Chapter Text
Isagi Yoichi really liked art.
No, scratch that; he loved art.
In every form it could be expressed in actually, not just paintings. Literature, sculpturing, music, dancing, photography; it was all just perfect to him. Everything about emotions being conveyed metaphorically spoke to him more than words ever could. It was mesmerising.
Even though he didn’t have an ounce of talent, he figured he could adore it from afar. Isagi was satisfied with just watching others pursue their truest dreams like a man standing ruefully on a port. Longing. Yearning as he watched boats overcome the waves of an ocean.
He was okay with that, he convinced himself he was. Isagi couldn’t draw a circle if he tried his hardest, oh well. It wasn’t meant to be, his friends and family would tell him, it’s not what he’s made for. What’s worth a passion if there’s no talent to back it up? He was needle without a thread, destined to make something yet cursed with the lack of skill.
“Hey, excuse me! You’re blocking the art piece!” The sharp and awfully impatient sound zapped through Isagi’s emotional run through of his life. He mentally rolled his eyes, before managing a polite smile and moving out of the way, annoyed that his little moment was washed over by an impatient man.
Of course, Isagi was nothing if not a stubborn man. Fuck everyone who doubted him, he wouldn’t stop chasing his dream. Hell, fuck waiting at the port! He’d jump into the ocean and swim to one of the damn boats! After all, they say hard work pays off. Isagi shook those thoughts away with newfound fervour, sighing shakily as he adjusted his little booth.
It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough. He was trying his hardest to be an oil painter, but it turns out it’s not that easy when you’re 15 and go to a school without an art club. Isagi couldn’t remember the last time his wallet had any cash in it. Art classes are expensive - which he found ironic, considering Artists even don’t make a lot on a daily basis.
Isagi didn’t stick around his booth, actually he didn’t even sign his name on his paintings. Pathetically, he was too scared at the prospect that nobody would even bat an eye to his booth. Worst case scenario, an insult or snide comment might drop and Isagi did not want to be there to hear all of that.
So, with a sigh and groan, he left his side of the huge exhibition and started to walk around. Surprisingly, Isagi was invited here to share his art here. Without hesitation, like a lion starved for meat, he jumped at the opportunity. Anything to build his portfolio. His eyes flicker up the big banner hanging in the middle of the bustling convention, written in big, bold words:
‘BLUE LOCK EXHIBITION.’
Whatever that meant; Isagi didn’t really care enough to research it. All he knew was that someone was free enough to ask all the under-20 oil painters in Japan to present their paintings. He didn’t expect the place to be so.. lively though.
As he walks past the canvases of colours and faces, Isagi is quickly sucked into the crowd - eager and amazed blue eyes gazing at every single painting. He stopped to stare at every single one, admiring the efforts that seamlessly blended into the curves of each stroke, ensuring he took the time to meticulously take apart the artist’s work.
Isagi’s always admired those with driven egos, the kind of artists who paint solely for themselves and nobody else. It was nothing less than extraordinary. He’s also never the kind to forget an artist that impressed him. With every step he took, his mind recounts the owner of each painting that particularly stole his attention.
Bachira Meguru. Isagi could recall vividly how confident and seemingly effortless the strokes of each colour was. Hyoma Chigiri. The way the artist had effectively captured the essence of the moment, each stroke long yet gentle.
Isagi was more than amazed, he was practically stunned by the talent of each person he came across. He was nothing like those geniuses, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel jealous. Just pure, unadulterated astonishment.
Isagi was just about to walk back to his booth, before his eyes just so happens to flicker to the right - the clash of blue with the grey hue of the crowd catching his sharp eye. Before he knew it, Isagi’s feet moved without thinking in a desperation to see the art for himself. The art that nearly captured the very wind it knocked out of him.
A shaky gasp leaves his lips when his feet stopped infront of an insanely huge canvas, maybe about 32”x48” - Isagi genuinely couldn’t think right. He’s never seen anything quite like the painting before him, nothing that’s ever caused him to pause and stare as though he was in a trance.
