Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jo likes the calm of the drawing room and the muffled conversations of the students painting with her. The quiet chatter in the room and the way the light curtains are dancing around to the rhythm of the wind helps her concentrate. Her fingers are steady, pencil running around on the paper, sure of the path they're taking. It always felt natural, the feeling of rough paper against her fingertips, the sweet noise of graphite scratching the white surface under her hands, the smell of eraser and paper fibre mixing in the air. 

There's nothing Jo likes more than sketching and tracing curves and lines. She always feel euphoric when she can finally put her pen down and admire the work she did, the magic she applied on the paper.

Taking a break from the piece she's working on, Jo tears her gaze from the easel —or chevalet, as her french teacher taught them— raising her head towards the windows giving on the corridor. Some students from other majors like to watch the drawing class practicing, for some reasons, today is no exception. There's a few heads pushing each other to have a better view on the inside of the art room, standing on the top of their toes. At first it made her uncomfortable, but after a while she got used to it. From time to time she pulls her sketchbook from her bag and chooses a random person pressed against the glass protecting her inside the warm bubble of the drawing class, to report their features on the grainy paper.

Scanning through all the eyes curiously looking inside the room, Jo takes her time to choose her subject of the day. She likes soft features, easier to draw, and suddenly her gaze stops on an oval face with slender eyes, pink hair and the white point of a canine peeking through pink lips. Her hair looks soft and shiny even with how much bleach might have been used on it to get such a pristine pastel pink, and her eyes are sparkling with interest. Jo thinks the pink haired girl looks like a cat, and it's what lures her in. 

Jo's hands mechanically works on their own, while her eyes stay stuck on the cat-like girl behind the window. She's not looking at Jo, seemingly busy observing Harua, another girl from Jo's class, at the other side of the room. Jo uses the security of watching without being watched back to inspect the soft features, the slight furrow of her brows, the way her bangs fall on her forehead, the tooth hiding away in her mouth whenever she pouts, focused on Harua's drawing. Jo shots a glance, Harua is working hard on a very serious still life, surprisingly realistic, unexpected of her. 

Jo would describe herself as someone very observant. A good third of her class probably don’t really know her, because she’s shy, and likes to keep to herself, but Jo knows them all. She learned how to understand who they are through their arts. Harua, for example, is a very lively girl, nice to everyone, and Jo thinks her art resembles her a lot. She likes to mix abstract art and japanese traditional art, as well as manga. She loves the Superflat movement, with artist like Aya Tanako, Chiho Aoshima, or even Yoshimoto Nara. It’s cute, it references pop art, and it gives Harua an excuses to paint as many bunnies as she want. Harua was the first friend Jo made in university. Their other classmates all have very divergent art style, and Jo likes to look at all their finish pieces at the end of each lesson to fully take in how contrasting it looks. She thinks there’s an unexpected unity in their differences.

Jo is barely looking at the paper, eyes fixed back on the pink haired girl. Her fingers know the steps they have to take to finish the road and they don’t need her eyes for guide. She’s so used to drawing now, that she rarely need to physically look. She sees with her hands, with the pencil, with the paper. 

Suddenly, the pink haired girl turns her head towards Jo, meeting her eyes. She looks slightly surprised to find someone already watching her, but it’s soon replaced by a small grin, almost malicious. The canine peeks through again, and Jo’s face turns fully red. She’s not sure if it’s from the turmoil in her belly caused by the cute smile, or the embarrassment at being caught red-handed starring persistently. The girl on the other side of the window winks, a light of amusement in her eyes, and just like that, she’s gone, drowned in the heavy crowd of student getting out of class. She’s a cherry blossom’s petal, pink and full of spring, gone with the wind.

Jo feels feverish. When she looks down on her sketch, the lead of her pencil broke. She didn’t even realise she was pressing so brutally on the paper, breathe held in. A big black dot in the centre of the page, crowned with fragment of graphite, is all it is left of the lead.

The bell rings, Jo has to leave the drawing room, and the remaining of pink hair and blooming flowers still lingering in her mind.

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

A week passes, and Jo can’t stop thinking about pink hairs and canine teeth. It sticks to her brain like gum under a shoe. She ponders on asking Harua about the girl, guessing they were probably friends from the way the cat-like girl kept looking at Harua’s drawing. She doesn’t do it in the end, too scared to come off as weird, and honestly a bit too shy to talk about her possible crush to Harua. Instead, she starts paying more attention to the people in between classes, perpetually looking for pastel pink hair that looks softer than silk. But, university buildings are huge, and Jo comes to the conclusion that her cat hunt is bound to fail. By the start of the weekend, she gives up on trying to find the pink haired girl and hides the sketch she made in one of her drawers, determined to not think about it again. 

Monday rolls around, and Jo meets Harua right in front of the drawing room, for their class. They sit next to each other, as always, and while Jo sets up the tools she want to use, Harua asks. “Jojo, do you know what we’re drawing today ? I hope it’s not perspective like last time, it was so painfully boring !” And to prove her point, Harua lets out a heavy sigh. 

Jo chuckles softly. “I liked it, I think it was pretty interesting.” Harua rolls her eyes, a smile on her lips, and Jo laughs a bit louder, as loud as Jo can, her eyes smiling fondly. “I don’t think it’s perspectives again today though.” She points towards the small wood platform in the middle of the room. “I’m guessing we’re drawing real life models.” 

Harua ponders on it a while, looking at the unusual shape in the room, before nodding. “Sounds fun, I could settle for that.” It gets her another giggle from Jo. 

Jo goes back to prepping her easel, putting her pencils on a side table, sorted by how much she likes to use them. Harua’s putting order in her own tools, when she suddenly jolts, a light squeal leaving her lips. When Jo turns back to her, it looks like Harua just remembered something really important. 

“It is really model drawing today ! Yuma told me she applied to model for our class, I completely forgot it was today.” Jo wants to ask about this Yuma, but before she can open her mouth, their teacher asks for silence, class starting. 

As suspected, their teacher confirms the subject of the day ; real life model drawing. As she explains the expectations she has for today and what she wants to see from the students all neatly sited behind their easels, Jo, from the corner of her eyes, can see a gracious figure —almost feline in the way she walks— entering the class and walking towards the platform in the middle. Her breathe stops when she sees the pink hair carefully held in place in a perfect bun. 

