Work Text:
Hockney groaned, staring at the product of the last four hours of work. A black canvas with a pair of gold orbs. That was it. That was all he had. Anyone else would’ve been easy. He might not have guide-level foresight, but he prided himself on his abilities as a scout. Not to mention his future sight. 5 seconds may not be much, but in the Tower, it had been the difference between life and death too many times to count.
Of course, he wasn’t perfect. Khun’s strategies and backup plans of his backup plans made him a fierce opponent, even against Hockney’s powers. On the other side, Rak’s sheer unpredictability and refusal to commit to a path made him a wildcard that forced Hockney to react instead of act.
And of course, the irregular of legend. Jue Viole Grace. The Twenty Fifth Bam.
And currently, the bane of Hockney’s existence.
He had to do something for him. Something to prove his friendship to the one who offered his help with no strings attached. Someone else who wanted to live, not for the future, but for the present.
No, Bam wasn’t the bane of his existence.
That title belonged to Santa.
Or, more technically, Shibisu dressed up in a Santa costume, declaring they would play a game of Secret Santa as a “team building exercise”.
The present itself was simple enough. A painting was the obvious solution. Of course the subject was… proving difficult to say the least. At times, it seemed there were as many sides to Bam as there were souls in his body.
But he couldn’t rely on anyone else’s opinions of the irregular either. Everyone would simply offer another side they saw. This? This had to be personal. And for that, Hockney had to study his subject.
Perhaps a good first step would be to see how Bam decorated his own room? Someone like him had to have put at least some of his personality into everything he touched. Naturally, his room would be the same way.
Bam’s absurd training schedule was finally paying off. At least for Hockney’s sneaking ability. No one noticed him slipping down the hallway and into Bam’s room.
Except. Was this really Bam’s room? The walls were so bare. He didn’t have a lighthouse or observer to store anything, but there wasn’t any decor on the bedside tables. Carefully, Hockney pulled the closet door open. Yes, those were Bam’s clothes. Or at least they looked like they could be. Bam rarely wore the same outfit more than once after all.
Would any of these even work for his painting? They were so…
Well…
He could always use one of his own sets of clothing if he didn’t have a choice.
Ignoring the odd feeling the thought sent down his chest, he glanced into the attached bathroom. A light, floral smell rose from the shampoo and soap bottles. The toothbrush was a standard white one, in the same style as the one that came with Hockney’s room. It was so sterile.
Hockney made a mental note of the color of the stray brown strands of hair stubbornly stuck in the provided white hairbrush. With that, he took a final peek to ensure the room was exactly as it was, sterile and lifeless without its occupant. Much like a body without a soul.
Quietly, he left, returning to his own room. A new, small canvas and a clean pallet set the groundwork for his thoughts to flow while his hands worked.
This was yet another side to the irregular. The Bam Hockney thought he knew, seemed like the type to keep trinkets and mementos everywhere, gathering them up like his friends, all cherished and carefully maintained.
And yet.
And yet he had a separate shampoo and soap instead of opting for the provided 12-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/bodywash/who knows what else.
Another contradiction, much like the soulless, sterile room, home to clothes almost as confusing as their owner.
With a sigh, Hockney finished mixing the shades of Bam’s hair before turning to his canvas. Perhaps this was because they were only on this ship for a few months? Hiding out from the remnants of this war.
War.
In a way, painting was rather like war. Without the deaths of anything but the painter’s dignity, of course. Soldiers and artists both tended toward either delusions of grandeur or self-flagellation to the extreme. Either an inflated sense of self or a resignation to being less than a footnote in history’s appendix. Yet continuing on anyways.
Of course, soldiers had it far worse. An artist could refuse to paint and he might have his eyes torn out, but a soldier risked their moral code, their sanity walking a tightrope over the yawning chasm of grief, both for themselves and the lives they take.
And yet Bam seemed to retain himself. Bam still protected what he valued, still cared so deeply. Still retained his humanity.Perhaps that was why they called him their God? Not because he was able to kill the King, but because for every time someone beat down his spirit and trod on his soul, he stood back up nd retained the kindness to reach out his hand once more. Even if it meant that he was slapped down yet again.
They were fools, if that was the case. That error of kindness wasn’t divine. That was human. Divinities weren’t supposed to fail. They were unable to learn from mistakes and try again. They couldn’t grow and improve.
Bam could.
But, for all their flaws, they clearly saw yet another side to Bam. Another falsehood? Another lie?
Another mistaken assumption?
