered conversations between parents and their children. He felt surrounded by a comfortable haze, and the change of pace was relaxing. He took a deep breath in. The train’s air was stuffy but warm, unlike the stale suffocating air of the shack.

Yusuke’s eyes followed the signs along the roadways as he found his way to the cafe. It was late enough in the evening for the clouds to lightly paint themselves with the waning, red light of the sun. He made a final turn and the cafe came into view. An orange glow from behind its glass door reflected on the grey concrete of the road. It shone on Yusuke as he stood in front of the door. The view was picturesque, had he kept his small sketchbook with him he would have set his things on the floor and began to sketch. He opted to hold his hands up, forming the outline of the canvas he lacked and engraving the moment in his memories. The front door he placed within the center of his hands opened, and an old lady emerged. After seeing Yusuke she stopped, holding the door open. Yusuke put his hands down and bowed, “Thank you very much,” he said.

“You have a good evening now,” she said, slowly walking away.

Yusuke felt the warm sting of tears building, but his eyes felt dry. He could hardly comprehend the gesture enough to move from in front of the door, with his legs planted one step outside of the cafe. He felt uneasy. The act was sweet and comforting, but Madarame had always warned him to be wary of strangers who overly extended themselves.

“They could want something, and you would be none the wiser. I wouldn’t want that for you.” Madarame’s voice played in his head, echoing the words he said the day Yusuke started taking the train on his own.

“Hey, you alright?” a calm voice asked.

Yusuke’s vision cleared. He had no idea how long he stood glued to the ground, but the air outside had grown cold. It whipped at his back and forced its way into the cafe. Yusuke hesitated before he stepped forward and closed the door behind him. Dark grey, practically black eyes met his own from behind glasses with inky frames. Black tufts of hair surrounded them, along with loose strands that laid against the face of the boy in front of him–he looked to be around the same age. His white long sleeve shirt was rolled up to his elbows beneath a dark green apron.

“Yes, my apologies,” Yusuke responded. The boy tilted his head at the response.

“Well, we’re about to close. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Oh,” Yusuke said. His eyes flashed open and his cheeks started to feel warm with embarrassment. At no point in his trip did he consider checking the business hours. A quick exhale of air left his lips. “Please forgive my intrusion. I will make my leave now.”

“No, take a seat,” the boy said, “what would you like?”

Yusuke’s downcast eyes shot up as he inhaled sharply. “Are you sure it won’t be too much trouble?” he asked.

“I’m sure, as long as you don't mind this place being pretty empty,” the boy said. He put his hand against the back of his neck and ran his hands through his hair.

“I see no issues with it,” Yusuke said, “I'm rather familiar with the quiet, so this is nice.”

The boy’s lips twitched into a slight curve, one almost unnoticeable. “I’m glad.”

“I admittedly am quite inexperienced with coffee,” Yusuke said.

“That’s alright. We have several less potent coffee beans, and I can add a sweetener so it's to your taste,” the boy said.

Yusuke looked over the menu, eyeing the numerous options for coffee and each of their described flavors. There was an entire world of flavor combination and taste which was unknown to him. It was fascinating, almost overwhelming. It left his eyes darting from description to description. “I’ll take your strongest flavor,” he said.

The boy's eyes watched him as he had come to the conclusion. He laughed quietly, it was breathy and left his lips in short bursts. “How about I make you something instead. You won’t enjoy strong coffee with no experience, I promise,” he said.

“I suppose I have no choice but to trust your expertise,” Yusuke said, “thank you.” He placed the menu on the counter.

The boy took it and added it to a stack along the back counter. He pushed his glasses up, allowing them to drag wavy strands of hair out of his face along with them. Yusuke watched him intently. The coffee making process was so foreign that he couldn’t bear to look away, lest he miss a step in this emerging art form.

The boy pulled a machine from under the counter then turned and examined the wall of coffee beans behind him. He reached for one container, quickly scooping some of its continence into a small bowl and grinding it into a powder.

He then moved toward the machine, pouring steaming water into a lower glass container and the coffee grounds in the container above it. He placed a lid on top and cleaned the area–pushing the container of coffee beans in its designated spot and meticulously scrubbing the container he had used to grind the beans in the sink. When he finished he leaned against the back counter, his eyes landing back on Yusuke.

“What is this contraption you're using?” Yusuke asked. His eyes had long been dilated, and he noticed now he was leaning forward. He wanted to understand every detail of the process.

“A siphon coffee maker,” he replied, wiping his glasses with a cloth, “It’s only been here a few days, but it's meant to be more pleasing to watch.”

He pushed himself off from the back counter and toward the one displaying the coffee making. He leaned forward, placing his elbow on the table and leaning his head into his hands.

“The steam from the water makes a vacuum, and it brews the coffee in the top,” he pointed at the machine as he spoke, “then, once all the water is used it falls back down and is ready to be served.”

Yusuke’s eyes follow the boy's hands. He didn’t blink until the explanation had ended, leaving his eyes feeling dry.

“Pretty cool, huh?” the boy asked, smirking proudly.

“Fascinating,” Yusuke agreed.

The coffee stopped bubbling and fell to the bottom container. The boy stood up and grabbed a cup. He poured the coffee inside and went to the fridge further behind the counter. Yusuke intertwined his fingers with each other and pressed his knuckles toward his palm. He released them and began to fiddle with his fingers, running his fingers over the indent from where he pushed his nail into his skin. All he could think about was the skin on his hands and the firm barstool beneath him. His thoughts were few and flowing slowly, at a pace similar to the boy’s slow pour of coffee. It had a sweet aroma, fragrant and flowery, all while being rich. Yusuke’s cheeks felt sore; he was smiling. This one wasn’t forced, much less thought out. He felt blood rush to his face–it was an embarrassing realization.

He heard a familiar laugh as the boy stood beside him, setting down the coffee and a plate of curry. Yusuke flinched, a meal sat in front of him. It was warm and steaming beside the coffee. He hadn’t smelled a dish so appetizing for as long as he could remember. His mouth was watering and his eyes were wide. All he could bring himself to do was look down at the dish with his hands clasped tightly around each other in his lap. They were shaking, and it was the only thing he could do to keep from revealing this fact to the boy beside him.

“What are you waiting for?” the boy asks, “Scared you’ll have to pay for this?”

Yusuke hadn’t been scared of that. In fact, he hadn’t yet considered the financial aspect of his journey. He hardly ever had money. When he did it would only be a few five dollar bills–the money Madarame could afford to spare. That money never lasted long. It would leave his hands in exchange for art books and oddly shaped objects whose every edge screamed artistic potential. He had vowed months ago that the next time he got money he would save it for food, but he hadn’t yet gotten an opportunity to follow through on his promise.

“I don’t exactly have the funds,” Yusuke admitted shamefully. His eyes fell to the floor.

He couldn’t see the boy’s expression, but his words left his mouth in a more serious tone than his previous question. “I had no intent to charge you for this,” he said.

“Is that not unfair?” Yusuke asked, “I am receiving the benefits of your efforts without aptly providing something in return.”

“Your company is enough,” the boy said, smiling in a manner that hinted at shyness.

Yusuke turned to the boy immediately. His eyes were already on Yusuke, and his lips held a soft smile. Yusuke couldn’t smile back, he could only stare into his dark eyes with his lips parted in shock. He picked up the fork beside the plate and took the first bite. He quickly took a second, then a third. He couldn’t stop. The thought of displaying gluttony like this felt sickening, but he couldn’t stop himself from scraping together another forkfull. After he finished, he reached for the cup of tea and drowned his senses in the warm liquid that spilled from it. It was sweet and tasted like lavender. The drink felt delicate, as did the cup between his shaking hands. His tongue began to burn, but coffee was hot enough to feel cleansing. In this moment, he didn’t feel guilt or loneliness; he felt ecstasy, and it was freeing.

It only took seconds for the sweet feeling of relief to be replaced with dread. The realization of his actions felt heavy. The way he behaved was jarring and obscene. He could hardly bear the spinning, pulsing feeling that radiated from his head.

“You seem to have enjoyed that.” The boy’s voice broke through Yusuke’s building panic. He sat with his hands falling between his legs, and he watched Yusuke with an expression he couldn’t read.

“It was phenomenal. I have never tasted such a flavor pairing. The coffee was sweet and well balanced while the spice of the curry was lovely. It has such depth. I wish to capture this feeling on canvas one day soon. Inspiration has taken me by the hand tonight and led me forward,” Yusuke said.

He felt warmth tighten his chest, part of it was fear from the anticipation of the boy’s next words, the other was unburdened joy and hope. The feeling wasn’t like what he was accustomed to painting on his canvas. It didn’t feel similar to the joy he witnessed in other people’s interactions either. Perhaps he had gone about this the wrong way. Today would mark the beginning of his attempts to depict this new form of hope.

He grabbed his bag and stood up from the barstool seat. The boy beside him stood up soon after.

“Thank you for extending such kindness to me today,” Yusuke said, “would it trouble you greatly if I returned?”

The boy looked at Yusuke, thoughtfully. “Not at all,” the boy said, “though I would prefer to know my returning customer's name.”

“Oh! of course,” Yusuke said, “It’s Yusuke.”

“Hm, I’m Akira,” the boy said, “nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Yusuke said, “though I must be going. Thank you once again.”

Yusuke walked toward the door. He hesitated as he reached for the handle, and decided to turn back. Akira stood in the same place. He waved and Yusuke felt his lips form a small smile in return. He opened the door and walked into the night.

_________________________

The train ride home was quiet. It lacked the friendly faces of families that filled the space earlier. Yusuke’s only company existed within the older man who sat several seats away. Only a pitch black sky could be seen outside the window. The stars weren’t visible from a city with so many streetlights and glowing signs. The cabin itself had luminescent white lights. They were bright and headache inducing as Yusuke sat with his hands in his lap. He closed his eyes to drown out the light and keep his head from spinning, but pressure was already building around his eyes. His leg bounced up and down quickly and his breathing was erratic. He drew in air quickly and shakily in short bursts; he exhaled in the same fashion. There wasn’t enough air to clear the fog flooding his head and the black dots floating into his vision as he opened his eyes. He tried blinking them back, but they were unmoving. He felt his heartbeat quicken. Usually, in times like this he could steady his thoughts by focusing on his scenery or sketching, but he was stripped of both his escape routes.

The walk home was just as messy. He stumbled forward, leaning on any surface available to guide him through the familiar streets that became unrecognizable through blurry eyes. He stopped on a bench by the sidewalk. He was sweating and his hands shook as they held onto the armrest. He felt ashamed and guilty. Tonight he’d allowed himself to indulge in warm meals and become a recipient of outstretched hands. He had felt such warmth that he had lost focus–this was a betrayal. It went against all of Madarame's warnings. It was dangerous, Madarame would explain, to take offerings from others with unknown motives and accept lavish gestures. He would say it was the artist's true path to enjoy simple means as it allowed the mind’s creativity to expand; a failure of an artist was one who indulged shamelessly.

Yusuke felt sick. He ran home, opening the door as quickly as his shaking hands could manage and running up the stairs. He ran his hand along the wall as he neared the bathroom door. Once inside he locked the door and slumped against the wall.

He threw up. This too was freeing, releasing him from the aftertaste of the forbidden. He no longer held the proof of his defiant act. He took a shower, with water just as icy as before. Though it could never feel comfortable, at least he felt clean. Every trace of his evening was washed away.

When he closed the bathroom door behind him, Madarame’s footsteps drew near. He could hear him ascending the stairs.

“Welcome home,” Yusuke said

“I apologize for my absence. I trust things here have been well,” Madarame said.

Yusuke nodded. “Indeed, though there’s been a lack of,” Yusuke paused. He held his initial words in his throat, letting them fall aside. “Rather, I have felt a lack of artistic inspiration.”

Madaram looked at him, his stare was firm and strong. This serious expression broke into a smile which spread through the creases in his eyes. “Well, I hope that doesn’t last long. You are my star pupil, Yusuke.”

“It shouldn’t,” Yusuke said, pulling his lips into a smile, “you have no need to be worried.”

Madarame smiled. “Wonderful, goodnight then.”

“Goodnight-” Yusuke began, His words were cut short by Madarame’s turn into his bedroom. The door closed, and the hallway was silent.

Yusuke stepped into his room. He turned his overhead light on and sat at his easel; a new canvas was placed on its skeleton like cavity. Yusuke sighed. This was familiar and comfortable. He ran his hands across the thick fabric. He pulled a large brush that laid across the windowsill; he moved his fingers through its bristles then stared at his canvas. It was blank, unaltered or tainted–the perfect starting point for a masterpiece, but nothing came to mind. His hand tightened around the brush–it was frustrating. All he could do was stare at his hand, wishing it to move, to begin its usual flow across the canvas. Minutes passed and Yusuke was no closer to coloring the blank page that sat in front of him. It began to feel like the canvas was taunting him, laughing at his lack of ability to act. He started to feel disgusted, but he couldn’t look away. It was then that he was reminded of his betrayal. He could spit out every drop of coffee he had consumed, but its effects were still there. Sleep wouldn’t come easily that night. His eyes were unable to close for long. Any attempts to hold them shut would lead to him rapidly blinking. Yusuke sighed, he rolled his head up toward the ceiling and studied the ridges in the paint. He knew it would be a long night.