Harua leans towards Jo and whispers close to her ear. “This is Yuma ! She just transferred here few weeks ago, a childhood friends, we went to the same middle and high schools, we were always in the same class. She’s really good at posing for drawings, you’ll see.” 

Yuma —Jo can finally put a name on the pink haired girl— takes her spot on the platform. She’s facing the other side of the class, so Jo can’t really see her face yet, but she knows it’s the girl she’s been looking for everywhere. She recognises the perfect pastel colour of her hair, the softness of her jaw, the slightly round bump of her cheekbones. She can’t see her eyes but she remembers how sharp they looked. Jo’s fingers are gripped around her pencil and she’s stuck in place, not moving an inch, eyes locked on Yuma getting into the pose the teacher asked her to follow. Her eyes slowly follows the line of Yuma’s neck, going down her bare back and stops at the end of her hips, the rest of her body hidden away by a white sheet Yuma’s holding in place with her hands. The piece of clothe is too big wrapped around Yuma, her legs tangled with the white fabric, and she looks like she’s drowning in a giant white flower. Jo thinks the pink of her hair, the soft blush on her face, the tan line on her shoulders tracing the ghost of a bikini, and the white of the sheet, makes her look like the embodiment of spring itself. 

Jo eventually starts breathing again, air coming out irregularly. The other students have all started to paint or draw, brush strokes and scratching of paper filling the room, but Jo just can’t bring her body to move. Last time she couldn’t see enough of Yuma, and went on a crazy search in the university to see more, but now that she can actually see more, it’s too much. She’s seeing too much, and the smooth curve of Yuma’s waist, the perfect crook of her neck, is simply mesmerising. 

It’s not the first time their teacher organises a class with models, and it’s definitely not the first time Jo has to draw a pretty girl, but she thinks Yuma might be the prettiest girl she’s ever seen, and it’s complicating things. 

Harua digs her elbow in between Jo’s ribs. “Jojo ! Focus ! I know Yuma’s gorgeous but she has to change the pose in 10 minutes !” Jo’s cheeks growing crimson at an incredible speed gets her a laugh from Harua. 

Harua’s elbow nudge at least has the merit to wake Jo up from her torpor. She considers the pencil in her hand, making it roll between her fingers, feeling the familiar texture and weight, before putting it down for a watercolour brush. The brush dips in the small water container on the table, before diving into the palette, straight into the pink pigment. She mixes the liquid with the paint powder carefully, watering it down enough to get the specific shade she’s looking for. Once she’s satisfied with it, Jo lifts her brush and starts caressing the paper sticked to her easel. 

She starts with the pink of Yuma’s hair, but instead of reproducing the tight up-do the pink strands are tied into, she takes creative liberty and let’s Yuma’s hair down on the paper. Her strokes are precise, steady, they know what they’re supposed to do. A pink waterfall flows on the white surface, following the arch of Yuma’s back, highlighting the bow of her waist, hiding the crook of her neck. Jo waters down the colour even more, and adds a few curves, spectral presence, to bring out the perfect shape of Yuma’s body. 

Jo is fully taken by her work, focused on recreating the absolute raw beauty of Yuma, from the moles along her spine, to the slight hyperpigmentation on the nap of her neck —Jo thinks it looks like traces of watercolour— to the few hair strands escaping the bun and falling against the part of her cheek Jo can see. She’s so focused, she doesn’t hear when the teacher asks Yuma to change poses and only sees it when, raising her head once again from the paper, her eyes meets Yuma’s. There’s something between them, like a silent greeting, an invisible nod of the head, that says “we’ve seen other before”. Jo regretfully tears her gaze away, feeling the red creeping on her neck, to change the paper on her easel. 

She can feel Yuma’s gaze on her, unwavering, anchored on her like a tree to the ground. 

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

Yuma remembers Jo. When she went to steal a glance at Harua’s work —after Taki swore Harua was working on something way out of character, and that it was the funniest thing to see her struggle with realism— she didn’t expect to be used as a drawing model herself. But Yuma remembers the way Jo looked at her. She’s used to people looking, she has pastel pink hair and a snaggle tooth peeking from her lips, and the way she dresses doesn’t tame it all down. Eventually, she had to get used to being stared at. The way Jo looked at her was different from the other kind of glances she usually gets though, and Yuma remembers it very clearly. It was genuine interest, the kind of curiosity you express when catching a species of butterfly you have never seen before, or when you stumble on an intricate flower. Pure and raw interest, something you keep for odd animals and funny looking plants, not for humans. 

However, it wasn’t an objectifying look. Yuma knows Jo didn’t see her as just a model for her drawing, the same way she would look at an apple when drawing a still life. Jo’s gaze on her had only lasted at most five seconds, before Yuma left the corridor, but it had made her feel like she was some kind of muse, forever adored by artists, maybe somewhere in ancient Greece. She was more than a drawing subject in Jo’s eyes, more than another face to add to the collection of Jo’s sketchbook. It made her feel like the four seasons all at once, like the Moon and the Sea, like the entire World and all the stars in the galaxy. No one ever looked at her like that, like she existed and was beautiful just for existing. She doesn’t know Jo, and Jo doesn’t know her either, but Yuma feels like Jo saw through her like she was transparent ice. When Yuma applied for the modelling classes, hoping to get enough money to help her end the month comfortably, she secretly hoped to end in Jo’s class, just to know if she looked at everyone the way she did with Yuma.

Right now, posing the best she can on her wooden platform, Yuma can feel Jo’s gaze on her again, and she knows the other girl is looking at her with the same intensity she did a few days ago. 

Perched up on the stool, in the standing position the teacher asked her to recreate, Yuma can see Jo’s hands working rapidly on the paper, sliding and tracing, almost like she’s caressing the paper, but she can’t see the actual drawing. Curiosity is eating her stomach away, and she has to bite the inside of her cheeks to not move an inch. Jo’s eyes keep meeting hers, and the way Jo’s face flushes pinker and pinker every time makes Yuma wants to smile really badly. 