No, Hockney had to keep searching. Bam was not just FUG’s god, not just a soldier carrying so many souls within, carefully ensuring none spilled out even in the privacy of his own room.
What was Bam truly like in the night, lit only by the guide of his own moral compass?
Hockney blinked back to himself as he realized that his painting was complete and refocused on what had taken up so much of the paint he’d just mixed.
A bag of chestnuts.
Hockney couldn’t help but laugh.
For someone who spent so much time in the training room, Bam was surprisingly unsurprising in his habits. No matter how long Hockney watched, Bam either spent his time meditating, shinsu looping behind him, casting the room in an eerie glow, or training, fighting against FUG’s strongest fighters. At least Hockney got confirmation on his theory of why Bam kept so many shirts. Every single day, his shirt was torn open. Hockney had to remind himself not to stare at the figure underneath - even though a study of those muscles would’ve made for quite the drawing.
Hockney had to force himself back to the page he was sketching at, drawing his eyes away and his focus back to his original reason for being here. Bam himself was practicing a new technique. Well, not quite new. It originally belonged to his current sparring partner, yet one strike from him let Bam absorb it, incorporate and twist it until it belonged to him.
Bam seemed to be skilled at that. Taking pieces of others and reflecting them back in the form they wanted to see the most. No, that wasn’t quite true. Taking implied he did so without permission. Bam simply saw what they wanted and reached out a hand to people he deemed worthy. Hockney didn’t know how he had managed to be counted in that number, but he was determined to stay there.
Unfortunately, the only parts of Bam being exposed in the training room were his abdominal muscles. Hockney had to look elsewhere. Preferably before Bam’s shirt tore off entirely this time.
And if he stopped by his room to sketch out a few renditions, that was his business alone.
Days of procrastination had produced a wide variety of… distractions, yet his brain refused to focus on what he actually was supposed to be making. Or rather, his focus was the distraction. Bam himself was the subject of enough sketches, paintings, doodles, designs to fill a sketchbook end to end.
And yet nothing felt right. Everyone seemed to see him in a different way.
After a too long, too boring FUG strategy meeting, he’d sketched the Slayer Candidate Jyu Viole Grace posing as a noble prince, complete with a fur-lined cape and a thoroughly impractical sword.
Another training session led to a sketch of the irregular as a lone marble sculpture, body perfectly chiseled, lit by those ethereal shinsu loops.
He’d even tried drawing him as a turtle after Rak’s booming voice invaded his ears one too many times.
But nothing was right. None of those were truly Bam. Bam was someone willing to sacrifice his own soul to protect those he carried. Yet in the same breath, he could burn those souls as power to save the people he cared for.
Hockney sighed as he turned back to his main canvas. The golden glow of painted Bam’s eyes stared back at him. He could sense this wasn’t the right way, but his curiosity won out as he began to paint, trusting his hands to shape the soul wings and horns.
The background void took shape in the form of bodies, hands clamoring, reaching for the one spot of light emanating from the irregular’s powers.
Hockney stared at the canvas.
How many of the people he fought for cared for him as simply Bam?
Not an amalgamation of powers shoved in a humanlike form, not a budding God gaining his divinity, not a weapon to point at their foes.
A person. With his own emotions and dreams and desires.
Before he even realized what he’d done, he’d blended Bam’s figure into the background, leaving the painted people clamoring at powers floating in midair.
Powers without a soul.
Is that all they wanted from him?
There had to be something more. Some reason for Bam to smile and hold out his hand in kindness. Anything else would be too much. Hockney cast the canvas aside and picked up a new sketchbook.
For all its mundanities, mealtime brought its own fascinations - along with a new potential idea. Each meal, Bam would sweep his eyes across the people, taking stock of who had and hadn’t eaten. Often enough, he would take a plate to those who were missing or remind them to come to meals.
So for all his knowledge of the irregular’s actions, Hockney still couldn’t conceal his surprise at the knock at his door after he’d skipped dinner in favor of his latest sketch. “A moment.”
A quick glance confirmed that his works were hidden away, leaving only his “current project” on his easel. Hockney opened the door to find the bane of his sanity, smiling innocently, two bowls of soup in his hands. “Hi. Mind if I join you?”
This was… a departure from form, for sure, but Hockney was hardly complaining, stepping aside so Bam could enter the room properly. “Of course. Not that I’m complaining about the company, but don’t you normally eat with the others?”
Bam glanced away sheepishly, taking a seat on the desk chair. Hockney sat in front of the easel, accepting the offered bowl.