_________________________

Yusuke found himself boarding the train to Yongen-Jaya the next evening. He had circled the Yongen-Jaya gate for several minutes, with each step he debated turning back. It felt sickening to outrightly defy Madarame's wishes, but the oddity of last night was unforgettable. He sat at his easel for hours, awaiting a spark, but he was only filled with confusion. Moving the brush felt wrong, as did his steps down the train station stairs. He had to rid his conscience of one of these crimes, and this was his only immediate relief. Something had changed since his visit to Leblanc, and Yusuke knew he had to discover the cause. He couldn’t afford to allow his art block to persist, especially as Madarame's next art exhibit neared.

He rounded the corner to Leblanc, the route there was more familiar than yesterday. The same warm glow emanated from its door. Yusuke walked inside to the empty cafe. Akira was behind the counter, wiping a glass.

He looked up when he heard the bell above the door. “Hey Yusuke,” he said. There was a comfortable ease in the way his lips formed into a smile.

“Good afternoon, Akira,” Yusuke said. Guilt tugged at his heart after hearing the boy’s voice. His chest felt heavy as he smiled.

“You are here for coffee, right? Or, was there something else?” Akira asked.

“I had actually intended to ask you a question,” Yusuke admitted as he took a seat at the countertop. He didn’t remove his bag from his shoulder; he couldn’t risk getting comfortable again, or allowing any of the events of the previous night to occur.

“What is it?” Akira placed the cup on the counter and stepped toward the counter. He put his hands in his pockets.

“What did you put in the meal you made me,” Yusuke asked with wide eyes. He watched Akira intently.

Akira tilted his head. “Did you want a copy of the recipe?”

“No, I had some troubles after I left last night, and I had hoped, through asking you, I could discover why,” Yusuke said.

“Alright.” Akira walked around the counter and sat down in the seat beside Yusuke. “Tell me about them.”

This was already too much like the previous night. Yusuke’s breath caught in his throat. He knew he should get up. His body was screaming, telling him to stand up and run out of the door. It was only a few feet away, he could leave before he allowed himself to commit a second act of disobedience. He didn’t, his legs wouldn’t move, and words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“I paint regularly, most often at night, and I had expected to do the same last night, yet my brush wouldn’t move. It was ridiculous. I’ve been painting for so long that I can’t understand how such things are possible. My artistic ideas have always flowed from my mind to my brushes with ease. Perhaps I’m sick, Yusuke said. "Are you certain your ingredients weren’t expired?”

“They were. Why did you think you got it for free?” Akira asked. His expression remained neutral.

Yusuke jumped back, leaving his seat and standing a few paces behind it. “What!?”

“I’m joking,” Akira said. His chin rested in his palm as he put his elbow on the counter.

“Though that’s very relieving, it wasn’t funny.” Yusuke replied. His shoulders relaxed from their tensed state, and he carefully sat back down.

“Your reaction was pretty funny,” Akira said. His eyes never left Yusuke. “In all seriousness, an art block isn’t a result of illness. It’s natural.”

“But this has never happened before; I can’t accept it being natural,” Yusuke said, “what am I if not for my artwork?” He looked down, toward the floor and exhaled. He felt ashamed to have fallen victim to this predicament and more ashamed to admit it. His hands started to shake again.

“You’re a person,” Akira said, “and a student, I’d assume. You’re a coffee drinker now too.”
The sound of Akira’s voice disappeared for a second. His extended palm came into view; Yusuke looked up. “There’s more to your life than what you can paint,” Akira said.

Yusuke's eyes shifted between Akira’s eyes and his outstretched hand. Hesitantly, he placed his hand in Akira’s. The shaking stopped. Yusuke was surprised, and it showed in his eyebrows raising. He almost wanted to pull away, but Akira’s smile was soft, and his hold on Yusuke’s hand was gentle.

“Also, I imagine having coffee for the first time late at night doesn’t have the best effects,” Akira said. His other hand fell on the back of his neck, but he didn’t let go of Yusuke’s hand; Yusuke couldn’t let go either.

“Thank you, Akira, but I don’t believe it was the coffee,” Yusuke said.

“Why is that?” Akira asked.

“The flavor was too lovely. It was almost as though I was consuming art.” Yusuke hesitated, images of the previous night flashed through his mind. He decided it would be unnecessary to explain the head spinning nausea that consumed him. “No art block could come from having ingested a masterpiece.”

Yusuke looked at Akira, assured in his answer. Akira returned his confident gaze with curiosity.

“Thank you, Akira. I confess I have felt very relaxed tonight. I haven’t had someone to talk to in years,” Yusuke said.

“I’m glad to hear that. Your company is always welcome,” Akira said.

“I should be going home now,” Yusuke said. He looked at their joined hands.

“Right,” Akira pulled his hand back. “Have a good night.” There was a hint of an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“I intend on returning,” Yusuke said, “have a good night as well, Akira.”

He stood up and walked to the door. When he pushed it open, the bell chimed. He walked out into the street without looking back.

The walk to the train station was peaceful. Yusuke studied his hand as he walked, unburdened by the nausea and lightheadedness he had faced before. He could still feel the pressure of Akira’s hand on his own. The gesture felt so strange. He wondered why the boy’s instinct was to offer his hand and why had he accepted his offer so easily. Questions consumed his mind as he boarded the train. His hand felt colder now, and he found his mind longing for more of the contact. “This could be the inspiration I needed,” he thought. For the entire ride home, he was at peace. A faint smile formed on his lips, and he didn’t fight it.

_________________________

After locking the front door behind him, Madarame descended the stairs. Yusuke’s smile faded in an instant. He could hardly look him in the eyes. He knew if Madarame asked where he went he wouldn’t have a proper excuse.

“Yusuke,” Madarame said smiling, “I’ve received a gracious offer from one of the owners of a gallery in Shinjuku.”

Shock filled Yusuke’s face. “Really? That’s wonderful.”

“Yes, but it means I will be gone for the next few weeks,” Madarame said. A serious expression threatened his smile. “I hope to see finished pieces by the time I return.”

“Of course,” Yusuke paused, the weight on his chest returned. “You will receive nothing less.”

“You really are a wonderful student,” Madarame said.

He stepped forward and hugged Yusuke. The contact made his body stiffen. His arms sat at his side for several seconds before he reached around Madarame and lightly returned the gesture. He felt like he was touching his teacher with poison–the poison which radiated off of hands that indulged in foods and company that served no artistic purpose and was well beyond what Yusuke was told to accept. Madarame had no idea; he hugged Yusuke in the same manner he always had since he was younger. It used to feel warm–it should have now, yet it felt like a barrier had formed. It was uncomfortable.

“I left what money I could on the table, should you need anything,” Madarame said, releasing his hold on Yusuke.

“Thank you,” Yusuke muttered.

Madarame took his suitcase by the handle and rolled it forward. He opened the door and walked into the night. Yusuke stood by the open door and watched him. At the street corner sat a black, polished car. It looked expensive and unfamiliar. Yusuke’s brows furrowed as Madarame stepped inside. His smile was larger than he had ever seen before.

Yusuke closed the door, and stood still with his hand against it. It seemed Madarame was moving up in the art world. It was a good thing, wasn’t it? Something that should evoke a feeling of joy or pride, Yusuke thought. Instead, he felt confused. Madarame had emphasized how much he had valued his humble career for years. Several years ago, he showed Yusuke the artwork he kept behind the locked door on the second floor–the piece he swore was his greatest accomplishment, one he would never sell. “Desiring material value from raw expressions of emotions diminishes their value. Never let this world teach you otherwise,” he had said, kneeling down to meet Yusuke’s eyes. He was much younger then, so young that his mentor's words felt like the absolute truth. Madarame looked like a star back then, brighter than the ones Yusuke would find constellations among. He wanted to be just like him one day, and he swore he would be. That was until he grew older and noticed the small inconsistencies in his character.

—

There was a game he and the other students would play. They would peek into the keyhole which locked them out of Madarame’s room. The door was always locked, and what could lay behind it became their greatest mystery. At the end of each day, they would gather in one of the open rooms and discuss what they had seen.

“There was so much jewelry. I’m talking pearls hanging from the walls and gems everywhere,” one boy said.

“No, no, there is so much artwork in there, and the frames look like they’re made of gold,” a kid chimed in.

“Are you kidding me? Did you all miss the bronze statues and silk sheets on the bed,” a girl added.

“Did you see anything, Yusuke?” another kid asked.

“No, I didn’t look,” Yusuke said.

“Man, you’re no fun,” the kid said before the group continued to gush over the possibilities of what could be behind Madarame’s door.

—

The truth was he didn’t want to look. He felt it was wrong to look into the personal life of his teacher. That wasn’t his place; he was here so he could paint and to honor the wishes of his mother. Anything that took away from that wasn’t worth his attention.

It was too late when he did find out. Madarame became more careless as more students left. He saw it when he walked down the hallway one day–Madarame’s room door was almost entirely open. All of their observations were correct; the space was lavish. Yusuke hurried to his room to affirm their thoughts, but there was no one to share the discovery with anymore.

It was then that Madarame lost his position as a star in Yusuke’s mind.

—

“Where did you get all the objects in your room from?” Yusuke asked, wide-eyed one summer night as Madarame was preparing a small meal.

Madarame turned to Yusuke quickly with an expression Yusuke hadn’t seen before; it was fearful.

“Now Yusuke, what did I say about allowing yourself to be distracted from your work?” Madarame asked. “If you must know, I had been gifted them from some people who saw my art.”

—

Yusuke was more naive then, he saw nothing wrong with the statement and continued his observation of Madarame’s cooking. The more the words played in his mind the more it became clear; it was a lie, one of several lies Yusuke would accept without question.

”I can’t wait to get out of here,” another student would whisper to Yusuke from beside him at the dinner table. She would smile as she did, and gently kick his leg.

Yusuke would smile in return. He had no idea what he would do if he left, and no answer to her comment. He wanted to stay. That was foolish too, he would learn, but the older he grew the less of a choice he felt he had.

The suicide reports appeared often. They were in every newspaper for months, and headlined every television which lined the streets. Madarame kept him away from the news as often as possible. He averted their eyes as they walked down the street and always hid the newspapers that arrived at the house. It was only when Yusuke saw a crumbled paper in the trash that he knew. The name was all too familiar, and the face plastered across the paper was the same one he had sat beside as he painted for years. Every week, a new paper would lie in the trash, and every week Yusuke saw the faces of another person he had grown up with. Their faces lacked the personality they held when they were beside him in black and white, but this was all he could cling on to as proof of their lives. He started collecting the papers, hiding them under the small mat he used as a bed.

—

The night Madarame discovered them, they had slipped from below the tilted mat. He remembered the way Madarame reached for them, slowly and quietly. Yusuke felt the hairs on his arms raise. He was cold and his eyes didn’t leave the floor.

“What is this, Yusuke?” he asked.

“I wanted to remember them,” Yusuke said. His voice was shaky as he mumbled.

“There is no need. How many times must I tell you they’re fine.” There was an edge of irritation in his voice.

“How can they be fine when the news..the televisions..they-” Yusuke could barely form the words.

“They nothing. The media has always lied. They're as money hungry as everyone else in this world. Don’t be stupid, child.” Madarame replied. His voice was louder than before.

“Then, where did they go?” Yusuke asked, his fingers trembled as they held onto the hem of his shorts. Tears welled in his eyes.

“I told you, they have found other avenues for their art.”

“Why haven’t I?”

Madarame looked volatile, anger filled his features. “This is the best opportunity any young artist could have gotten. Their decisions to leave were foolish.” He ripped the stack of papers in his hands.

Yusuke jerked forward to stop him. It was too late. The papers fell to the floor in shreds, splitting the student’s faces in two. He dropped to the floor, tears falling down his face and dampening the wood floors. He heaved with shaky breaths as the tears fell. Madarame embraced him. It felt sickening. He tried to push him away, but he couldn’t.

“This home is the safest place you could be. I will help you to develop your talents. After all, the world is dangerous. You aren’t ready yet,” Madarame says, stroking Yusuke’s hair.

His crying didn’t stop, but it gained a new cause. Madarame was right, he couldn’t go anywhere. He didn’t know how. All he knew at that moment was fear.

_________________________

Exhaustion led Yusuke up the stairs and to the floor. His mat was as rigid as always, but his blanket offered support, though it was very minimal. He found sleep quickly that night.

The next morning he woke up to raindrops hitting his window. It was the weekend, and a big storm had been projected by news outlets for weeks. This looked to be its beginning.

Yusuke got up and shuffled toward his table. He rubbed his eyes. The cloudy sky above made his room dark, and he would need better lighting for the task he had at hand. He turned on his lamp, and sat at the easel. Today would be the day he started his next piece. He swore he wouldn’t do anything else until he did.