Yuma likes the way Jo’s eyes linger on the exposed part of her skin. Her hands still grips the white sheet tightly, holding it in place around her, but her back and the start of her hips are bare. The yellowish light spots the teacher placed on her makes the last remaining of her summer tan a bit more saturated, and she noticed how Jo’s always going back there, loosing herself in the faint trace of her swimsuit. Bright pink is slowly colouring Yuma’s face, contrasting with the pale colour of her hair. The art teacher, calling for a 10 minutes break before the next pose, saves her the embarrassment of looking like a giant strawberry in front of an entire class. 

Yuma gets down from her platform, gratefully putting on the dressing gown left on a chair right next to where she’s been posing for almost an hour now. Struggling to hide her curiosity, Yuma tours the room quietly, taking peeks and glances at everyone’s production, giving a slight impressed nod when she thinks the portrait is really well done. Inevitably, she ends up facing Jo and her painting. 

The watercolour palette is still laying around on the table next to the easel, brushes and water pot scattered around it. There’s an old piece of clothe, spotted with different colours from different paints, and also pens and markers all around. Yuma remembers how Jo’s work space was tidy and well organised —just what she expected from Jo— compared to now. It looks like the creative storm that took over Jo’s mind and hands, also blew furiously on the spot she stands in. The thought puts a coy smile on Yuma’s face. She wants to think Jo drawing her put Jo’s world in a hurricane, overwhelming not only Jo’s senses but also her usual way of working. Yuma tells herself that maybe she moves Jo’s so much it turned her upside down. She meets Jo’s eyes, and sure enough Jo looks as messy as her work space. Yuma likes it a bit too much. 

They don’t talk with words, just through eyes meeting, and Jo gently turns her easel towards Yuma, so she can see the painting she did. Yuma smiles gratefully, then turns towards the papers sticked on the wood plank. Her breathe stays stuck in her throat, and she doesn’t even notice her hands clenching around the belt of the dressing gown. 

Harua always talks about how talented Jo is, and even though they never met before, Yuma knows about Jo’s careful curves and lines and how good she is with painting. But hearing about beauty and seeing it in real life are two different things. Yuma thinks even with all the praises Harua gives to Jo’s drawing, she simply would have never imagined it to be so breathe-taking. It’s her on the paper, her with the pink hair running freely on her bare back —and around her frame in the second drawing Jo made— her persistent tan lines, her moles along her spine, her hands tightly holding the clothe, her slight smile. It’s simply her, but it feels like more than that. Yuma never felt so beautiful in someone’s eyes before. If Jo’s hands can draw her so beautifully, can recreate perfectly the lines of her body, she wonders how they would feel tracing those lines directly against her skin. 

Before she can actually say anything, Yuma is called back on her wooden platform, and she painfully tears her gaze away from the drawing. Once she’s back up on her stool, she catches a glimpse of Jo’s face and how red she looks, hurriedly switching for a blank paper on her easel. 

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

“Jojo what happened with your table.” Harua laughs, putting away the last pens and brush inside her art tool pouch. “It was so tidy at the start, were you hit by a tornado or something ?” 

Jo shrugs her shoulder, embarrassed at the state of her work space. She’s scrubbing the floor with a wet sponge, erasing the last spots of watercolours staining the ground. “I don’t know … I guess I was a bit too into my painting …” 

Harua abruptly stops laughing, a curious light shinning in her eyes. Jo turns to her, her eyes begging Harua to not say anything of the words hanging from her open mouth. She can feel the internal dilemma inside Harua’s head, but in the end she closes her mouth and just nods, understanding. Jo breathes out discretely, relieved. It’s another reason as to why she’s really fond of Harua, she knows when to keep quiet when Jo would rather not hear the comments she so badly wants to make. 

Jo puts the towel away, shoving the last remaining of her stuff inside her bag, then joins Harua at the door, leaving the classroom with her. Taki and Maki are waiting for them right in front. Maki is munching on a melon bread, focused on her phone she’s furiously typing on, Taki looking at the screen over her shoulder. They’re still wearing their soccer uniform, shorts muddy from the dirt field and messy hair strands coming out of their tied up ponytails. Taki jumps up when she finally sees Harua getting out of the room, running to grip her arm affectionately. Maki follows her soon, greeting Harua and Jo a bit more calmly. 

“Did you guys see Yuma leave already ?” Harua asks, gently pushing Taki away to adjust the star-shaped hairpins in her hair the other girl just messed up. Taki whines, getting a soft fond laugh from Jo. 

“Yeah, she left already.” Maki answers, putting a rebellious hair back in her up-do. Harua looks confused, and Maki continues after a comprehensive nod. “She told us she was late for one of her class, and to tell you to not wait for her.” 

Taki’s fingers tangles with Harua’s, a proud grin on her face when she doesn’t pulls away. Harua, slightly pouting, shots a subtle look at Jo who’s standing back, quietly listening to the conversation. “Okay well …” Harua starts. “Too bad, I wanted us all to eat together, I was planning on introducing her to Jo. Let’s eat lunch just us then ?” Harua doesn’t wait for an answer, already walking towards the cafeteria, dragging Jo with her. Taki and Maki have no choices but to follow along.

Jo met Taki through Harua, three months ago, when the two girls started dating. The same way Jo isn’t really far wherever Harua is, Maki always sticks to Taki’s side. Eventually they all merged into one single friend group when the two lovebird finally stopped courting each other and made things official. Jo isn’t as close to Maki and Taki as she is with Harua, but she really enjoys hanging out with them. 

Jo’s a serene person. She likes to sit back and watch, observe, listen. She likes to bask into all the details around her and draw. Maki, Taki, and even Harua are on the complete opposite side of her spectrum, perfectly filling her quietness with incessant chatter, laughter and warmth. They know how to include Jo in all of their conversations, without her needing to really talk. Not that Jo doesn’t like to talk, but holding conversations asks of her too much energy. She’s never exhausted when she’s hanging out with the three other girls, she can be herself and even feel appreciated for who she is, and she’s very grateful for it. Jo thinks she probably can’t find better friends than the one she has. 

Jo remembers once someone making fun of Harua, telling her she was basically just talking with herself every time she was hanging out with Jo. Harua had replied “Jo talks a lot actually, you just don’t know how to listen.” After that day, Jo promised herself to never loose Harua’s friendship. 