The painting was a barrage of blue roses concentrated in the middle, thorns adorning the bundle of them as red roses scatter by the edges of the previously white canvas. Every stroke seemed to lure Isagi closer, it made him want to merge with the oils - to feel the emotions the artist must’ve felt while drawing.
“Amazing..” He mindlessly whispered underneath his breath upon stopping before a certain painting, eyes locked onto the depths of the oil colours. He sucked in a breath, eyes flickering to the name of the artist. “Michael Kaiser..” Isagi manages to mumble out, the name distorted with his heavy Japanese accent, his voice breathless.
Isagi can’t help it when the edges of his lips tilt up in a smile, or when his jaw is agape while he stares. Thinking, pondering. He wanted to know what.. Kaiser must’ve felt. He wanted to know what inspired this art, what were the techniques used, what brushes - everything, anything.
He must’ve been staring a little too long, too immersed in the roses that he didn’t even realise that a taller man had taken step next to him. “Do you.. like this?” The man murmurs lowly, his words thick with a German accent that made Isagi want to chuckle just a little. He didn’t though.
His eyes barely even flicker to take a glance to the man, all he saw were the man’s blonde locks with blue ends and piercing ocean blue eyes, too engrossed with analysing the painting. “Yes,” Isagi only replies, his voice making it over the bustle and rumble of the crowd behind them, hands awkwardly placed by the side.
It was silent for a moment, too silent and too awkward. Isagi wanted to leave, but he wasn’t done with the painting.. He held back a groan, reminding himself to prioritise. Maybe this man was just admiring it as well. With that hopeful thought, Isagi clears his throat and finds some courage to speak.
“It’s an amazing painting. The colours, the strokes and the design. Everything is just beautifully do—“
“Seems lazy to me.”
It was only then did his gaze get ripped from the painting to glare at the prideful man next to him, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance and bewilderment. The man was taller than he had expected, his slim fingers adjusting the fluffy white turtleneck on his skin, towering over his measly 175cm self.
Isagi’s eye twitches in annoyance, a small scoff of disbelief leaving his lips at the sheer audacity of the man. The man was handsome, unfortunately, to say the least. A sleek outfit with a watch so expensive that Isagi was sure he’d never even seen before. Still, there was only so much a pretty face could do for a rotten mouth.
“Excuse me? What if the artist had heard you? Have you no decency?” Isagi snaps back sharply, uncaring for tone or expression. It seemed to have impressed the man, the way the taller’s expression flickers with a hint of amusement that made Isagi want to punch him straight in the teeth. He’s always hated it when others diminish the importance of art; it just showed the emotional maturity of a person.
The man simply stares at Isagi for a moment, a clear and shameless smirk tugging at those frustratingly handsome features, his hair falling above the piercing eyes that gazed through Isagi’s own. “My apologies, I didn’t realise you were the messiah,” the man snips with a sarcastic chuckle, an eyebrow raised with pure intention of provoking him, eyes glinting with an impure intent.
It worked. Isagi was provoked.
He grits his teeth, his hands folding against his chest as he quickly retorts back with a bite to his tone, “It doesn’t hurt to be respectful, you should know better. This painting is a testament of hard work.” Frustration and anger simmered beneath the surface of barely held level-headedness. Isagi just wanted to put this fool in his place.
Before the blonde rat-tail man could speak, Isagi is quick to interrupt. “You talk a lot for a man who can’t even recreate this,” He sneers boldly, and it was the man’s turn to scoff in offence. A small boastful smirk tugs at Isagi’s visage, smug about pissing off the arrogance out of the man.
It wasn’t long until a long drawled out chuckle leaves the man’s lips, though it was humourless and clearly miffed. “Hah? So I suppose Mr. Ahoge here paints, right?” Isagi had to physically hold himself back from jumping the taller man. Ahoge!? How dare he! His fists clench tightly, and he glared up at the man through his eyebrows.
“What about it, asshole? Got a bone to pick?” Isagi retorts back quickly, and it’s nearly comical how easily they fall into witty yet petty banter.
“It’s always wannabe artists like you that compliments every painting.”
“It’s always jerks like you that think they’re better than everyone.”