He picked up his brush and dipped it in the cup of water beside him. Dark grey flooded his mind, and he moved his brush accordingly, squeezing some of the color from a tube and applying it to the canvas. After his first brushstroke, he stopped. The color had no movement of its own, no direction; this was wrong. He stared at the canvas in horror; this wasn’t it. It wasn’t the color, it was the placement. The shade felt like it deserved a place on the canvas, like the very fibers of it would split so the color had a comfortable divot to reside in. But, when he looked at the splotch of paint, he felt uneasy. Something about its placement was wrong, and no other colors came to mind. He couldn’t understand what was wrong with him.

“Why isn’t this working?” he mumbled under his breath. “Why isn’t my brush moving?”

“I don’t understand.” His breaths became more rapid. “I don’t understand what I've done wrong.”

“Why do I feel like this? Why won’t my brush move?”

Another memory flashed into his mind.

—

“I worry I might have to leave soon,” an older student said to Yusuke.

They sat facing one of the downstairs windows. It was a late winter afternoon, and snow fell, coating the roads outside.

“Why do you say that?” Yusuke asked.

A car drove by outside, its wheels leaving a trail of water and muddied snow in its tracks.

“I haven’t been able to paint like I used to,” the boy said. Yusuke looked at him, but he didn’t look back. Instead, he faced the window, and the falling snow reflected in his eyes. “The ideas don’t come as easily as they used to. If I'm honest, I don’t know that I want to pick up a paintbrush again.”

Yusuke’s eyes grew wide. He remembered feeling a sharp pain in his heart; it felt like a betrayal. He couldn’t understand why someone would ever want to stop creating art, much less someone he admired. Still, it was scary. So many had left already. What once was a room full of students whittled down to eight. Yusuke could hardly take another person leaving. Part of him wanted to beg him to continue painting, to show him all the inspiration he could find in the world so he would continue to paint. Never painting again sounded to Yusuke like cutting off a limb.

“I can’t understand why you would say that,” Yusuke said.

“I can’t really understand it either,” the boy replied.

He looked at Yusuke then, and a small smile painted his face. It looked strained. Yusuke couldn’t find it in himself to smile back.

The next morning, the boy was gone. Yusuke sat by the window alone, and the guilt consumed him. He wished he could have at least smiled back, and he wished understood how art could be so painful.

—

The rain beat against the window harder, and Yusuke was no closer to moving his brush. Each drop of rain felt like a pounding reminder of his shortcomings–it was aggravating and overwhelming. He couldn’t stand it.

Hours passed and he remained in place. His back started to hurt and dark circles weighed on his eyes. He felt like crying, screaming even, but the outward expression of those emotions wasn’t productive, not like painting them would be. He was trapped in every way imaginable and there was no escape.

_________________________

The next day, the sun broke through the clouds. Yusuke walked the familiar streets to LeBlanc. It was selfish, he knew that, but it was the only relief he had. He didn’t know what else to do.

It was just after lunch, not usually the time Yusuke would find himself opening the cafe doors, but waiting until the evening was difficult. He needed to see Akira, and to find out the meaning behind his inability to paint. He wasn’t sure why he believed the boy held the answer. He wasn’t an artist in the sense Yusuke was, but since meeting him something shifted. The only time Yusuke felt calm was in the barstool seat by the counter. He hadn't felt more human than when his hand was in Akira’s.

He walked in to see Akira leaning against the counter. He was talking to a boy with short blonde hair and a girl with long curly hair that she wore pulled back into two ponytails. She was laughing while the blonde haired boy yelled unintelligible words. Aside from them, there were no other customers.

Akira’s eyes shifted to the front door. “Yusuke,” he said. There was a joyful surprise in his voice.

“Hey! we were just talking about-” The girl said, quickly cut off by the boy beside her.

“Don’t go tellin’ him that!” the boy exclaimed.

“Would you both happen to be related?” Yusuke interrupted. His head tilted as he analyzed their features.

“Huh!? like hell am I related to that,” the boy said.

“Any sibling of mine would have a crumb of decency,” the girl said, glaring at the boy beside her.

“I’m decent! I have clothes on don’t I?” the boy replied.

“I’m starting to see where the sibling idea comes from,” Akira chimed in.

“Oh, come on man,” Ryuji sighed.

“Anyway, sorry, we were just talking about leaving, weren't we Ryuji?” the girl said, smiling.

“For real? We just got here,” he said. The girl hit his arm. “I meant right, see ya!”

The two left the cafe, bickering as they did. Akira’s eyes met Yusuke, and he raised his eyebrows.

“They’re quite entertaining,” Yusuke said as his lips curled into a small smile.

“Entertaining isn’t the word I would pick,” Akira replied, returning Yusuke’s smile. The gesture made them both laugh softly.

“I didn’t expect you here at this time,” Akira said, “It’s nice.”

“I’m aware it isn’t the schedule we agreed on, but I had a strong desire to see you,” Yusuke said, “It couldn’t wait until this evening.”

Akira’s eyes widened. He walked toward the door and flipped the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed.’

“I’m still unable to paint. I spent hours seated in front of my canvas yesterday, and no ideas had come to mind.” Yusuke stopped. “Well, one had, but I couldn’t build on it. My canvas only holds a single streak of dark grey.”

He sat down in one of the booth seats, putting his belongings on the table. “It’s a far cry from a painting, and I’m not sure what I should do.”

“So you came here?” Akira asked. He leaned against the seat at the other side of the booth.

“I can’t be in your presence anywhere else,” Yusuke said matter of factly.

Akira’s hand moved in front of his face. He pulled down on the strands of hair above his eyes. “That could change,” he said. His voice was muffled by his hand.

“I would enjoy that,” Yusuke replied.

Akira coughed before looking away.

“I have strayed from the point. Could I request to spend the day here and sketch? I’m sure this must be the place where my artistic visions can flourish,” Yusuke quickly continued.

“Oh, uh yeah that’s fine. I can make you something as well,” Akira said. His eyes were back on Yusuke.

Yusuke felt a pit form in his stomach. He knew the offer would arise at some point, but he didn’t know how he would respond. It had been a day since he’d last eaten and the effects of that were weighing on him. His stomach growled. It would be wrong of him to accept, but his mouth couldn’t form the word ‘no.’ Madarame had given him enough funds to allow for the meal, which must justify it. It was okay, he decided, even if he hadn’t decided so a ‘yes’ would have fallen out of his mouth.

“If it isn’t too taxing, I would greatly appreciate it,” Yusuke said.

Akira nodded. He turned toward the kitchen, leaving Yusuke alone in the booth seat. He pulled out his sketchbook and his various pencils of different thicknesses and colors. This was nice, he thought. The cafe felt secure. It was full of color and furniture, and his seat was comfortable. The more he thought about it the more he saw how severe the contrast between it and his home were. Even when the other students filled the home, graces like worn down booths and wooden tables with scratches weren’t granted. This space was used, and lived in–a place where memories had been made and the echoes of past conversations could be heard faintly in the crushing of coffee beans and setting out of glasses. This was a home–a vibrant life form of its own–while the shack was long dead, its every proof of life fell through the shallow skeleton that gave it any right to be called a residence at all. It crumbled in the hands of Madarame before it had the chance to cling to vitality.

The thought brought Yusuke’s hands toward one of his pencils. He picked it up and pressed it to the paper. It glided smoothly. Shapes formed and flowed. Yusuke felt his heart race. It was back–the ease of art, the expression, he felt it all flooding through his body and into his hands. Lines and streaks dashed on the page so quickly they made sparks. A shocked laugh left Yusuke’s lips. This was it. There was no room for expression in a slaughterhouse, and Yusuke had found a garden. It became so obvious.

—

Yusuke nodded, content with his work. He sighed as a smile tugged at his lips. He could hardly breathe, but this was different. It felt airy and light. Bliss like this hadn’t shown itself to Yusuke since he was young. He looked up immediately, a smile plastered on his face as he sought out Akira.

To his surprise, he sat across the booth from him, his head in his hand as his gaze focused on Yusuke.

Yusuke flinched, and a smile evidently grew under Akira’s hand which spread to the corners of his eyes. Suddenly, Yusuke felt a heat rising to his cheeks. It was odd, and he couldn’t pinpoint the cause of its rapid arrival.

“Ah Akira, what are your thoughts?” Yusuke asked, turning the page around.

Akira studied it, leaning closer to the page. He tilted his head, and his eyes slowly examined the entire drawing. “This is fascinating,” he said slowly. “You’re really talented.”

“Thank you,” Yusuke said, smiling confidently, “I would not have accomplished this without your company. I am forever indebted to you.”

“It’s really nothing. I like.. watching you work,” Akira said, choking out the last few words.

A timer went off. The sound was quick and melodic. Yusuke and Akira looked toward the kitchen.

“That was for your curry, hold on,” Akira said. He stood from the booth and walked toward the stove, scooping rice and curry into a plate on the table. He walked back to Yusuke, stopping momentarily to reach for a fork. The dish was placed lightly on the table and Akira held the fork out to Yusuke. He took it and began eating. The meal tasted more robust and rich than the first time. Yusuke shifted his eyes from the food to Akira. “This dish holds so much flavor,” Yusuke said, “how did you create this taste?”

“I added chocolate,” Akira replied.

Yusuke’s mouth fell open. The corners of his lips rose. His face was colored with amusement and surprise. He began to laugh. “What a bold choice. I have never been so brazen in my painting,” Yusuke said, “I’m continuing to see what drew me here.”

“It was my take on one of my bosses' recipes. I’m glad you like it,” Akira said.

“I very much do. To think creative expression could be so easily integrated into even a dish like this. How beautiful,” Yusuke said.

He continued eating, more slowly than the first time. He allowed the food to rest on his tongue, and savored its flavor. Once he finished, he placed his fork down. The familiar nauseous feeling hadn't resurged, and in its place was warmth. It began in his chest and spread through his body, making his limbs feel like they were tingling.

“Thank you again. I hope this wasn’t too much trouble,” Yusuke said.

“It couldn't be further from that,” Akira said. He looked toward the kitchen before looking back at Yusuke. “Actually, I need your help as well.”

Yusuke’s eye opened instantly, and he shifted his shoulders back. “Really? I would be delighted to help.”

“Can you dance?” Akira asked.

Yusuke was surprised by the sudden question. “I haven’t had the opportunity to try,” he said. “It is a magnificent form of expression, though.”

“Well an opportunity stands in front of you now,” Akira said. He stood up and held a hand out toward Yusuke. “Will you take it?”

There was a fire in Akira’s eyes Yusuke had only seen hints of before. It was electrifying, and it made their grey hue seem golden. The look Akira gave him was nerve racking. Admittedly, every look Akira had given him that day left a quick breath escaping his lips. This felt like an extension of the warmth which spread through his body after the curry. It was much more powerful, almost sending shocks to his heart. The tingling felt more like pin pricks all along his arms and legs. Despite this, Akira called to every one of his creative impulses. He couldn’t back away, his very being wouldn’t have allowed it.

“Certainly,” Yusuke responded. He took Akira’s hand and stood up.

Akira led him to the radio on the countertop. He turned the dial, and jazz music filled the room. Yusuke followed as he walked to the aisle in the center of the cafe.

“Follow my lead until you get it, okay?” Akira said.

Yusuke nodded. Akira stepped forward, moving Yusuke’s hand to his waist then placing his hand on Yusuke’s shoulder. He raised their joined hands. Slowly, Akira stepped backward, one foot before the other. Yusuke looked down, following his footsteps.

Akira moved forward and to the side, leading Yusuke in circles and across the floor. He pulled back and pushed forward. Yusuke began to understand the pattern, and it brought a softness to his eyes as he looked back at Akira. His smile was small but confident when he met Yusuke’s eyes. Yusuke grew mesmerized. If he could he would have stopped to sketch the boy's expression at that very moment, but he was growing more assured of his steps. He added flare to his movements, and Akira smiled more. He guided their hands above his head and spun. The move was graceful and controlled. He drew Yusuke back in. The song was coming to an end. Akira allowed him a spin of his own, and Yusuke took the cue. He spun, and as the song reached its final note he dipped Akira. Silence overtook the space as Akira leaned back, supported by Yusuke’s hand. Shock covered his face and widened his eyes. His face was red. Yusuke smiled warmly.

“I’m afraid I'm at a loss for words. That was lovely,” Yusuke said.

Akira didn’t speak. His mouth remained slightly agape as Yusuke gently pushed him into a standing position.

“I would like to do that more often,” Yusuke said, “with you.”

The shock still plastered itself on Akira’s face. “I’d like that,” he said.

“Next time, I won’t restrict your skills. It will be a perfect balance of expression and movement unlike any before,” Yusuke said enthusiastically.

A smirk creeped onto Akira’s face, “You better be prepared.”

_________________________

Yusuke grew to memorize the path to Leblanc. He had made it a part of his daily routine to visit the small cafe with his sketchbook and allow the atmosphere to guide his pencil. On days when there were fewer customers, he would spend the entire time talking to Akira. When the shop was busy, he sat in a booth by the corner–he was content either way. Watching Akira work became an inspiration of its own. The way poured drinks made it look like a performance, even when the steam of the coffee created a fog in his glasses. A few of Yusuke’s sketches would depict this exact scene, and a smile would uncontrollably form when he looked over his work later that night.

