Chapter Text
Nao hated soccer.
Well, he didn’t hate soccer. But he definitely wasn’t in love with it like he used to be. He had a history with the sport. It had managed to sour his taste for all things team related, which made it harder to get along with anyone. No one understood him, not that they cared to try.
So, yeah, if asked, Nao would have said he hated soccer.
Nao frowned at the painting before him. It was bright and dynamic, an active painting if ever he had made one. The colors were vibrant reds and greens, with orangey brown waves that melded throughout the background and into the subject’s hair. It was beautiful, or at least he thought it was. Of course, he always admired his work when he used his muse.
A rage built inside him though. His thoughts hyper focused on one question.
Why is there a soccer ball?
Nao cursed, throwing his paintbrush to the ground. He knew it was ludicrous, asking himself a rhetorical question. But it haunted him.
Art is my outlet, he chanted in his mind. It is my inner thoughts.
Creating with a purpose was not Nao’s thing. He felt his drawings and lived his photos. Shades of color revealed his mood while the style tended to show his emotion. Though, for this one painting he had been prompted to show movement, that was where he left his senses behind.
It was nearing his twentieth birthday, and Iseya Nao, of average height, toned build and a solidarity nature, was studying to be an artist. Or something like it. He honestly wasn’t sure.
Leaning back, bracing his hands on his hips, Nao stretched until he heard a crack. Bending forward, he did the same. His raven colored hair fluttered over his forehead and into his chocolate brown eyes and he stood straight again. He desperately needed a trim, but that meant going out in public. Turning back to his painting, he groaned.
His muse, as Nao referred to him, was the man who haunted his art and dreams. Drawings, paintings, sketches; he ended up in all of them. When he was younger, his muse came to him as a boy, growing older each year. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. To say he had given up fighting it was an understatement. He now depended on it. The figure gave him a sense of familiarity, and sometimes even hope. Nao would revel in the smile his muse would reveal.
So why was it the one thing that brought him peace was now mixed with what he hated most?
He sighed and turned away. Opening the window, Nao breathed in the night air. It was well past midnight, and like many sleepless nights before, his muse had woken him from his sleep.
After a vivid dream he could not remember, Nao had the incessant urge to see his face again. It was so strong, it forced him from his bed and to the clubhouse art studio. A fascinating room, full of older artwork from generations long past, the art studio in the club house was kept fully stocked with supplies. From state of the art lighting and equipment, to authentic tools that no student would ever be able to afford. It was his haven, leaving him indebted to the alumni who funded the supplies; his own father included.
And it was here where he found his painting supplies and a blank canvas awaiting his inspiration. Two weeks from mid semester in his first year, Nao had not even begun his major art piece that would make up 30% of his grade. Movement was the prompt. Students had to show action through their art. He had chosen watercolors for the ease of blending it provided, and how the paint would take on a mind of its own. With a tendency to flow past the artist’s intended points, the watercolors would naturally create movement in the image. The blending and flow of the lines made it impossible not see the action in the scene.
Nao groaned. The watercolors had worked as intended, leaving him with one of his most amazing works yet. But, embarrassingly, in that work was his muse. His muse, who he did not want the world to see.
He wanted a drink. Being as late as it was, however, he was sure to wake the other house members if he were to go downstairs. Only once over the past few weeks he had lived there had someone unwittingly awoke the house during the night. It had not gone over very well. Though his father might have been an alumni of the house, it didn’t mean they couldn’t give him the boot if he became a problem. Late nights on weekends were fine, but these boys were serious about their schooling and their art. So weeknight disturbances were strictly forbidden.
Normally Nao wouldn't care what others think, but the house was special. Losing his place in the club house would mean losing access to the art studio held in it. That was not a risk he was willing to take.
So, no beer tonight. The warm summer breeze on his face would have to suffice. It smelled of campfires and summer rains. Already a few club houses were holding nightly fire pits. Though, the early summer rains continued to hold off most festivities.