When strolling through the corridors, mindlessly following Harua towards the cafeteria hall, something catches Jo’s attention. From the corner of her eyes, she can see pink, and a pink she now knows all too well after painting it for almost two hours. She turns her head towards the coloured spot, barely visible, almost drowned in the crowd, just like the first time they met. One glance and she knows it’s Yuma, from the curl of her hair and the watercolour on her neck. They meet eyes, and Yuma winks, just like she did the first time, smiling big and wide, tooth out. Jo thinks she’s going to faint and stops brutally, straight as a pencil, legs threatening to give out. Maki doesn’t have time to stop in time and crashes straight into her, making Jo trip and fall over both Harua and Taki. 

“Maki ! How many time do we have to tell you to not walk while looking at your phone !” Harua scolds, getting up from the floor the best she can, somehow managing to pull Taki and Jo back up, struggling a bit more with the later, way taller than her. 

“Hey !” Maki hisses out, slightly pissed. “It wasn’t me, I swear ! My phone is literally in my pocket ! It’s Jo, she stopped right in front of me !” She crosses her arms on her chest, pouting. 

Harua turns her reproachful gaze towards Jo, ready to scold her, but also slightly confused. “Jojo ? What was that !” 

Jo’s hand comes resting against her neck, gently scratching the skin there, visibly embarrassed. “Sorry, I thought I saw … Something …” 

Taki and Maki are looking curiously at Jo, but Harua is already scanning their surroundings, trying to guess what could have made Jo stop so abruptly. Jo can feel her cheeks heating up, embarrassment growing deeper in her heart. She knows Harua is smart and will probably soon find out what made her fall over everyone like that. When Harua turns back to her, eyes beaming with mischief and fondness, she can feel her stomach turning upside down. Jo knows she’s probably never going to live peacefully ever again. 

There’s also a part of Jo who’s relieved. Harua and her have been friends for too long now and she doesn’t like keeping things away from her, she’s bad at it anyways. At first, seeing Yuma again sounded so unbelievable, Jo didn’t think much of it and found it easier to forget about the lovely pink hair by not talking about it to anyone, even Harua. Now, Jo knows she will probably see Yuma almost everyday if she continues posing for their class. They haven't talked yet, but it’s harder to get Yuma out of her head when she’s always standing right in front of her easel, patiently waiting for her cue to change position, even when all they share is silence and an art room. 

When she gets home, Jo takes her first drawing of Yuma out of the drawer where she had hidden it away, to put it back in her bag, tightly squeezed between the pages of her sketchbook. 

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

Jo is right, and Harua doesn’t stop talking about Yuma. It’s torture for Jo. Not only does she have to draw everyday the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen and on who she has a huge crush, but her best friend and classmate —who also happens to be childhood friend with said girl she has a crush on, and apparently has to tell everything about said girl to Jo— is always sitting next to her, wiggling her eyebrows explicitly and nudging her with her elbow all the time. 

A few weeks passes and Jo isn't sure on how to act around Yuma. She desperately wants to get closer, to know her better but they never exchange more than a few words, even though Harua introduced them to each other on the second class. Yuma is always right in front of her but she feels painfully out of reach, like she's standing on the opposite side of the sea, Jo alone on the beach. She tries to catch the glimpses and pieces Yuma screams at her through the waves, never loud enough to be fully heard, but it's still something. 

“Rua, please, concentrate on your drawing… Let me paint peacefully…” Jo pleads, her tone dangerously close to begging, almost desperate. Yuma is standing in front of them, ever so gorgeous, arms reaching towards the sky, crowning her head. Jo is trying really hard to focus on the muscles, on the flesh and the angles of Yuma’s frame —she’s trying really hard, for once, to forget Yuma’s face and how soft her hair looks— but Harua’s constant pestering makes her brain circles back on Yuma’s side profile beautifully highlighted by the afternoon light bleeding from the windows. 

Harua eventually stops bugging her, focusing back on her own work. Yuma has been holding the pose for about fifteen minutes, and Jo knows she’s going to have to change in more or less five minutes, but she just can’t concentrate on anything else than the slight bump of her cheeks and the glitters haphazardly applied under her eyes. Jo isn’t really good at makeup, and judging by how Yuma always comes to university mixing powder and shimmers —like it’s paint— on her face, Jo thinks she might not know much either, or maybe she just doesn’t care. Jo likes the way Yuma puts on makeup. It’s fun, it’s vibrant and it feels just like her; malicious. It’s uncommon and it lingers in Jo’s brain long after Yuma leaves their daily drawing classes. When Jo closes her eyes, there’s always Yuma’s glitters sticking behind the skin of her eyelids.

The teacher asks for another pause, and Jo sighs at the sight of her painting. The body is halfway done, and it’s painfully obvious she gave up on the skin depictions of Yuma’s arms, abandoned for the play of light on Yuma’s face. The entire body is too light, the first undercoat —or aplat, as their teacher always calls it— contrasts way too much with the overly detailed face. There’s a try at texture towards the shoulders, but  it’s only because Yuma’s face gently rests on them, the touch featherlight. Yuma’s limbs are ghost-like traces around the shadows spotting her face with darker spot on the paper. 

“Asakura, you need to manage your time better if you want to do a full piece.” The french accent of the teacher rings in Jo’s ears, making her jump slightly from the surprise. She didn’t notice the teacher passing behind her, too focused on putting her paper to dry next to her easel. “Or just focus on one single part and not bother with the rest. This isn’t a stylistic exercise, I’m not asking for cleverly artistic final products, I want realism and accuracy. You need to fully understand the academic rules to be able to go around it and bend them to your liking.” 

Jo nods, shyly. Her teacher is right and she knows it, and usually she’s able to follow the instructions she gives to the class, but doing that with Yuma is another type of exercise. When the pink haired girl is the model, Jo can’t control her brushes. They run freely on the paper, like they have their own consciousness, and this consciousness only cares about face, eyes, hair, and the glimpses she can catch from the inside of Yuma’s mind. It’s only interested by the flush of Yuma’s cheek, the subtle sweat dripping down her forehead from the effort of keeping the pose, the glimmer of her eyelids, the fold of her neck and the inside of her shoulder.