The shack was still cold. It was dusty and vacant. Every night Yusuke opened the door, he felt the warm wave of heat spread from his chest–it hurt. But, the loneliness was more tolerable with the promise of seeing Akira lingering in his mind. He found sleep more easily too. His daily nightmares only recurred every few nights. There was a peace in his mind which he thought to only be a privilege of his youth.

Even painting became easier. When he sat in front of his canvas, the colors had direction, and they gladly led Yusuke along. He hummed as he drew colors from his pallet. The tune was one he had heard in Leblanc. Still, there was a difference in his work. His usual style felt uncomfortable to attempt. It went against the directions that his brushes flowed–forward and backward then to the side; they seemed to spin.

_________________________

“May I request to stay here longer today?” Yusuke asked.

It was late afternoon; the time when the sun could only lightly paint the edges of the sky. Leblanc was about to close, and Akira was wiping down tables. Their glossy shine reflected the colorful lights above, scattering the color throughout the table.

“As long as you like,” Akira said, adjusting his glasses.

“Thank you, there is an irreplaceable warmth here,” Yusuke said. “Much unlike my own home.”

He mumbled the last words. Akira opened his mouth but closed it again. “I can show you to my room, if you want to make yourself comfortable,” he said.

Yusuke accepted the offer and followed Akira past the front counter and up the stairs around the corner. An attic space spread out before them. There was a wooden floor and wood beams that spanned the ceiling. A bed laid in the corner next to a bookshelf sparsely covered in items and trinkets. A wooden desk with tools sat across the room alongside a couch, a small television, and storage rack.

Yusuke began looking around the room more closely, gazing wide-eyed at the souvenirs on the shelf and assortment of tools on the table. He turned back to Akira, satisfied by his search.

“I can’t imagine a more ideal space for creative output,” Yusuke said. His eyes were beaming as he continued to look around the room.

“Thanks,” Akira replied as a confused smile formed on his face, “I don’t get that often.”

Yusuke placed his bag by the couch. He sat down and pulled out a small sketchbook, intent on making use of the inspiration he found in the space.

“You can have the bed, by the way,” Akira said.

“I wouldn’t impose myself on you like that, This will do nicely,” Yusuke replied.

“Yusuke, I insist,” Akira said, “I want my guests to be comfortable.”

Yusuke laughed quietly. It was evident that Akira’s mind wouldn’t change, so he accepted. He walked to the bed and sat on its edge. His body was rigid at first, so as not to take up more space on the unfamiliar bed, but it was soft. His usual sleeping place paled in comparison to this; he couldn’t help but to loosen his body and allow himself to sink into the mattress. He remained seated in a manner that took up as little space as possible, but he felt overjoyed and safe with even the smallest amount of contact.

“I have to clean up a few more things downstairs,” Akira said, “will you be alright up here?”

Yusuke nearly jumped at the question. “Of course, I couldn't be anything but content with the space you’ve provided.”

Akira looked at him with the hints of a smile evident on his face. He turned and walked down the stairs. Yusuke was surprised by the feeling of nervousness that jolted through his body. He didn’t know why he reacted to the sound of Akira’s voice in such a jumpy manner moments ago. The room was much more than he would have expected, and he was offered the only bed, no less. It was exciting, and maybe that was the cause of this? No, Yusuke thought, that couldn’t be it. When Akira spoke, or rather, when he was reminded Akira still stood in the room with him, he felt his heart race. It was difficult to breathe again but it wasn’t as though he were suffocating on dead air it was like he was breathing something other than oxygen entirely–and it was easy. No that still wasn’t all. It was the way Akira spoke to him, as if he were the art he tried so desperately to form from his fingertips. Akira had an artistic vision of his own, one Yusuke was surprised to be the beneficiary of.

Yusuke looked through his sketchbook as he waited. A familiar face appeared on more pages than he had remembered. The curly, dark hair and grey eyes were depicted on page after page. He could almost remember the exact moment he had drawn them too. One showed Akira making coffee. He was pouring the dark liquid into a cup while looking curiously at a speaking customer. Another showed him cutting ingredients for curry. He held the knife gracefully and looked intently at the ingredients in front of him. A third time, the blonde haired boy returned to the cafe, and Akira placed coffee in front of him. The boy groaned and tried it, which led to him coughing endlessly. Akira laughed hard; the sound forced its way out of his lips. The image of his smile as he did found its way on the pages of Yusuke’s book. There were endless memories of Akira within Yusuke’s sketchbook. Sometimes with others and sometimes by himself, yet it made one thing clear. Akira was a star, one of the ones which shone into Yusuke’s window as he sat against the wall, surrounded by other glowing specks of light.

“Sorry for the wait.” Akira’s voice filled the room. Yusuke looked up to see Akira in pajamas with his hand on the back of his neck.

“There’s no need for that,” Yusuke said, “I have been incredibly comfortable.”

Akira smiled softly. There was an air of nervousness and confidence in his smile. He stood several steps away from where Yusuke sat on the bed.

“Akira,” Yusuke perked up, “was there anything you had planned for this evening?”

“I bought some movies I thought we could watch,” he replied, putting his hands in his pockets.

“That sounds lovely,” Yusuke said, “but may I request an activity of a different kind first?”

Akira’s face became increasingly red. “Sure,” he said.

“Would you model for me,” Yusuke asked, “I’d like to draw you.”

Akira exhaled–it was soft and barely audible. “How should I pose?” he asked.

“This won’t require posing,” Yusuke said, “sit here.” He motioned to the space beside him on the bed.

Akira agreed and slowly sat down on the bed. His legs were on the floor, but he twisted to face Yusuke. “Like this?” he asked.

“Hm, move this leg up on the bed; the other can stay on the floor,” Yusuke said, “I’d like your body facing me.”

Akira followed his instructions, bending his leg in front of him on the bed. Yusuke shifted forward to examine his positioning. His leg brushed against Akira’s knee. “Perfect,” he remarked. He began to draw, and Akira watched as the lines that formed his figure were sketched onto the page. The drawing process was relaxing; Akira proved to be a very calm model for his work. He was closer like this than when Yusuke sketched him while he was working. His features were more clear. Yusuke found himself in a trance as he stared at the boy's figure. He wore a short sleeve shirt leaving his arms visible. They were toned, and Yusuke never noticed this before. He sketched their outline on his page. The black shirt he wore fell loosely on his body. His hands, though he held them before, had a few scratches, but they looked soft and inviting. The memory of their intertwined hands appeared in Yusuke’s mind. He felt the familiar unconscious tug at the edges of his lips, threatening to form a smile as he moved his pencil across the paper.

Yusuke continued on to drawing his face by outlining his jawline on the page. He stopped–what he saw before him looked inaccurate. It was missing something. Yusuke looked at Akira intently and tilted his head to better take in his features. It wasn’t enough; he knew more was needed to achieve the proper line. Before he properly considered his actions, his fingers found their way along Akira’s jawline, trying to commit the shape to memory. Yusuke pulled his hand back and began sketching again, and he smiled softly–this was much more accurate. Next, Yusuke would need to draw his hair, and his hand already knew the best way to capture it. His gaze fell on Akira’s hair, and his hands ran through it, gently and slowly, feeling every strand. He twirled the strands that laid in front of his face slowly, watching the directions they curved. His focus returned to the paper. With a model so accessible and so close, drawing detailed features became so much easier. It felt wrong to have ever sketched Akira with any less detail than he was allowed now.

All that remained was his face. Yusuke looked up once again, leaning toward Akira. His lips looked soft; Yusuke’s hand had almost raised to graze the boy’s lips, but he decided against it. That was too far. He instead allowed his eyes to move up toward Akira’s nose and his cheeks. It was only then that he realized they were red. He was confused and he felt worry building. He didn’t want to make Akira nervous or sick by any means. Yusuke quickly shifted his gaze to Akira’s eyes, and he began to feel heat flood to his face as well. Akira’s eyes were focused solely on him, and they were wide. His expression looked flustered and bewildered and amused all at once, all while his hair was disheveled from Yusuke’s hands.

Yusuke couldn’t find it in him to look away. Akira was undeniably pretty, but he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge it before. Embarrassment washed over him as he remembered how easily he moved his hands along Akira’s features. He began to wonder if that was inappropriate, but more than anything he wondered why he couldn’t look away. Neither of them spoke as they maintained eye contact. A realization bloomed in Yusuke’s mind. The grey his eyes focused on now was something he had seen elsewhere. When there was nothing else he could manage to paint, this was the one streak of color that made its way onto his canvas.

Akira started to smile. “I’ve never seen your face so red,” he said in a teasing tone.

A shocked expression flashed across Yusuke’s face. “Well yes, I…” he stopped, looking at the floor.

The laugh that left Akira’s lips was light and warm. It had a richness not unlike the coffee he made. Yusuke smiled as the sound filled the room. He met Akira’s eyes once again and laughed too, though it was more quiet. Akira’s face hadn’t become any less red.

He leaned forward, resting his head against Yusuke's collarbone. A quiet sound of surprise escaped Yusuke’s mouth. He froze, not knowing what to do or how to move. Akira smelled like coffee–one with mint leaves and hints of vanilla. Yusuke slowly let himself relax; he could get used to this if he were allowed more time.

“You’re the worst,” Akira said. His voice was muffled by Yusuke’s shirt. He sat up again, and Yusuke felt a cold flow of air fill the space where Akira’s head was. He missed the closeness already.

“You mentioned a movie?” Yusuke asked. He felt his heart beat faster as he continued to watch Akira.

“Do you not need me as a model anymore?” Akira asked. He moved his hand toward his heart, feigning heartbreak.

Yusuke opened his eyes in surprise. “No! I would like your assistance in that way for as long as possible if you have the time to spare,” he said, “I’ve gotten all I needed for tonight, though.”

Akira nodded as a quick exhale of laughter left his lips. He got up and walked across the room. Near the television, he reached for a stack of DVD cases with flashy, detailed covers. He held them out to Yusuke, who slowly examined each of them. He read their descriptions and closely ran his eyes over the artwork on the front of the case. An older romance movie caught his eye.

Akira put the cases back on the table and put on the movie Yusuke requested. He shut off the light and returned to sitting beside Yusuke.

As the movie progressed, Yusuke commented on various aspects. He acknowledged the color scheme and the characters' outfits and quickly found himself engrossed in every aspect of the film. It was a masterpiece.

Akira acknowledged each of his comments with a short “mhm” or answer to his various questions. His voice alone was enough to make Yusuke’s relaxed state falter.

“I have never witnessed such clear expressions of love,” Yusuke said, “something more must happen between them, right?”

He watched the love interests' interactions closely as they were introduced and as the movie progressed. Slowly, they grew more comfortable with each other. Yet, the movie ended in their irreversible and unpredictable separation.

Yusuke couldn’t even blink. Had he misjudged their situation entirely. He assumed they were soulmates. “How could they so easily have been torn apart?” He asked. “Is love not stronger than that?”

“Love can be complicated,” Akira said, yawning after he spoke.

“Must it always be?” Yusuke asked quietly.

“The answer to that rests in your hands,” Akira replied. He smiled weakly with tired eyes when Yusuke looked at him.

Akira rose from the bed and moved to the couch after pulling a blanket and pillow from his table. Yusuke watched as he laid down, fighting the urge to ask that he stay on the bed. But, he knew he had asked enough of him already. He wouldn’t push another selfish wish. Under the warm sheets and soft pillow, he felt himself completely unwind. Yusuke fell asleep within minutes.

—

He sat surrounded by the other students. They each had an easel in front of them in the same room they all used to paint in. Laughter echoed off the walls and brushes moved flawlessly, splashing color across every empty space. Yusuke smiled, softly and in disbelief. He had never expected to see such joy across the faces of people he grew alongside. He could inhale so freely he thought he might choke. Tears welled in his eyes and he closed them, savoring the sounds of his friends.

He drew his brush from his pallet; inspiration came easily. As he began to paint, no color appeared. He dipped his brush back into his pallet and tried again–nothing. Once more, he ran his brush through every color and nothing appeared on the canvas. The other students were gone. He was completely alone. Madarame walked into the room, and he hugged Yusuke gently. There was a smile on his face as he did, Yusuke could feel it in the way his cheek tensed against his face. Once Madarame pulled back Yusuke was alone again.

He picked up his paintbrush once more, and it was red–dark red and of a consistency much lighter than acrylic. He ran it across the canvas and it started to tear. The sound was jarring and loud and his hand couldn’t stop moving. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like something was preventing him from air despite how desperately he inhaled. He put his hand on his chest, pulling at his shirt, wishing for relief of any kind. When he pulled his hand back it was red, just as red as the paintbrush. His eyes shot open, and air became even more difficult to find. The red color spread. It bled through his white shirt and dripped down his arms. It was everywhere, and it started to sting.

Madarame walked back in. His movements were slow and his smile grew. He stood behind Yusuke, watching his canvas.

“This is why you are my star student,” he said. He laughed as he did–it was light and airy.

“Please help me,” Yusuke muttered. His voice was shaky and the words were quiet.