Breathing deep, Nao ventured a glance back at his painting.
The background was a mix of dark blues that lightened as it lowered on the canvas. The blues mixed into a pink hue that joined a bright orange which lightened as it touched the sea of yellow below. In the centre of the transition line was a half circle, colored the brightest yellow he could muster. It was a dazzling sight in the far distance. The sea of yellow morphed into a field of green. Shades upon shades over lapped one another, providing definition and substance. There was no way of mistaking this sunset.
His muse, however, was the centre of it all.
Auburn hair flowed into the darkened sky behind the face that loomed over it all. Tanned peach skin shone with droplets of sweat, as large honey caramel eyes narrowed downward. Hollowed cheeks framed the serious look on the face as it intensely focused.
You can almost feel him holding his breath.
His muse had aged with him. The face that was once kind and welcoming was now full of drive and passion. A passion Nao felt he could never obtain for himself.
Do people actually have those kinds of emotions? Nao shook his head. No, that was stupid. Of course they do.
But Nao had never seen that expression in person before. Or maybe he never paid enough attention. He wanted to see such emotionally filled eyes in person . No, it was his muse gazing at him with those eyes that he wanted to see.
Nao knew his muse was just that, a muse. A face that had haunted him since he was young. One concocted out of his need for comfort and familiarity. It was, however, the one thing that always seemed to make him feel at ease. Well, it normally puts him at ease.
Nao stared intently at the serious face he had given his muse. His eyes were focused, he wasn’t smiling. He looked frustrated yet determined. And as odd as that seemed, it was also refreshing. Almost as if Nao was seeing another side to his muse. A side he had never known. Perhaps a side few would ever bother to notice.
It excited him.
The motion of the artwork was so vivid, Nao swore the man was about to jump off the canvas itself. With arms swaying to either side, the peach of his skin joined with the surrounding darkness to emphasize the motion.
His legs were long, muscular, and well defined. The left was tensed as it bent to support their body while the right leg was almost a blur, several outlines showing the different locations the leg swung through. All to kick the black and white soccer ball which lay still on the grass in front of him.
Why was this so important though? Nao felt the moment he captured was everything. And yet nothing. The setting sun, the darkening sky; they meant nothing in comparison to the man who was at the forefront of the painting..
Nao knew it was just a kick; one of many. Still, it was the one he had managed to capture. Somehow, that made it special. So very, very special.
The man represented Nao’s hopes. All he wished to accomplish in his life. While the soccer ball represented his fears. Everything he struggled to be free of.
If only it were so easy to rid yourself of emotional baggage, Nao’s thoughts lulled in his head. But even in this painting, I struggle.
Nao shook his head. He knew reminiscing about his past, analyzing his art, deciphering the story hidden in it all wasn’t something he had time for. What he needed to figure out was what the hell to do with the painting.
It wasn’t something he could simply stow away in his room, or stuff in a box under his bed. No, it was a 24 by 36 inch watercolor board. And not a cheap one either. Made of 100% cotton and pre-glossed, it was the one and only canvas he would be given to complete his semester’s midterm piece. A piece that now showed, in great detail, the face he had been trying to hide for several years.
He could hear his sister now.
“Isn’t that the boy you used to draw when you were little?” Emi would pester. “I thought you stopped that. Are you still obsessed with your imaginary friend?”
To be an imaginary friend, I would have had to have talked to him. I’ve never talked to my drawings. Not that Emi would believe me.
Sighing, Nao conceded. There was no reason to stay up any longer. The painting wasn’t about to morph into something different or turn blank again. This was what he would have to submit. Thinking about it more wouldn’t make him feel better.
Closing the window, cleaning up the supplies and gently placing the canvas where it could safely dry, Nao left the room with hope. Hope that submitting his painting would be a great showcase of his original art. A testament to his abilities.
Definitely not a mistake.