Jo sticks a brand new paper on the rim of the easel in front of her while Yuma switches for another pose. This time, Yuma is on the ground, limbs embracing her frame, tight against herself. Jo’s canvas is painfully white and bare, waiting to be filled, but all she can see is the way Yuma’s hair slides from her shoulders, playing hide and seek with her face and arms, grazing the floor like a caress. 

Jo reaches for gouache —still somewhat light and diluted, but more vibrant than watercolours, thicker too, more defined, stronger— fingers gripped on her brush. The peaceful pristine white is soon stained with pearly pink. 

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

Yuma gives one last look to the narrow room where the art teacher lets her change, making sure the long paper rolls and folded easel are still right in their usual spot, before closing the door behind her. Making her way through the crowded corridors, navigating between the tall frames of the other students, Yuma thinks back on the drawing class. Jo didn’t let her see her painting this time, she didn’t even let Harua see either. Jo is usually eager to show her work, even more to Yuma, sometimes she's even the one calling her over, turning to easel towards her, waiting for her output on the paintings. Curiosity is itching Yuma’s skin, and she wonders what could have Jo possibly painted to make her feel so shy about it, hiding from everyone else in the class, except the teacher. 

Yuma’s barely looking in front of her, eyes wandering around without actually focusing on anything. She’s walking a bit too fast, and it gets her a few complaints from the people she slightly runs into every time she rushes into the turns of the university’s corridors. She misses the next turn, busy apologising to the last person she pushed a bit too abruptly, and when her face whirls back to the road in front of her, her nose bumps violently against the hard surface of books. The shock is brutal enough for Yuma to step back a few step, painfully trying to find a steady anchor on the ground, gently massaging her nose. 

Apologetic words are already at the tip of her tongue, but she never lets them out, because she just recognised the girl in front of her, frenetically gathering her books from the ground. Jo’s long hair are usually tied up, but today she let them down, and they’re slipping from her shoulders, almost grazing the white tile flooring. They look silky soft, the black pigment deeper than night, and a sweet fragrance fills the air every time Jo moves. Yuma wants to burry her face in Jo’s hair, and fall asleep there, in the perfect curve of her neck. Yuma’s hand freezes, still pinching the bridge of her nose, when Jo lift her face to her, eyes sending silent plea for forgiveness. Surprisingly she’s the first to talk, cutting short Yuma’s train of thoughts.  

“Oh, sorry Yuma. I wasn’t looking in front of me." Jo is fidgety, nervousness written all over her body, hands gripped on her notebooks she just bent down to get from the floor. 

"It's okay, I wasn't really looking either." Yuma smiles softly, trying her best to sound and look reassuring. There's a voice screaming inside her head and Yuma takes a chance. "I've actually been meaning to ask you if you could show me the first sketch you made of me." She stops, waiting for Jo to answer, to react, but she's only met with a confused look on the other girl's face. "You know, when we first met, I mean when we first saw each other I guess. I was looking at Harua's drawing through the window, and you were drawing me on your sketchbook. Or was it not me ?" The right corner of Yuma's mouth pulls up even more, her playful grin growing into a full smile. "I'm pretty sure it was me, though." 

Jo's next words come out as a stuttering mess, and she can't even manage to get one single coherent sentence out. She kneels back down, digging into her bag like crazy, her books and notes left scattered on the floor once more. After a few seconds of furious hunt into the mess of her pens and sketchbooks and brushes and a few watercolours palettes, she finally pulls out the sketchbook Yuma recognises as the one she was using the first day they saw each other.

"Well, I ... Uhm I've been meaning to ... Well to show it to you so I .. I've been carrying it around ..." Jo's face is flushed bright pink, and Yuma thinks she likes the soft rosy hue of Jo's cheeks more than the pink dye of her hair. She gently grabs the notebook Jo's handing her. Their fingers brush slightly, and Yuma can swear she feels Jo's hands shivering under the ghostly touch. 

Yuma carefully holds the notebook with both hands, handling it like it's the most precious thing she's ever held in her life. Before giving it to her, Jo opened it to the right page, the stray paper stuck there between the last page and the hard back cover of the sketchbook. The date of the day they met is carefully written in neat little characters at the head of the page. Yuma's fingers brush sweetly against the paper, savouring the grainy texture and the slight hollowness at the bottom of the paper, where she can guess Jo's pen broke judging by the marks around it. Her eyes scans the page, focused on all the lines and curves Jo's laid on the paper. 

Yuma saw Jo's paintings every time she came to model for her class, she saw the precise stroke of the brushes and the way she stubbornly sticked to watercolours, she saw the fixation on her hair and the details and care Jo put into it. Yuma is confident to think that, by now, she can pretty much guess how the next painting is gonna turn out. Jo is shy and doesn't talk about herself a lot, so it's hard to fully grasp who she is, but when it comes to drawing Yuma, she's pretty predictable. Except the sketch under Yuma's digits isn't like the few paintings she's made of her. 

Instead of the expected thoroughly polished pink curls Jo likes to dwell into, this sketch focuses on Yuma's face, and only her face. Her neck, her torso, her hair, even the background of the corridor are just blurry lines and messy shading, abandoned for a greater design; the features of her face. Her brows have the slight crease between them she gets when she furrows them, her eyes are sharp and focused, her mouth pouting, her tooth peeking through subtly. It's her, just her, without anything else. No personality, no colors, just a plain realistic sketch. There's something foreign about the drawing, and her own face feels like and stranger to Yuma. But, she thinks that even through the unfamiliar yet intimate lines, Jo sees something most people don't. 

"It's beautiful ..." She breathes out, voice slightly strained because of the air struggling to get out of her throat. "I think you really have a talent to see people. There's a certain care in your lines, something other people don't necessarily put in when they draw. It's like, with just a drawing of the outside facade, you get a glimpse of the inside world. I love it. Thank you, Jo." 