Madarame didn’t answer. He continued to look at the piece. “There is one touch I would add,” he continued.

“Please.. help,” Yusuke repeated, “I can’t…help me, please.” It grew more difficult to speak, but his throat ached. It felt like he was screaming.

“I would add more color here,” Madarame said. He pulled Yusuke’s hand up and brought it to the canvas.

“Stop,” Yusuke said. It was barely more than a whisper.

Madarame brought the brush toward the canvas, and in one slow streak created a line. The sound was deafening and red spilled out from the line. He drew the brush again, more quickly. Yusuke screamed.

—

Yusuke jolted up–it was another nightmare. Around him were disheveled sheets he held tightly within his hands. He hadn’t had a nightmare in a week, why now? After spending so much time with Akira, he assumed those would be a think of the past. It seemed his reality wasn’t so easy to escape. His breathing was heavy, and the feeling of suffocation hadn’t entirely faded. Fear took over his body as moments of the nightmare flashed through his mind like snapshots. It was his worst fear–to face the same fate as all of the other students–but he didn’t know there existed any other path. Soon enough, he knew his abilities would fade as they did with everyone else. It was a right of passage–one drawing nearer each night he spent in the shack.

He held his knees to his chest, tightening his grip around them. He had learned well enough how to handle these on his own, though every moment felt sickening.

“Yusuke?” a quiet voice asked. It was Akira. He kneeled beside the bed.

Yusuke looked to his side, and in the moonlight Akira’s face was visible. The sight of him relaxed Yusuke slightly, though not enough to lighten his breathing.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Yusuke said, “I suffer from awful dreams on occasion.” His voice left his throat shakily.

Akira stood up and sat on the bed, directly in front of Yusuke. He held his hand open–a silent ask for his hand. Yusuke accepted, placing his hand in Akira’s. There was a safe warmth in the act, one which now felt familiar. Akira gently moved his thumb across his knuckles.

“I’m here, okay,” Akira said, “you can tell me about it.”

Yusuke watched the grey, concerned filled eyes, which sat in front of him, shine silver in the glow of the moon. He swallowed before slowly recounting the events of the dream to Akira.

Once he finished, he saw Akira’s eyes had grown wide. “You must know you can’t stay there.”

“No, the dream exacerbated the severity of my situation,” Yusuke said, “I'm very lucky.”

The last few words left his lips in a whisper. Akira watched him intently, and Yusuke met his gaze with a small smile. He knew Akira didn’t know the entire story, at least he knew much less than enough to properly form a reply. He wanted to tell Akira everything, to painstakingly lay out every detail and memory; talking had always been easy with Akira. But, was that not the biggest betrayal of all–to allow his mentor and the only remaining family he knows to face slander at the hands of someone who hasn’t lived through every moment of it?

He knew Akira’s eyes would fill with a hatred he couldn’t stand to witness at his teachers expense. Akira hasn’t known the times Madarame’s embrace felt safe or the times his care was the only thing that cradled him from the danger of death. He would never understand that Yusuke had been sick and that he has never lost that feeling of unease. His suffering was his doing, not Madarame’s, but Akira would never reach the same conclusion. Yet, in that very act a second betrayal began. His withhold of information would forever hold him at a distance from Akira.

The feeling of nausea returned. He was lying to himself. He wanted to tell Akira, and he longed to see the way his eyes would tense with hatred at the name of his teacher. It would be the same look he saw in all of the student’s eyes days before they left. With it came a feeling of satisfaction. It was the only exertion of power Yusuke could access, and he craved it.

In an attempt to calm his spiraling thoughts, he looked toward the window. Surrounding the moon were several small stars. They weren’t as clearly visible in the larger city, but their presence caught Yusuke’s eyes nonetheless. He felt peace in the sight of a sky which had stayed with him for so long; it was unchanging and always bright. Yusuke slowly broke the silence.

“Many years ago, one of the other students taught me what the constellations looked like,” Yusuke said, “I’ve been mesmerized by watching the stars ever since.”

“Do you remember any?” Akira asked.

“Hyades,” Yusuke responded. His eyes traveled across the window, taking in as much of the night sky as he could. Akira waited beside him silently.

After a few minutes he found it and raised his hand, pointing so Akira could find it too. “Though it is more of a cluster than a constellation, it’s unfortunately the only one I still recall by name,” Yusuke said.

Akira’s eyes followed his hand. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

“Agreed,” Yusuke said. “I’ve always wondered whether stars like that knew the feeling of loneliness, or do those troubles belong solely to us?”

“They look much closer from down here than they really are,” Akira said.

Yusuke turned to face him, surprised by his answer. Akira continued watching the sky. “They aren’t mythical, angelic beings. They aren't even alive,” he said, “if they were there's no doubt their worries would be similar.”

“You think so?” Yusuke asked. It was more of a rhetorical question than one he expected an answer from. He turned his attention back to the window.

“You know, even stars can run out of air. They can collapse under their own gravity too,” Akira continued.

Yusuke remained silent. He had heard that before, printed in the pages of an astronomy book he had left untouched for years. He read that line in disbelief, and refused to accept it as truth. Things that shine so brightly can't possibly fall so easily, he thought, but they did. They did every time the house grew quieter and a new newspaper laid crumpled in the trash. In reality, they did the day Madarame took Yusuke in.

—

Madarame would call him his star. He would sit beside Yusuke for hours showing him different techniques and brushstrokes. Yusuke would watch with wide eyes, and when he attempted the motions he perfected them. Madarame always showered him with praise; he had learned the techniques of a master after all. On some spring evenings, Yusuke would sit in a small chair beside Madarame, watching as he filled canvas after canvas with beautifully delicate designs and patterns. Nothing was as bright as his mentor’s art.

On one of these evenings, Yusuke was led to the one room that was always locked. The opportunity was exciting; it put a spring in Yusuke’s step as he walked down the hallway, the colors of which appeared much brighter. Madarame opened the door and unveiled a painting hidden beneath a satin sheet. A woman sat among branches, partially hidden by a thick fog. Yusuke had never been more captivated by anything in his life. Of all the art he had studied in books and all the paintings he had watched Madarame craft, this piece stood above them all. There was a glow in Yusuke’s eyes, at least that’s what Madarame had said, each time he reminded Yusuke of that moment.

Yusuke wouldn’t know. He wasn’t able to turn his eyes away. The entire room blurred besides the piece. He felt unknown amounts of warmth that wrapped around him and made him shiver. The woman’s eyes were so soft, so full of care. To think that a person's hand guiding a brush and applying strokes of color could evoke feelings this intense. It was fascinating. Artists seemed like magicians and directors. They were musicians in their own form. Yusuke wanted nothing more than to be one of them, and he was in the hands of the perfect teacher. He smiled at Madarame and asked him to teach him more. Madarame smiled then; it was the clearest, brightest memory Yusuke had of his smile.

Yet, as Yusuke’s passion grew, his didn’t. Weeks went by where Yusuke never saw him pick up a brush. He would watch the other students, and continue to offer Yusuke advice, yet his brushes remained untouched. He said he was taking a break when Yusuke asked, but this was a man who had once compared art to breathing. Something in him had faded; this wasn’t the teacher Yusuke knew. He grew scornful and the only times his lips curled upward was as he belittled the older students' art–or when Yusuke placed a finished canvas in his hands. He couldn’t understand what his teacher was becoming. How could a person give up the opportunity to breathe life into a blank slate, to alter the hearts of every person who witnessed the beauty of artwork created by their own hands. It appeared to be the highest form of expression and of power, why would you let that go?

Yusuke would repeat these questions late into the night. When Madarame took the canvases that Yusuke had colored, he felt revolted by the man who stood in front of him. He hated the way his smile looked so ingenuine and the way his eyes viewed the artwork in his hands. He hated the way praise left his mouth and the way he relished in the attention he received. Yusuke hardly knew who it was, but this wasn’t his teacher; it hadn’t been for years.

These feelings were always accompanied by guilt–the familiar kind which made him lightheaded and nauseous. He couldn’t shake the feeling of disgust for himself either. Madarame was generous enough to allow Yusuke a place to come home to each day and a place he could grow up in. He would have no right to feel a crumb of revolt if not for his guidance and teaching. The art world wasn’t one Yusuke could have found on his own and there was no other world where he could be the student to an artist who created the masterpieces he had. This was enough and it was a gift–Yusuke had to make himself believe it, but trying to left a pit in his stomach

—

Yusuke looked down and smiled–the memory had passed.

“Thank you,” Yusuke said, “I don’t understand how but you reshape my ideas each time we talk. I believe that's why I'm so drawn to you.”

Akira laughed softly. “I’m surprised. I don’t think that many would agree with you.”

“How could they not?” Yusuke asked. The words rushed out of his lips in a surprised tone. He looked at Akira with eyes of absolute confusion. Akira cautiously turned to meet Yusuke’s gaze.

“You’re akin to the stars in my eyes. You’re practically my muse.” Yusuke let the words spill out quickly and abruptly. It felt like the air froze. “My apologies, I mean to say I greatly appreciate you, Akira,” Yusuke continued.

Akira looked at Yusuke, once again in complete shock. It was one of the few times his expression faltered. “I..” Akira began. He said several short words before giving up and covering his face with his hands. He took a deep breath and looked back at Yusuke.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Akira said, “really, I wish you were here more often.”

He paused, and the edges of his lips curled into a smile. “I should be thanking you,” he said.

“You’re very kind,” Yusuke remarked.

Akira turned to the window again, maintaining a small smile. “You said you thought I was a star, right?”

Yusuke felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He had said those words without thinking. “Yes, why do you ask?”

“Hm,” Akira said. He intently watched the stars, clearly in search of something. After a few moments, he found it. “Look, over here,” he said, pointing at the sky beyond the window glass.

Yusuke moved toward him until his head was only inches above Akira’s extended arm. “Do you know anything about those stars?” Akira asked.

He spotted them, two brighter stars, closer than the stars around them. They were close to the moon. “I’m afraid I don’t,” Yusuke responded.

“Perfect,” Akira said, “why don’t we call them ours?”

Yusuke didn’t reply at first. Warmth spread through his face and his chest as he smiled.

“That would be lovely,” he responded, “our own shared constellation.”

_________________________

The next morning Yusuke woke up as the sun began to stream through the window. He slowly opened his eyes to the bright room and sat up slowly. Yusuke awaited the arrival of the usual soreness which spread through his neck and back, but it never came. He felt lighter, but it made him uneasy as he waited for any sign that something would be similar to what he was accustomed to waking up to.

The pillow and blanket on the couch had been folded some time ago, and Akira wasn’t in the room. A spike of worry shot through Yusuke before it vanished just as quickly. This is a cafe, he reminded himself, surely, Akira had other responsibilities. He got up and began getting dressed; soon enough his time here would have to come to an end. There was a blank canvas back at the shack and he couldn’t allow himself to put off filling it for another day for the selfish desire of staying with Akira.

He walked down the stairs to find Akira behind the counter, placing a lid on a cup of what appeared to be coffee.

“Good morning, Yusuke,” he said. A smile appeared to spread across his face before he was aware of it. “Were you able to sleep okay?”

“Yes, it was more than okay,” Yusuke said, “In fact, I haven’t felt so rested before.”

Akira tilted his head and slightly furrowed his brows. A smile remained on his face. “I’m glad to hear that. You’re welcome here any time, even now if you planned on staying,” Akira said.

Yusuke’s chest felt tight. He wanted to, truly, but he knew he couldn’t indulge any further. “Unfortunately, I must return to finish a painting,” he said, “though I sincerely wish I could stay longer.”

An unreadable expression flashed on Akira’s face. “I assumed so,” he said. “I made you some coffee and curry to take with you.”

He placed the lidded cup and a container on the counter near Yusuke. It was packaged neatly, and Yusuke’s mouth fell open at the sight of it.

“You didn’t have to extend yourself so greatly,” he said wide eyed, “why would you do this?”

“So I'm on your mind as you paint,” Akira said.

The shock on Yusuke’s face only grew more evident. “You always are,” he replied.

He looked at Akira, freezing a moment before looking away. “Come back soon,” Akira said, “please.”

“I plan on it,” Yusuke said.

He took the containers Akira had prepared and left. Once he boarded the train, he allowed himself a taste of the coffee. It was sweet, yet it had a deeper flavor than the first one he tried. One sip left Yusuke reminiscing on their time together; he couldn’t wait to go back.

The ride home was quick when he was so distracted. When the train stopped, he wished it could have been longer. He didn’t know that he was ready to face the empty hallway and lifeless rooms of the shack again, not after his nightmare and not after being exposed to the warmth of the cafe. Part of him worried the dream was more of a premonition and it laid out the circumstances he would be in once he opened the door.

It wasn't–he unlocked the door slowly to a desolate space. The sight was relieving, painfully so. He hated how contradicting his emotions were in these moments.

Yusuke held the container of curry close to his chest as he walked in. He placed it in an empty refrigerator before sitting in front of his canvas. He examined the layers of paint he had laid down previously and nodded–a vision was coming together.