“Er… they were a bit… more lively today. Shibisu was planning a drinking game and managed to goad the others into it and… well…” Bam shrugged.
“Ah. In that case, feel free to stay here as long as you like. I doubt I’d make for good company though. Unless you’d care to assist with my secret santa painting.”
Bam brightened at the last part. “I’d love to! Is that it?”
He motioned to the sketch of Rak on the easel. Hockney’s bait. He hummed noncommittally. “I can paint the figure just fine, but something seems missing. It just never struck me as enough. Any ideas? I’ve tried different poses and lightings, but it all simply felt… flat.”
Bam leaned over Hockney’s shoulder to get a better look, and Hockney forced himself to keep his eyes on the the painting. On the soup, his senses engaged in smelling the aroma of Bam’s cooking and not the faintly floral scent that-
“I think I know.”
“Hm?” Hockney had to look at Bam then, doing his best to keep his head still as Bam turned to face him. Their faces were far, far closer together than Hockney ever could’ve dreamed.
“He’s all alone. And, yeah, he’s been alone for a long, long time. And he’s okay on his own. But maybe… maybe he doesn’t want to be alone anymore?”
Hockney’s breath caught in his throat, and Bam gave him a smile. “Just a thought, of course.”
“Of… of course.” Hockney had to force himself to focus on Bam’s words. “I… think that’s… quite a good idea. What do you suggest then?”
Bam gave him a slightly impish smile before reaching over, his hand brushing against the side of Hockney’s face. “Maybe you should give him company?”
Give him company? Give… oh. Right. Rak. Hockey blinks, looking back at the painting. “You may be onto something. I can paint him some friends.”
Bam leans back, scooting the chair closer and turning to his food.
Hockney notices the pointed gesture and takes a bite. The flavors were incredible, as always when Bam took his turn in the kitchen. Yet another of his hidden sides and skills.
“Maybe an army of turtles?”
Bam’s laugh comes out light and free, drawing a smile to Hockney’s own lips. “Oh, yes, you should! Rak, the great leader of turtles. He’d love that. Especially if we were all the little turtles behind him.”
“I suppose I could paint all the turtles different colors, but other than that, how would I differentiate them?”
Bam grins. “Easy. You can paint a blue turtle with a lighthouse here. A red turtle with an eyepatch for Hwaryun. A sword turtle for Hatz. A white turtle with a paintbrush for you.” Bam continued to rattle off suggestions, and for the first time Hockney could remember, something stirred in the void that once held his soul.
Hockney’s fist struck Bam’s door with his pocket’s midnight chime. “Bam. It’s me.”
The irregular opened the door, hair down, prepared for sleep. “Hockney? Is everything okay?”
His eyes were bright and alert. Good, he didn’t wake him.
“Yes. I… apologize for disturbing you so late, but I wanted to give this to you in private.”
Bam’s eyes widened. “So that was why you kept following me around!”
Hockney hoped his face wasn’t heating up. Was he that obvious? Scouts were supposed to be stealthy after all, and-
“Oh.” Bam stared at the painting. It was Bam, human as he was, smiling that same odd smile from the other day - the smile that Hockney couldn’t get out of his head. Around him, Hockney had drawn his friends - everyone that he’d listed out, just as he saw them. Obviously not turtle-ified, but simply themselves. Even Hockney himself, sitting in the back corner, painting a plate of chestnuts that matched the ones that the painted Bam held out toward the real Bam.
“Thank you.” Something wavered in his voice as he looked up at Hockney. “Truly. I…”
He stepped inside, leaving the door open. Hockey trailed after, watching as he hung it up on the wall near his bed.
“Thank you.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was everything.”
Hockney shook his head once more. “No. It’s… merely a token of my appreciation. To thank you for… everything. For inspiring me to keep climbing. I hope to remain by your side for a long while to come.”
Bam blinks once. Twice. Then beams. “Of course. I hope for the same.”
“I’d better let you get to sleep then.”
Bam hesitated, even as Hockney walked to the door. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“Ah, not to worry. I just have to wrap a token to leave under the Christmas tree for you. Then I can sleep.”
Bam sighs. “You’re too kind, Hockney.”
“I’m… happy to. Goodnight, Bam.” Bam returned his tentative smile with a grin.
“Wait a sec.”
Bam catches his hand, tugging him back to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”
With that, the door slid shut, leaving Hockney in the hallway. A small smile lingered on his face, matching the warmth in his cheeks.
“Merry Christmas, Bam.” He had a bag of chestnuts to wrap.