Yuma raises her head to meet Jo's eyes. She has to lean her head a bit back since Jo's taller than her. Yuma never noticed how tall she was before — they never stood close enough for her to notice, and most of the time she's taller than everyone in the drawing room, towering over the easels on her wooden platform — but the realisation makes her head spin a little. Jo's struggling to speak, mumbling soft 'thank you's after each new compliment from Yuma. Her face is crimson red now, and Yuma wants to change the pink of her hair for the pretty vermillion of Jo's cheeks. 

"Do you like cat cafes ?" Yuma blurts out, not letting Jo answer before she starts talking again. "Come with me. This Saturday, say around 2pm ? It's my favourite place in the world." 

Jo nods, shyly, and Yuma thinks she's too coy to give her a voiced answer, so she settles on the head nod. Yuma bends downs after giving back her sketchbook to Jo, grabbing a pen in the mess at their feet. She reaches for Jo's arms, folding her fingers around her slender wrist, and gently presses the pen against Jo's skin, right under the junction between her hand and her forearm, carefully writing her phone number. Jo doesn't move, but Yuma can feel Jo's limbs shivering under the touch of the pen, and the way Jo's eyes are fixed on her, monitoring every shift from her face. 

After the last digit, Yuma turns Jo's wrist, lacing Jo's fingers around the pen. "Your turn, give me your number." Yuma rolls her sleeve up, revealing the smooth skin under. 

Jo's fingers tightens around the pen and Yuma can feel her nervousness tensing the air around them. Gently, like she's trying to pet a fearful cat, Jo grabs Yuma's elbow, pulling Yuma closer. The pen strokes tingles her skin and the warmth coming from Jo's fingers on her makes her feel like there is a volcano buried deep inside her, filling her veins with lava, ready to pour out at any moment. 

Jo lets go of her arm, and immediately Yuma misses the unfamiliar contact between their limbs. Carefully putting back the lid on her pen, Jo finally speaks again, looking at Yuma through her lashes, shyly. “I need to show you something.” 

Jo bends down once more, putting order in her books and brushes, neatly sorting everything in her bag. Yuma waits for her to get back up before giving her a slight nod, a silent answer to Jo’s words. It wasn’t a question, but Yuma felt like she had to give something back to Jo. She doesn’t know Jo well, Harua rarely talks about her outside of her praises for her drawing talents, and today is the first time they talk as much, but she thinks she understand the way Jo works. Opening up isn’t easy, and she feels like it’s even harder for Jo. She took a shy step on the shore towards Yuma, dipping her feet in the sea water, trying to give a tangible shape to an unspoken connection between them, and the least Yuma can do is extend her hand back and fight off the crashing waves to meet her on the other side.

Jo rushes through the corridors, looking back from time to time to make sure Yuma follows. they reach the art room again, and Yuma hopes it means Jo wants to show her the painting she did today. Jo stops in front of the room, pulling her bag off her shoulder to get the keys stored in the front pocket, to open the door for Yuma. She waves her head towards the inside of the room, silently letting Yuma know that she’s welcome in, but she doesn’t enter the room herself. Yuma looks at her, and the expression on her face must be pretty confused, because Jo gives her a sheepish smile, looking slightly shy, before speaking. 

“I’m a bit embarrassed of this drawing. I assumed you wanted to see it because you looked pretty disappointed when i put it away without letting you see it, so you can take a look now. If you want, of course ! But … I would rather you do it without me …” Yuma nods, understanding, and Jo smiles a bit bigger, grateful. She reaches for Yuma’s hand and stuffs the art room keys in it. “All my paintings of you are there also, so take your time, you can go through them all. Just make sure you lock the door behind you.” Jo slides her arms through the straps of her bag, securing it on her back once more, before waving goodbye to Yuma. She turns around, and in a few seconds she disappears in another corridor. 

Yuma is left alone with her thoughts and the constant buzzing of voices filling the large hallways. She closes the door behind her and silence takes over, the outside noise muted behind thick walls. As she watches people passing by through the glass windows, Yuma understands why Jo likes to draw here so much. It’s easy to appreciate the calm of the space, with faint scent of paint still lingering around, the uproar of the world far away. Harua told her once that Jo likes to watch without being watched back, and Yuma finally gets it. The drawing room is a hideout for Jo, where she belongs so fully people don’t notice her. Jo’s presence blends perfectly with the few pots scattered around the room, still filled with opaque coloured water and dirty brushes student forgot to clean. Jo is tall but she fits just right in between the folded easel and the few white canvas. The evening glow is lightening up the entire room, casting orange spots all around the room thanks to the few still clean water recipient placed next to the windows, reflecting the sun, and Yuma feels so at peace she almost doesn't want to leave. 

To Yuma, Jo resembles that room. She’s peace and quiet, she smells like fresh pigment and brand-new paper, she sounds like the perfect stroke brushing over the sheet of the canvas and the chime of bristles against glass when they get dipped in water, she looks like the last lights of the day basking the room in a warm beam. Ultimately, Jo’s love for the art room just makes sense. 

Yuma’s eyes lend on the pile of paintings neatly stored next to Jo’s usual spot. The floor is still faintly tainted by paint stain. Yuma can recognise the texture of gouache and she’s surprised Jo switched her trusty watercolours for something thicker. She gets closer and delicately grabs the first painting, on the top of the pile. It’s one of the first painting Jo made of her, in one of their first session. The strokes are light and aerial, and Yuma’s body on the paper is just dancing lines embellished with pink curls. The next drawing is pretty similar, and the same goes for at least five other drawing after. 

Yuma already saw them all before, but never took the time to actually look at the details. They all have something in common; the careful attention given to her hair, and from afar they can look very similar. A few faint lines and a pink river in the middle. But once you get closer, once you look attentively, they’re all very different. The first one Jo focused on the moles of Yuma’s back, the second it’s the birthmark on her neck, the third it’s the few old pimple scars on her shoulders, etc. With every new painting, Yuma's features starts growing less foreign, more familiar, more cherished.

Yuma falls on the ground, paper scattered all around her, baffled at how much attention Jo puts on her. From the corner of her eyes, she catches one painting, still sticked to Jo’s easel. She raises her head towards it, intrigued. It looks different —the colour more saturated, the texture of the paint denser and more opaque than the usual watercolours Jo uses— and Yuma thinks it might be the same gouache from the spots on the floor. 