As Yusuke began to paint he felt emotions pour from his body onto the canvas. Confusion, sickness, and delight swirled around each other at different speeds and with different textures. Each of Yusuke’s thoughts resurfaced, and rushed to the forefront of his mind. It was overwhelming, and the only relief came from pouring it into the canvas. If he could rip the very skin from his body and pour every fiber and cell capable of memory onto the canvas he would have. He couldn’t stop painting; it felt suffocating to trap his feelings within his body for any longer.

This is what Yusuke had been missing.

His art teachers at Kosei had only insisted on painting in this way when it was appealing to the public’s eyes, but Yusuke found the notion sickening. It isn’t art when it’s drawn away from being a pure form of expression, he would say. His words garnered the glares of several students in the class, but he couldn’t understand them–he refused to.

This rigid view was one he learned from his mentor. He had reformed Yusuke’s behavior so that his art was never ingenuine. Living simply happened to be part of the process, as did allowing for as little outside influence as possible. Still, something always felt shallow when he looked at the pieces he created. He avoided his paintings when they leaned against the hallways of the shack because looking at them filled him with disgust. What was his art if it didn’t speak to his innermost emotions?

He used to go to Madarame with his concerns, and his responses were initially a form of advice. He would tell Yusuke to let his colors flow to the beating of his heart, and Yusuke did.

At some point his responses were only complimentary. “This is perfect,” he would comment, “the gallerists will love it.”

“I couldn’t care less about the gallerists. Why is something missing from my artwork?” Yusuke thought, and his thoughts found their way out of his mouth on several occasions. When they did, Madarame would call him critical. “It was a privilege to create art at all,” he’d say. His words didn’t quell Yusuke’s irritation. It was then that Yusuke stopped sharing this feeling and with it several others. The sickening spells of nausea and shaking he felt were his alone, as were the feelings of loneliness. The days when Madarame could care for him were further in the past than Yusuke would have liked to admit, but they had long gone.

As his feelings sank further and further within him, they reached a depth where even a paintbrush couldn’t pull them back to the surface. And so, his art became a soulless cavity of creativity, and no one noticed besides himself.

But, after years of seeking an answer, one presented itself. He was completely alone in a quiet, old, dust filled home–a graveyard of creativity. His mentor was gone, as was every person he had ever sought inspiration and company in, but the emptiness gave his emotions the space to fly. This was what desire, hunger, and pain he’d learned about. Those feelings he never understood ran wildly through overlapping lines. There was a feeling of rush in this release; he couldn’t get enough.

Hours passed, and the hours turned into seeing the sun rise. Yusuke’s hand’s hadn’t stopped moving until he added the final stroke of paint. The moment he put his brush down, the exhaustion consumed him. He leaned forward, barely able to hold his body upright. A weak smile found its way onto his features nonetheless.

The sunlight that filled his room was bright, and nearly blinding. It hadn’t usually been so bright, but Yusuke figured his exhaustion added to it. He felt weak, but pleased–he had finally become an artist.

It was then that a noise filled the quiet air of the shack–a loud slam. Yusuke slowly turned his head toward the interior of the house. He didn’t have the energy to run towards the noise, much less to discern whether it had actually happened.

Yusuke dragged himself up from his chair, with limp arms and closed eyes. He stretched before slowly turning into the hallway. A person stood before him as he did, someone who’s presence wiped every hint of exhaustion from his body, and replaced it with adrenaline. Yusuke’s eyes shot open.

“Good morning, my dear student,” Madarame said. He was smiling in a way which looked as if it should be warm–it felt icy.

Yusuke froze, he could hardly bring himself to respond. He didn’t want to accept that this was real. “You’re back early,” Yusuke said slowly.

“Ah, yes the,” he paused, “event ended sooner than I anticipated.”

Yusuke found himself returning to his familiar pattern of speech with his mentor. “How was it?”

“It was marvelous and such a coveted event. It was a great opportunity.”

Madarame's lips curled further at the memory, and it made Yusuke feel sick. He leaned against the wall, trying to stabilize himself from the feeling of sickness and exhaustion that weighed on him.

“So, I believe we discussed the competition of a painting happening before my return?” Madarame asked.

Yusuke nodded. “Yes, I have completed that. Right this way,” he responded, walking back into his room. He heard Madarame laugh behind him and took a quiet deep breath.

“Here it is,” Yusuke said, “I haven’t yet decided on a title, but I'm sure that can be established soon.”

Madarame followed Yusuke into the room and walked toward the painting. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, but this shocked expression only lasted a few seconds before a look of anger replaced it. His brows furrowed and his body stiffened before a smile regained its place on his lips. Yusuke had become a master at reading the shifts in his facial expressions, much to his detriment.

“What inspired this?” Madarame asked, “what is this meant to be?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. I was instructed to put together a piece so I did in the way you always taught me, he said, “I painted from the heart.”

“This isn’t your heart,” Madarame replied. “Are you allowing something to influence your art? What have you done since I left?”

“I’ve been painting. I don’t understand your questions.”

“How could you do this to me?” he continued, “your art was perfect before. It was exactly what I needed.”

Yusuke stood still, unresponsive to his teacher's questions.

“It’s okay,” Madarame said, regaining his smile, “there are some things you can change and it will be perfect.”

“No.” The word left Yusuke’s mouth without hesitation. The man who stood before him felt like a stranger, leaving him with little remorse for his rejection.

“Oh, Yusuke, don’t be like that. It will be a quick fix. I need it to be more palatable and more like the you I know,” Madarame replied.

What was the Yusuke he knew? The question deepened Yusuke’s building repulsion. His mentor, his guardian, was no more familiar to him than a stranger on the street whose expressions he attempted to understand. The truth was difficult to swallow, painful even. Yusuke felt like his throat was closing. A dying star stood before him and all he could think of was whether the Madarame who took him in would have liked who he became.

“I refuse. You taught me to be genuine. I won’t do anything less,” Yusuke responded. His voice was cold.

“After all I’ve done for you, you can’t make a few changes? You know the money will benefit you too,” Madarama pleaded.

“When has money been a factor in art? Every word you say strays further from your teaching, Yusuke said. “Who are you?”

Pain weaved its way into Yusuke’s words as his voice cracked. He desperately wished for an answer. Any proof that the mentor he grew up with existed within this man at all would have sufficed, yet as he looked at him he questioned if the mentor he remembered ever existed to begin with.

“The world is changing Yusuke. I can’t believe you’re still this naive.” His teacher's words changed from desperate to demeaning. He smiled again–that sickly smile which put Yusuke on edge.

“That’s alright.” he stepped away from the painting, stopping when he reached the door. “Please inform your teachers that you’ll be absent for a while. You need more time to focus on your work.”

“Understood,” Yusuke whispered. The weight of his body felt crushing. He wanted to collapse, and he wanted to say more, but no words surfaced.

“There won’t be a need for you to leave this house until the proper edits are made. The gallery opening is next month after all,” Madarame said.

Yusuke didn’t watch him leave, but he heard the rhythm of his footsteps as he exited. They were harsh and certain, exuding a power Yusuke had no hopes of combatting. He slowly let himself sink to the floor. It was jagged and hard below his knees. He reached out, bracing himself with his hands, and the wood pushed on the skin of his palm. Once again, he was trapped. He couldn’t cry though his eyes burned. He couldn’t scream or cry either; no sound would leave his throat yet his mouth hung open. His body was shaking as he stayed on the floor. He realized again he was waiting, wishing that someone would arrive. He wouldn’t have minded it being Madarame if he embraced him without making him feel sick. It was a childish desire, one he could never rid himself of.

He slowly got up, and seated himself against the wall. It was only noon; there weren’t any stars to see, but he looked for them anyway. All his eyes found was the sunlight, and it burned as much as it had when it first rose that morning.

Hours passed. He had no idea how many and no desire to check. He had sat on the floor for so long his back ached, but he didn’t move. His physical state was little of his concern; the world stopped feeling real hours ago. After staring at the window for so long, his eyes burned, and the room looked grainy.

The front door closed, and Yusuke blinked. A blue silhouette of the room overlaid the actual space. He held his eyes closed to get rid of its image. The room was much darker than he remembered it; the sky had grown cloudy. He stumbled as he rose to his feet. Every part of his body was tense and sore; he was still exhausted.

Slowly, he walked through the hall, searching for Madarame, but he had left without so much as a goodbye this time–things truly had changed. Yusuke walked to the fridge and opened it out of habit not expecting to find anything. Instead he saw a container, and his eyes shot open.

_________________________

Within minutes, he found himself running to the train station. His heart was beating hard enough for him to hear it in his ears, and he hardly registered that his body was moving. He collapsed onto the train seat and put his head down, trying to breathe deeply as his body demanded air. The train ride felt longer, and he tapped his finger on his leg trying to calm his impatience.

When the train doors opened, he dashed out of the station and to Leblanc, the path there had long woven itself in his memory. He quickly opened the door and hurried toward the counter, allowing his body to rest against it.

“Yusuke?” Akira said. He walked toward Yusuke from around the counter. There was a familiar excitement in his voice and in his steps as he walked forward. Yusuke looked up to see a smile spread across his face, and he smiled back, almost forgetting the purpose of his visit.

“I was hoping you’d come over today. Want me to get-”

“Please stop, Akira,” Yusuke said. He looked down as he cut him off; he couldn’t watch Akira’s face drop. “I didn’t come for that. Rather, there is something I must inform you of.”

“Is something wrong?” Akira asked. His voice was closer than before, and Yusuke looked up. As he anticipated, there was a subtle but sad confusion in his eyes.

“I don’t believe I will be able to return for a while,” Yusuke paused, “if ever.” He looked away again. “My teacher, he decided it would be best that I focus entirely on my paintings.”

“What?” Akira’s disappointment was evident in his voice, which returned to the unreadable tone Yusuke hadn’t heard since he first found Leblanc. “Is that what you actually want?”

“I,” Yusuke began, but his voice quickly faded. “I don’t have the option to make it about my desires.”

“You do,” there was certainty and desperation in his voice. “Stay with me if you need. I can help you. You don’t have to accept a future you don't want.”

“It’s more complicated than that, Akira,” Yusuke said. He felt the tears welling in his eyes, but he couldn’t let himself cry; he wouldn’t stop if he did.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Akira said, “Don’t accept this. We’ll handle whatever happens.”

Yusuke’s lips curled into a small smile. He desperately wanted to accept Akira’s words. They sounded so true and so possible when they left his lips.

“Even now, you fill me with so much hope,” Yusuke replied.

“Then stay.”

Yusuke didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the floor as he stood up and stepped back from the counter. “I would if I had the option to,” he said, “I’m sorry, Akira, I must leave.”

“The door will be open,” Akira replied.

Yusuke looked up, meeting his eyes. There was a small smile on Akira’s face as well that unreadable expression Yusuke could never understand the meaning behind. “What?” Yusuke asked.

“I’ll leave it open. If you can, pay me a quick visit.”

Yusuke watched his eyes in shock. He couldn’t formulate words, and the time he had before Madarame could return was dwindling. He walked toward the door and left the cafe.

When he got to the end of the street, he turned back. He could still see the warm glow of the cafe lights reflect on the street. He wanted to turn back, but all he could do was stop walking.

_________________________

Yusuke spent the next few weeks sitting across the room from his canvas. He watched the stars most nights with his arms wrapped around his legs. During the day, he looked at his painting, sometimes for hours. There was no part of it he wished to change, It felt almost as if he were looking at himself had he been cut open and splayed out across a table. It was only right that his lungs matched the short strokes of purple he painted; how could he make an edit to this?

As the days passed, Madarame repeatedly entered his room. His words were demanding at first. He would stand in front of Yusuke insisting that he follow his teachings. Yusuke’s eyes didn’t move from the floor–he refused. Eventually, he resorted to praise. He would pace around the room detailing the potential Yusuke had, but he was ignored. It took three weeks for his compliments to turn into pleas. Yusuke looked at him then, betrayed by how pitiful he appeared. He still wouldn’t touch the painting.

–

The gallery showing was two days away, and Yusuke watched Madarame’s steps as he entered the room once again. He stopped once he reached the painting.

“I see you have still chosen to defy my wishes,” he said. Yusuke didn’t respond. He only stood and watched his mentor’s eyes–they were colder than usual today. “I don’t understand why you would do this to me.”

“I won’t bend my idea of art simply because yours is lost,” Yusuke replied flatly.

Madarame laughed. “You think you will get anywhere in this world with your idea of art?” he asked. “You’re a child. You still hold these lofty ideas and act like you’re any better than me when you would have become exactly what I am if left to your own devices.”

He leaned in as he spoke, and Yusuke stepped back. He exhaled sharply at Madarame’s accusation. “I still can’t understand how you could ever become like this,” Yusuke said. He could hardly maintain an even tone of voice as confusion and anger pulsed through his words.

“You don’t understand many things, yet you refuse to listen anyway,” Madarame said, “I spend what little money I gather on this house and on you. Where do you think that money comes from?”

Yusuke didn’t reply. His chest felt tight and he shifted his focus to the painting.