“You’ve got it wrong, blueberry. I don’t think I’m better, I know I am.”
“With that attitude, you probably don’t know that much people. It’s no wonder you think you’re great, shitty clown.”
The man laughs in disbelief, though it’s humourless. Isagi only rolled his eyes, annoyed at his stupid antics. He had no interest engaging in a stupid debate with a stranger who’s obviously slow. Screw that, there was no reason he needed to stay here.
Isagi made quick work of walking up to the side table by the booth, taking hold of the pen there and a post-it note. Just leave a note, and go. He had to bite back a snarky comment when the man towers and stands uncomfortably close to try to see the note he was leaving.
“What?” Isagi sighs in exasperation, confused and frustrated with the man’s insistent behaviour. The blonde simply shrugs, his finger pointing in an almost child-like manner before asking, “What’re you leaving for the artist, Isagi?,” The man reads the name off the note, his eyebrow perking in interest, “It’s just a bunch of flowers. You gonna tell him he can copy well?”
God. What a prude. Isagi honestly considered just punching him before running for his life, but since the man asked, he was ready to bestow some of his opinions. Being a nerd was sometimes a trump card, Isagi would say so himself.
“Well,” Isagi starts with a sharp note, narrowed eyes boring its way into the innocent post-it, “I think the blue roses were a nice touch; the flower symbolises mystery, or uniqueness. With the thorns shaping the bundle of blue, with red clashing against lighter colours..”
Isagi pauses, simply in awe of his own understanding of the work, eyes reflecting the beauty that reflected off the painting.
“I just feel like maybe the artist wanted to isolate the blue flowers. Like they’re unattainable, a mystery to everyone so that they stand out.” Isagi mumbles softly, swallowing hard as he inevitably finds himself getting sucked in again, before adding on ever so softly:
“Everything is deliberate. Each stroke, each thorn, each rose. Kaiser means.. Emperor in German. Maybe that’s what he was trying to achieve?” Isagi marvels, totally absorbed by the piece. He blinks in surprise at his own rambling, his cheeks flushing red in embarrassment.
Isagi’s head whips to face the man, in a hurry to defend and back track his words, but he’s met with such a tender expression on the stranger’s strikingly handsome features that he didn’t expect.
They gaze at each other for a fleeting moment, Isagi only then started to realise how similar the blonde’s deep blue eyes were to the roses that adorned the canvas. He swallows hard. Since when was the convention so stuffy?
“Thanks, geek.”
That’s all the man said before he stalked off, disappearing into the crowd seamlessly like a drop of water to an ocean. Isagi continued to stare at the absence of his figure, star-shocked by the simple word of gratitude. His heart thumps heavily in his chest as everything started to fall perfectly into place.
“Did he just call me a geek?” Isagi scoffs softly to himself, his hand shakily grabbing the jacket that covered the skin above his heart, but his voice was breathless. He chuckled to himself in disbelief for a few seconds, his mind too blank as he registered the turn of events, eyes glued to the ground.
That.. was Michael Kaiser. He had just geeked out about an art piece unknowingly to the artist himself, after calling him a shitty clown. Oh god, Isagi felt nauseous. That stupid man made a fool out of Isagi!
Isagi should be seething, should run after that blondie and give him a piece of his mind, but all he did was stand there - stunned by that breathtakingly, stupidly, handsome man. He walks back rather mindlessly to his own booth, embarrassed and flustered by the encounter, his shoulders bumping into every person.
Isagi snaps out of his dazed trajectory upon seeing a little sticky note on the desk, his eyes widening a little. That’s new. Rushing over to the table, he shakily grasps the note - hoping it was anything but constructive criticism. It would be nice to hear some praise.
Though, when the written words entered his brain, his heart nearly stops by how fast blood rushed to his cheeks instead. He held the note close to his chest, his eyes squeezing shut in an attempt to regulate the sudden overwhelm of emotion.
‘Nice one, a lot of soul in it. - Michael Kaiser.’
He needed to meet that man again. Somehow. To thank him, to punch him and to tell him how amazing he was.