The painting focuses on her hair, like most of them do, but it’s more defined than with her watercolours stroke. Yuma gets closer, and the details of the hair are so meticulous she wants to brush her hand through the curls to see if they feel real, if they feel as soft as they look. Unconsciously, Yuma tangles her finger in her hair, only met with disappointment when they don’t run smoothly through the pink strands. She thinks Jo got it wrong, her hair isn’t as silky as it looks on the paper. 

The canvas is immaculate, strikingly white, around the mess of limbs and curls tightly squeezed together in the middle of the page. There’s no face on the drawing, even though Yuma noticed how much Jo draws faces, mostly hers. It’s just arms and legs, feet, hands, elbows and ankles, and a sea of pink hair flowing between the creeks of the body, tying everything in place. Yuma gets lost in the landscape of her own body, somewhat turned into a wild beach with the help of a bit of gouache. She doesn’t know much about art but she knows Jo’s painting are special. The way she looks at Yuma, the way she sees her, is different from the others. It’s softer, like a gentle spring breeze blowing cherry blossoms in its path, and Yuma wants to keep it anchored on her forever.

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

There’s also good in Harua knowing about Jo’s crush. It’s hard to concentrate in class with her hyperactive bunny cheers every time Yuma meets eyes with Jo, sure, but Jo is grateful to hang out with Harua at night and share with her every little interaction she had with the pink haired girl.

After leaving Yuma behind in the art room, Jo runs straight to Harua. She finds the girl seating next to Taki —her head resting gently against her girlfriend’s neck— Maki in front of them, in the library. When Harua sees the look on Jo’s face it’s like she already knows everything without Jo needing to say anything. Harua jolts away from Taki’s embrace, pulling the chair on her other side for Jo to sit on. The sudden agitation catches Maki’s and Taki’s attention, and they all turn to Jo sitting down, waiting for her story. 

Jo tells them about the encounter in the hallway, about Yuma's sweet smile and the nice words about her drawing, about the invitations to the cat cafe and the exchange of numbers, and finally about letting Yuma in the art room to take a look at Jo’s paintings of her. She doesn’t talk about what the snaggle toothed-smile and the pink of Yuma’s hair does to her heart, or the way her belly turns whenever Yuma is in front of her, and she keeps quiet on the way her knees goes soft when she tries to imagine what Yuma could smell like. Jo knows she doesn’t need to mention it, because her feelings are already too obvious, spilling out from her eyes when she talks about Yuma. Harua is on the edge of her seat —buzzing with energy, a big smile on her lips— and her face lights up in a knowing beam when Jo mentions letting Yuma in the art room, because she knows the one painting Jo didn’t want anyone to see, not even Harua, is sitting still on Jo’s easel in the art room. 

“You made this one only for her, right ?” Harua asks, and just like to make sure Jo knows which painting she’s talking about, she adds : “The one you made today, the gouache painting. You put everything you’re feeling in it, you poured your sentiments and soul only for her to see. That’s why you didn’t even want me to see it.” 

Jo flushes pink instantly and nods shyly, even though Harua didn’t really need an answer. The three girls around her are smiling fondly at her, and Jo feels even warmer inside. Harua’s hands are reaching for hers, tangling their fingers together and pressing their palms against each other, a reassuring force against her skin. Maki gets a hold of their hands, joining the tight embrace of digits, and Taki brushes a fake tear at the corner of her eyes, looking at Jo with a proud smile. 

“I can’t believe our Jojo has a crush…” Taki says, fondness laced in her voice. “You need to tell us everything that happens during the date ! Don’t miss out any details ! Even more if you guys kiss !”

“It’s not a date guys, but… Rua ?” Jo asks, and after a nod from the other, she continues. “Do you know if .... If Yuma likes ... Girls? By any chance?” She can feel her face heating up, turning redder and redder by the minute.

Harua turns her face to her, eyes big with questions. Her mouth is torn, like she's trying to hold back a laugh. “Jojo ... I think the fact that Yuma asked you out on a date is a good enough answer to your question, don't you think ? Honestly, I thought we had established the fact that Yuma was into you the minute you came running here telling us she asked you to go with her to her 'favourite place in the world', didn't we ?"

Jo tilts her head, brows slightly furrowed, confused. “Again, it’s not a date ! I mean, she didn't say it was a date ?" 

Harua rolls her eyes, this time not holding back the chuckle leaving her lips, and Maki nudges Jo with her elbow, snorting loudly. "Oh my god you are helpless. Jo, she asked you to come with her to a cat cafe, there's nothing she likes more than cat cafe and she doesn't bring just anyone there. She even told you about how much she likes that place. Get the hint!" Taki and Harua profusely shakes their head, agreeing with Maki’s word. 

“But, just to reassure you, even though I don’t think you need to worry about it because I’m convinced Yuma is head over heels for you too, she’s a lesbian.” Harua adds. 

Jo goes home that day with a shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips, softly caressing the numbers written on her forearm. 

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

Saturday comes way too soon, and Jo calls Harua in the morning, panicking over what to wear and what to say and how to not sound like a complete fool. 

Since running into Yuma in the hallway, Jo met her eyes multiple times in the art room. They didn’t talk much more than before —Yuma posing for the class and Jo shyly painting, shielded by her easel— but she knows something shifted. Yuma looks at her more often, bending her neck in weird angles just to catch a glimpse at Jo while her arms are facing the other side of the room and her knees are threatening to give up, tired from the half folded position they have to hold. Yuma stopped looking around the classroom during breaks, and only comes straight at Jo, not even trying to hide the fact that the only paintings she’s interested in are Jo’s. It gets them crazy looks from Harua, but Jo don’t even notice, too busy imprinting every details from Yuma's face in the back of her brain. Jo is awfully aware now of how often they run into each other in the hallways, their hands grazing but never fully touching. Yuma gets closer from the shore everyday, Jo waiting for her there, taking a few step in the water from time to time. They don’t talk, and Jo thinks it’s because Yuma understands her love for silence, for peace and quiet. There’s another change in their routine, Jo only sticks to gouache now, her watercolours palette and brushes abandoned in her school bag. 