“It comes from artwork,” Madarame continued, “and I’m here asking that you fix this piece so we can maybe have enough for a proper dinner in a few days, but you refuse.” He stopped speaking and laughter burst from his lips. “You know how dire our situation is and you do nothing. I thought I taught you not to be so selfish.”

“You taught me several things you seem to find no issue in disregarding in your own life,” Yusuke replied.

“But do you not see why? You get the privilege of sticking to those ideals, but the real world isn’t like that. I have been left stranded at the mercy of the art world. Is that what you want?”

Yusuke felt sympathy course through him, habitually rather than intentionally. He wanted it gone. “I’ve defended you time and time again waiting for you to become the person you once were. You used to care so deeply about your art. You created masterpieces. I admired you.” Yusuke’s voice grew louder and his eyes stung with the tears he felt pooling within them. “I even defended your name in front of the other students. The ones whose death you didn’t even allow me the privilege of knowing about.”

“You really are a great student. This is why I was protecting you,” Madarame said smiling.

“Stop,” Yusuke said

“Why do you think I allowed you so much time with your work and encouraged you through every difficulty you had while painting? No one else deserved that, but you,” he stopped and looked at Yusuke’s painting, “you were magnificent. But now, after all I’ve done you won't even alter this ridiculous piece.”

“How can you say that?” Yusuke’s voice cracked as his tears blurred his vision. “The other students, they were just as deserving.”

“It is. I am an artist, Yusuke. A famous one at that if you have forgotten. I don’t tolerate mediocrity.”

“But you chose to take in students, so many that this room was once packed.”

“I did and they served their purpose. Now, why don’t you just fix up this piece and let’s stop this foolishness?”

“No, quite frankly I'm less inclined than I was before. You are not my mentor by any means.”

“Now Yusuke, I don't believe your mother would be pleased if she knew you thought this way. She left you in my care after all.”

The tears reached their breaking point and fell down Yusuke’s face. He wiped them away with his sleeve. He didn’t want them, not now–expressing strong emotion in front of strangers took away from an artist's lack of bias. This was another lesson he was taught by Madarame long ago.

“My mother wouldn’t have wanted this,” Yusuke said.

“You still talk as if you know anything!” Madarame started laughing again. It was shrill and sickening.

“I chose to ignore everything I saw. For so long, I held onto the memory of the man who raised me, but that isn't you anymore. I see that.”

“It never was, Yusuke.” Madarame’s face contorted into a sneer.

“Why? Why would you mislead me, mislead everyone. I trusted you with everything. Does no part of you care?” Yusuke asked. He searched Madarame’s eyes, but he didn’t know what he was looking for.

“Why?!” His laugh grew louder, “You really do know nothing. Why would I allow young artists with potential to take residence here? Did you think it was for the company?”

He stepped closer to Yusuke again. “I couldn’t paint, but for some reason you all could. I was handed an art factory. It was perfect.”

“If that was all, then why could you have not allowed them to stay?” Yusuke asked.

“Why would I keep cattle who didn’t want to keep up with the pack when they would be slaughtered anyway?” he whispered.

Chills ran through Yusuke’s body. “They’re dead. How can you speak of them like that?”

“What's that got to do with me? My art career took a hit each time they left. Their ridiculous choices tarnished my reputation anyway.”

Yusuke’s eyes were wide. He felt nauseous as acid filled his throat. “How can you place monetary value so high? You told me that didn’t matter. We’ve never had food and we barely had a place to sleep.” Yusuke’s hands trembled as he spoke. “You told me that was okay because we were all a family and had no need to live by lofty means. I tried so hard to understand.”

“If you had access to more you would never have stayed much less been dedicated to your work. It’s so obvious, what are you not understanding?” He watched as Yusuke leaned himself against the wall. “Are you still clinging to the hope that you’ll be saved? No one’s coming.”

“I don’t want anything to do with you,” Yusuke said slowly.

“You have no idea what the world is like. You have no choice. Don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to believe you stand a chance.”

Madarame turned toward Yusuke’s painting. “Why don’t you just listen? You will never experience a life better than this.”

“I don’t need you,” Yusuke said quietly.

“To think I treated you so well only for you to disrespect me and everything you’ve been given. I should have left you to die years ago just like I did your mother.”

“What?” Yusuke felt the heat leave his face. His hands went cold. The shaking stopped as did every other movement he could manage.

Madarame stepped close enough for his words to reach Yusuke’s ears, even as a whisper. “I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a seizure that stripped her away from you. I watched her convulse.” His smile spread further across his face. “I thought I could save her, but how could I when I could use her artwork to inspire one of my greatest students for years.”

At those words, something clicked in Yusuke’s head. The lies fell into place, and confirmed his worst fears. He didn’t paint the Sayuri; Yusuke had followed a liar and hung on his every word. He spent years taking his advice and ruining himself in an attempt to find the teacher he once knew. He slowly raised his head as his eyes widened. He watched the man in front of him smile and laugh carelessly while Yusuke’s world shattered beneath his hand.

“I’m tired of your disobedience. You aren't worth this energy.” Madarame stepped back. “Leave if you want, but know you will never experience a life anywhere near what I’ve given you. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t want to die,” Yusuke whispered through shaky breaths.

“Were you naive enough to believe your fate was anything other than that?”

Madarame left, and Yusuke slowly followed him. He stopped at the edge of the stairway and watched Madarame leave the house with the same bags he always did. He wanted to call out to him, to apologize if that would make him admit that none of his words were true, but it was too late for that. Anger and hatred still burned in his lungs, mixed in with the words he wasn’t able to say and the questions he couldn’t ask. He knew he would never receive the answers he wanted. Above all, he was afraid. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he couldn’t see his teacher again.

Through trembling hands and uneven breaths he walked back to his room and placed his canvas in his school bag along with a few clothing items and the dusty constellation book he had abandoned on his shelf. He walked down the stairs and toward the kitchen. There were rags under the sink that Yusuke used to watch the other students clean their paintbrushes on. He took one and wet it under the weak flow of the faucet.

He wrung it out and ran it across the dining room table, removing the layers of dust that had built up. The table shined when he was done. It was an art piece perfected for its final viewing– finally cleansed of its burden.

Yusuke hesitated before opening the door. When he did the cold night wind felt sharp against his skin; it was refreshing. He inhaled and the air that entered his lungs burned like he had never breathed properly before.

_________________________

The train station was empty, and Yusuke’s footsteps echoed down the usually bustling walkways. He boarded the train alongside an older woman. She smiled at him from across the aisle, and Yusuke reciprocated the gesture. It was difficult as the aftershock of the night's events hit him. His hand still trembled as he felt nervousness swirling into the mix of emotions that consumed him.

He left the platform quickly when the train stopped and began the familiar walk to Leblanc. His body remembered every step there after the weeks that had passed. He quickened his pace as he neared the street of his destination. He felt an excitement bubble through his heart. He hadn’t felt it in so long he confused it for an illness. The street was dark without the cafe’s orange glow. He reached the door and saw that there was no light inside the building, granted it had probably closed hours ago.

His hand hovered on the door handle. It was possible it had been too long since he had last been here and Akira had long given up on his promise. Yusuke wouldn't have blamed him if he had. He took a deep breath and lightly pushed open the door. To his surprise it moved with his hand and easily swung open. The bell chimed as it did, and he instantly regretted allowing that noise to ring out. For a moment, there was silence, and Yusuke was left alone with the sounds of his heart racing as he stood on the cafe floor, tightly clenching his fists to quell his anxiety.

The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Akira rubbed his eyes as he came into view. His hair was strewn in every direction and his shirt sat unevenly against his waist. Yusuke felt his eyes sting as he saw him and the tight grip with which he tightened his hands released.

Akira descended the final step and turned towards Yusuke. When he did, his mouth fell open. “I’ve…been waiting for you,” he said slowly.

Yusuke tried to blink back the tears that formed as he watched Akira. The boy cautiously stepped closer, but Yusuke couldn’t move. He could hardly register that he was standing in front of Akira at all. It felt like a dream, one he wished desperately that he would wake up from before he allowed its warmth to wrap itself around him.

“Your words were the only reason I found my way back,” Yusuke replied. He smiled as he spoke, and a smile lit up Akira’s face too. It made the room look golden.

Akira carefully stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Yusuke. He stiffened for a moment, holding his breath. It was frightening to be held so genuinely, but he couldn’t resist any longer and let his body completely relax. He melted into Akira’s touch. Within the darkness that covered the cafe, a bright star chose to reach out to him, and engulf his body so gently. Heat surged through his body. His heart never felt so light. He wanted to laugh and cry; he never knew how much he longed for this.

“I’m so sorry,” Yusuke whispered as his head was against Akira’s neck. He allowed the sweet smell he remembered so fondly to consume his senses entirely as he closed his eyes and tightened his hold on Akira’s waist.

“Don’t be,” Akira replied, “You found your own freedom.”

Yusuke sighed as he melted further into Akira. He felt absolute bliss that he could hardly think of the previous events of his night.

After a few minutes, Akira pulled back. A soft smile had spread to his lips and softened his eyes. Yusuke felt his heart skip a beat.

“Ah Akira, I intended to ask you something,” Yusuke said.

“What is it?” Akira asked.

“Why didn’t you appear to have been fearful? Considering the front door randomly opened at this hour,” Yusuke asked, tilting his head as he did.

Akira laughed before he responded. “I had a sense it was you.”

“It very easily could not have been,” Yusuke said as his mouth fell open.

“Lucky for me then.” He shrugged

“Please, refrain from leaving doors unlocked at late hours again. It’s dangerous.”

“We’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen then, won’t we?” Akira smirked.

“We?”

“Am I incorrect in assuming you didn’t show up so late with that bag just to say hello?”

Yusuke felt the blood rush to his cheeks. His predicament was embarrassing when stated so clearly. “I meant to ask if I could-”

“I meant it when I said you were always welcome. Come on.”

Akira offered Yusuke his hand and he accepted, allowing Akira to lead him up the stairs. They laughed as they quickly ascended the steps. Yusuke put his bag down by the stairwell and followed Akira to his bed, sitting down inches away from him. The attic looked the same as he remembered it, with the same comfortable buzz of air. He could feel himself beginning to relax.

“I can’t understand why you’ve waited for my return this long. Really, I'm not sure how you’ve tolerated me in general,” Yusuke said. He turned slightly and looked out of the window as he spoke. As he expected, the night sky was still clear and he could faintly make out the stars they had claimed as their own.

“I enjoy your company more than anything,” Akira paused, drawing Yusuke’s attention back from the window. “I really like you.”

“You what?” Yusuke's eyes widened, “I’m not sure I understand.”

Silence followed his answer for a few seconds before Akira’s voice filled it. “I mean I want a relationship with you.”

Yusuke felt sparks of electricity in his chest. They made his face feel light and tingly and as if every limb was weightless. A nervous excitement shot through him. “I have desired the same for some time now.” His heart raced as the words left his mouth.

“Really?” Akira asked. Excitement slipped into his voice. He coughed under his breath before continuing. “I’m relieved to hear that.” The words were choppy as they left his lips.

“As am I,” Yusuke said smiling. He held Akira’s hand more tightly. “In that case, can I sleep here with you?”

Akira’s smile grew more evident. “I had planned on you doing that.”

_________________________

Yusuke awoke to the sunlight filling every corner of the attic. It was bright but there was a familiarity in it this time–it felt warm. Yusuke didn’t have to question Akira’s absence. The boy laid beside him on the small bed, his head resting on Yusuke’s neck. He inhaled the sweet smell of coffee and vanilla, as his hands found their way to Akira’s hair. He twirled the strands around his finger gently as he smiled. He could hardly believe the happiness that coursed through him.

Slowly Akira shifted, and his eyes opened. Yusuke felt nervous seeing his grey eyes look at him so closely, but he couldn’t turn away either. Something in the boy’s eyes was soft and hopeful. It was as if they were the safest place in the world, and they very well may have been. Akira smiled softly as he said good morning.

They slowly got up under the heat of the sun which burst through the window. Akira headed downstairs to prepare breakfast after instructing Yusuke to place the contents of his bag wherever he saw fit. It was his place too now, he had said. Yusuke’s heart fluttered at the thought.

He folded his clothes and put them on the storage shelf near the stairs before he walked downstairs. Akira had just laid out the food as he did. They ate and talked casually for most of the morning, but Akira started to appear restless.

“Yusuke, I'd like to ask you something.”

“Yes?” Yusuke replied.

“Are you okay with everything that happened before you came here? I assume it wasn’t pleasant,” Akira said.

Yusuke hadn’t prepared himself for a question like that. Honestly, he hadn’t thought of Madarame since he arrived. The reminder made his chest feel heavy. “I don’t believe I've fully processed it all,” Yusuke replied, “I doubt it would be an enjoyable subject to hear about now though.” His vision was cast downward as he spoke. He felt a sort of shame for allowing this subject to dampen their morning.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Akira said.

Yusuke’s eyes widened. With that, the flood gates opened. Yusuke slowly explained the events of the previous night along with every memory he had of his teacher and the other students. Akira’s eyes focused on him the entire time, even when certain details drew Yusuke’s eyes to the floor. Hours passed before Yusuke had finished talking–when he did he felt like he exhausted all the air he had. His lungs felt heavy, but his mind was clear. There was an odd sense of relief in telling Akira.

“Do you still have the painting?” Akira asked.

“Oh, yes it’s in my bag,” Yusuke replied, “why do you ask?”

“You should have it displayed in a gallery.”

Yusuke hadn’t expected those words from Akira. “I could never. If I were to seek a monetary reward for my work I would be no better than he was,” Yusuke replied.

“That’s not true,” Akira replied, “You can create genuine work and still reap some of the benefits. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“How can that be? My me- excuse me, Madarame grew into such a selfish person. Who’s to say I won't follow the same path?”

“You do. You’ve never been like him. You won’t become like him just because you enjoy the rewards of your work,” Akira said, “the choice is always yours.”

Yusuke didn't respond for a few minutes. His eyes closed as he processed Akira’s words.

“I see, in that case perhaps I will try to display it. Though, I'm not sure how I would go about that. I wasn't privy to much information about galleries,” Yusuke said.

“It can’t be too difficult,” Akira replied.

Yusuke nodded slowly. “Would you like to see it?”

“I would love to.”

Akira followed Yusuke up the stairs and watched quietly as he unzipped his bag. It was a slow job which allowed Akira small views of the edges and sides of the piece long before he saw it in its entirety. Yusuke felt excitement build as he unzipped the final edge.

He pulled it from the bag and held it out to Akira. The boy’s eyes slowly widened as he took the canvas in his hands. His lips parted slightly as his eyes gazed at the painting, slowly moving his eyes across the swirls of color.

“You’re incredible.” The words fell out of Akira’s mouth as his focus remained on the artwork. He looked mesmerized, and Yusuke felt a burst of confidence.

“Thank you. This is the first time I had the freedom to paint freely, and I owe that entirely to you,” Yusuke said.

“The credit is yours. You did a great job.” Akira smiled and his grey eyes found him again. He looked toward the painting once more before he spoke again. “So, when can I get an art lesson?”

Yusuke nearly jumped up. “You want one?” he asked, “anytime you’d like, even now if you’d prefer.”

“Don’t get too excited, I might steal your title as the best artist,” Akira said proudly.

“Hm, I will have to sharpen my abilities as well then,” Yusuke replied. A smile spread through his face.

_________________________

The following day, Yusuke sat at one of the barstool seats as Akira prepared the cafe for its opening. He set his sketchbook infront of him and had been attempting to capture the coffee maker which sat inches away. Suddenly, the bell above the door chimed. It drew Yusuke’s attention away from his sketchbook.

In walked a familiar blonde haired pair, and Yusuke watched as Akira waved them over.

“Hey Yusuke,” the blonde haired boy said.

“How do you know my name?” Yusuke asked.

The boy raised his eyebrow. “Akira told me, of course. This guy seriously won’t shut up about you.”

Yusuke smiled softly. “It’s Ryuji right? And Ann if I recall correctly?”

“Yep!” Ann said enthusiastically. “Looks like he talks about us too.”

Ann and Ryuji took their seats beside Yusuke. They talked as Akira prepared drinks.

“So Yusuke, did you dye your hair or is this shade of blue natural?” Ann asked.

“It’s dyed. I have to maintain it pretty regularly,” Yusuke replied.

“It’s so pretty!” Ann said, “I’ve debated dying my hair a few times, but I always get scared last minute.”

“I think it would look lovely,” Yusuke said, “you should try it.”

“Really? even if it was green?”

“There’s beauty in every expression of the heart.”

“Alright,” Ryuji interrupted, “can we stop talking about hair dye already? I’m bored.”

“Right, like you weren’t talking about dying your hair pink last week after you saw it in a magazine,” Ann replied.

“Well yeah, it looked sick! I wasn't seriously planning on doing it.” Ryuji glared at Ann.

“I did call you both here for your help,” Akira said as he slid Ann and Ryuji their drinks.

“Do you not drink coffee?” Yusuke asked as he saw the juice in front of Ryuji.

Ann laughed. “He can’t handle it.”

“I could if I tried!” Ryuji replied, “it’s just gross.”

“I’ll get you to like it one day,” Akira said.

“Nope, never putting that bitter crap in my mouth again,” Ryuji said, “anyway, what did ya’ want us here for?”

“Right, do either of you know anything about getting a painting in a gallery?” Akira asked.

“What? Not in the slightest, dude,” Ryuji said.

“I expected as much,” Ann replied, “I do, actually. One of my agents does stuff like that on the side. I can talk to her for you!”

“That would be great,” Akira said. He looked at Yusuke who was smiling excitedly.

“What’re you guys plannin’ on displaying?” Ryuji asked with his straw in his mouth–it slurred his words.

“One of Yusuke’s paintings actually,” Akira replied.

“You can paint?” Ann asked. “You have to show us this piece now.”

“Yeah I wanna see too,” Ryuji chimed in.

Yusuke led the group slowly up the stairs. Akira followed behind the others. Since he showed Akira yesterday, he placed the piece on his desk, insisting that it needed to be displayed.

When Ann and Ryuji saw it their eyes shot open. They hurried towards the piece, standing only inches away as they took it all in. Akira stood farther back from them. His lips curled upward slightly when he saw their excitement.

“Dude! Why are you not like headline news right now?” Ryuji asked. “You’re so freakin’ talented.”

“Right? I had no idea it would be this amazing. You should be famous,” Ann said.

“That hadn’t really been my goal, but thank you both,” Yusuke said.

Suddenly, a quiet hum filled the room. “Ah wait, it’s the agent!” Ann said, pulling her phone from her pocket. “Give me a second.”

She ran down the stairs, but the melodic way she said hello could be heard from upstairs.

—

When she returned, she said the agent would have no problem stopping by later to see the piece. Shock filled everyone’s faces.

“They work quite quickly,” Yusuke acknowledged nervously.

“Yes, so you will be able to get your work out there sooner! This is great,” Ann exclaimed.
Akira rubbed his hand on the back of his neck as he and Ryuji looked at each other with expressions Yusuke wasn’t sure how to read.

It only took a few hours for the agent to show up. Akira switched the open sign to closed when she did. He and the others stayed upstairs after bringing the painting down, allowing Yusuke and the agent privacy.

Their meeting ended within minutes. After Yusuke explained the piece and showed it to her, she immediately said it needed to be seen. She took notes on a sheet of paper that Yusuke couldn’t read and had him sign various forms of release. He was given a final page where he was instructed to write and sign his name as it would appear under his artwork. The pen froze in his hand when he read those words. He had never been given this privilege before, and his hand didn’t want to move. It felt like he was stealing art from its rightful owner, but this was his. He had laid every layer of paint down and poured his emotions onto the canvas. Every inch of it was his, and having his name displayed under it was the only correct final step.

He signed his name carefully and handed the pen and paper back. She thanked him for his time before gently taking the piece and packing her small briefcase. Before she left she handed him a small card detailing the venue where it would be displayed, and Yusuke graciously thanked her in return.

The bell jingled lightly as she left, and Yusuke sighed. He felt relaxed after having finally allowed this to happen. He felt excitement at the thought of his emotions being displayed by his own means. He could finally call his work art.

“Ya think he’s done yet?” Yusuke heard a quiet whisper.

“I don’t know. I don’t see my agent anymore. How rude, she didn’t even say goodbye.” Another whisper came from the stairwell.

“This wasn’t exactly about modeling, Ann.” The voice was clearly Akira’s.

“Were you all listening the entire time?” Yusuke asked.

They emerged from their spots on the stairs and joined Yusuke in the main area of the cafe.

“Oh, uh, no! We were just checking in,” Ann said, laughing nervously.

“It sounded like it went well,” Akira said. His hands were in his pockets as he stepped toward Yusuke.

“Indeed, It looks like the piece will be displayed later this week. I’ve been told the address as well. Yusuke held out the card.

Ann and Ryuji leaned in to look at it. They gasped as they saw the address and Ann beamed over how grand the venue was. Yusuke listened as she went on. Her words built his excitement.

_________________________

The gallery viewing was held on a cool Saturday evening. Yusuke had gotten ready hours ahead of time and paced around the cafe floor as he waited for Akira. The boy had insisted he needed time to properly prepare for the event because it was the first of Yusuke’s art career. Yusuke hadn’t realized how true that was until he said it.

After a few minutes Akira walked down to the cafe. He had put on a black suit with a grey button up and dark red tie. Yusuke stood in awe, and heat rose to his face. Akira smirked as he walked toward Yusuke before complimenting his own choice of attire. He wore a suit as well–it was black and flared, overlaying a white button up and blue tie. Akira pulled Yusuke’s hand within his own as they left Leblanc. As they walked toward the train station, they talked about Yusuke’s art and the city around them. It felt so warm and comfortable. This must have been what it felt like for all the people who found company as they walked past Yusuke on school mornings. If anyone had been watching him in Akira in a similar way, they would see the soft smile spread across his face, and maybe their heart would jump at the joy they witnessed.

They sat beside each other on the train station, with their hands intertwined. The sun set through the large windows, letting him bask in the deep orange glow that reflected on the train's walls. It was difficult to pay much attention to anything other than the ways that the glow highlighted Akira’s features.

Around them were several people. Kids peacefully leaned against their parents arms as they rested, and young women spoke to each other joyfully. The buzz of their conversation and laughter made Yusuke feel unfamiliarly safe. He’d rarely known a train ride where his mind didn’t race so quickly that all the sounds blurred together. This was something he wanted to get used to.

—

When they arrived in the gallery, Yusuke spotted Ann’s agent. She led them both through the doors and into a large hallway. Yusuke quickly looked down–Madarame still held some influence on his actions. He allowed the fresh air of the gallery to fill his lungs before he looked up. What he saw before him was grand. White pillars stemmed from the floor to the ceiling with clean lines etched into their design. Paintings from different eras were placed between the beams and lined in a gold frame. The ceiling was covered in art as well–stained glass designs, which reflected numerous colors on the floor as the sunlight hit them. Yusuke stopped walking. He was speechless and it was only when he felt his chest tighten that he realized he hadn’t been breathing. For years he wanted nothing more than this: to stand in a gallery and take in its elegance–to feel human as he stood behind the man he called his teacher.

Years ago, he wouldn’t have imagined standing here without him, or even allowing himself to gaze at the artistry on the wall, but he had made it. He found the freedom Akira spoke of so vehemently, and it was beautiful.

When they entered the gallery, Akira stepped back allowing Yusuke to engage with the crowd that surrounded his painting. He described his painting process and the meaning he intended to all who asked and they replied in turn with an interest that beamed in their eyes. He had no idea the world of art was so bright.

When the crowd died down, Akira stepped closer. “Look at you, master artist,” he said.

A small laugh left Yusuke’s lips. “I had no idea so many people would take an interest in my work. Madarame led me to believe the art world had grown unable to properly interpret art.”

“You have deserved this for a long time,” Akira replied.

“Thank you for helping me find it,” Yusuke said.

He held out his hand and Akira took it. This time, Yusuke pulled his hand up and kissed it softly. Akira’s face grew bright red in seconds. His eyes were wide as he stared at their joined hands. Yusuke’s lips curled into a smile and Akira brought his free hand toward his face, covering the red shade that engulfed it. His actions only softened Yusuke’s smile.

“Care to walk around the rest of the gallery with me, my muse?” Yusuke asked.

Akira’s hand left his face as he stared at Yusuke. “Where did that come from?” The edges of his lips curled into a smile, yet his face remained tinted by a color that was almost crimson.

“Well, considering our connection, I believe it’s only proper that I begin calling you things like that,” Yusuke said proudly.

Akira smiled as they began walking through the space.

_________________________

The gallery viewing neared its end and the crowds slowly left the long hall and flowed into the street lamp lit streets. Yusuke and Akira watched as they did.

“Mr. Kitagawa, may I have a word,” The agent called out to Yusuke as she entered the room.

Yusuke turned to face her after glancing at Akira. The boy met him with a smile. Yusuke nodded and followed the agent out of the room. The hallway they walked through was dimly light and less decorated than the rest of the building. This was the back exit, she said as they walked. Yusuke still took in as much of it as he could. The hallway connected to a small room, one lined with various display materials.

The agent walked around Yusuke and pulled a thinly wrapped box from against the wall. “This was left for you,” she said.

“Thank you,” Yusuke said. She nodded and left the room leaving Yusuke with the wrapped gift in his hand within the dimmed lighting and old stuffy smell of the cluttered room.

He slowly unwrapped it, pulling at the edges. It was a canvas. He pulled at the brown wrapping further, revealing the contents of the painting. Dark hair came to view along with branches dotted with pink flowers. He quickened his tearing of the paper, though he was still hesitant.

The last piece of wrapping paper fell to the floor and Yusuke felt the blood drain from his face. He couldn’t breathe. In his hands was the original Sayuri, but the fog which had always brought forth a sense of mystery was gone. In its place was a young boy with pale skin and dark hair.

Yusuke reached for the small sheet of paper taped to the edge of the painting and opened it slowly. Within it, only one word was written.

“Congratulations”