When Harua picks up the call, Jo sounds almost desperate. In two seconds they switch to FaceTime, and Harua makes Jo go through her entire closet, phone extended inside her clothing cabinet. She's trying her best to show as much as she can of her wardrobe despite the narrow space. The poor wifi connection doesn't help, blurring the image and sometimes even freezing her in place on Harua’s phone. Harua has a face mask on, with a huge cartoon bunny printed on it, a few star clips keeping her bangs out of the way. Jo can also hear Taki and Maki in the background giving their opinions on the outfits Harua is restlessly assembling for her on the other side of the line. From time to time one of them pop their faces in the range of the camera, giving their own opinions on the clothes now scattered around Jo’s room, and she can see the matching sheet mask with a cartoon puppy for Maki and a baby chick for Taki. Jo lets a giggle break from her lips thinking of what animal Harua would have forced her to match them with if she was there with them. 

After what feels like forever but probably didn’t exceed one hour, Jo finally settles on an somewhat good enough outfit for a date, who also doesn’t make Harua grimace in disgust and even gets Taki’s and Maki’s approval. It’s simple but it’s her, and Maki adds that it’s probably all Yuma wants anyway. Jo hangs up after the three girls showered her with ‘good luck’s and ‘you rock’s, and rushes out to meet Yuma at the cat cafe, excitement and anxiety mixing in her stomach. 

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

"Why did you choose to follow veterinary classes ?" Jo asks, quiet, polite, head slightly tilted. She looks genuinely interested in the answer the other is going to give her and Yuma feels a slight warmth on her cheeks. 

Yuma arrived at the cafe first, sending a text to Jo to let her know she could just walk straight towards the back of the place where she was waiting for her, seated at her favourite spot. It’s a table hidden away behind a few cat trees, only known by the regular customers of the place. Once Jo joined her, she told Yuma she probably would have missed it if it wasn’t for her. They exchanged polite greetings and Jo’s awkward but fond smile made Yuma’s heart melt. She let her hair down this time too, and Yuma can’t control the way her eyes always run back to the silky smooth strands framing Jo’s face, and how her fingers twitches, the yearning to touch the long and black curls buzzing under her epidermis. Jo had started talking about the cats in the cafe, and how one of them —a ginger one— looked really similar to Yuma. Yuma had laughed, telling her it was actually her favourite cat in the shop and how soft he was the few times she was able to pet him. Jo’s eyes never left Yuma, not even when the waitress delicately put their orders on the table, not even when the ginger cat chose her laps as his napping spot, rolled up on her thighs. Yuma’s gaze never wavered, meeting Jo’s every time, giving her soft smile and even a few winks, just to enjoy the way Jo’s face grows red every time. 

One subject led to another and after talking about their favourite drinks and snacks—blueberry lemonade and plain white rice for Jo, the answer getting her an endeared laugh from the other girl, dragon fruit and guava juice with cake or ice cream for Yuma, she told Jo she really likes sweet things— the season they preferred —they both agreed on spring in shy smile and coy giggles— and what colour they swore by —blue for Jo and pink for Yuma— Jo had eventually asked Yuma what major she chose to study. Yuma knew Jo’s major since their fist meeting, but she never had the occasion to tell her she was studying veterinary medicine, until today. 

"I like cats." Yuma finally answers, like it's the only logical answer possible. "As stupid as it sounds, that’s why i chose veterinary medicine. Why did you choose drawing?" It's Yuma's turn to ask. She sounds a bit defensive, but that's just how she always sounds, and she hopes Jo doesn't take it to heart.

Jo's face flushes in the prettiest shade of pink. "I wanted to draw my cat …" There's a silence before the two girls burst into laughter, in sync. Between two laughs, trying to catch her breathe, Jo adds softly, almost whispering : "Although now, I think I like drawing you more than my cat."

There’s another pause, the faint chatter of the cafe filling the space between them. Yuma’s lips curl in a smile, not her usual playful one, but not a shy one either. It’s a pleased grin, full of confidence, like she just got what she’s been wanting for a while. Her hand slides on the table, reaching for Jo’s fingers nervously tapping the hard surface. The tip of Yuma’s fingers lightly press against Jo’s long and slender ones, not fully connected, not tangling with their peers, just a shy connection between the two of them, a physical bridge that mirrors the one between their minds. Yuma isn't on the opposite side of the sea anymore, she's on the same beach as Jo, somewhere still out of reach, but already way closer.

"I think I like you more than all the cats here."

Their quiet confessions blows a gentle breeze on both of them, and suddenly they don't need to speak anymore. Yuma thinks the never stopping new drawings Jo makes of her and the way she's always studying her face, drinking her words attentively, gave a free ticket entry for her brain to Jo. She doesn't have to talk because Jo understands everything going on inside her, and Jo doesn't need to voice her thoughts either because Yuma figured out the way the wires works in her head. It's peaceful and it's gentle, soft glances and subtle touch whenever their limbs are close enough, and Yuma wants to stay like this forever, in the comfortable stillness Jo invited her in.

The day grows darker and the closing time of the cafe surprises them in their solace. Yuma pays before Jo can reach for her wallet and the soft blush on her cheeks is the perfect quiet thank you Yuma needs. 

“I can pose for you outside of class.” Yuma tells Jo before they can part. “I mean, if you want to practice more.” She's fidgeting with the hem of her pink cotton shirt —the colour matching perfecting with her hair— looking oddly nervous. 

“I would love that.” Jo replies with a coy smile, surprising herself by how steady her voice sound. 

There's a tree right next to them, planted right in front of the shop they just exited. It's a small one, barely grown enough to actually be called a tree. It's a kind of pear tree, the small white flowers of the blossom season peeking through the dark green leaves. Yuma can see it later, older, grown, shielding the both of them with its branches. Right now, it's just a few centimetres taller than her. Yuma steps on the small brick wall around the young tree, marking the limit between the concrete ground and the fertile dirt soil in which the tree's roots are grounded. 

The brick wall is more or less 5 centimetres tall, but it gives Yuma enough height to reach Jo's face better. She leans in, pressing her hands on both shoulders of the taller girl in front of her, putting her weight on her to not fall from the step she's perched on. Jo is adorably red and quiet, her eyes big and anchored on Yuma. A few strands of her hair are floating around with the light evening breeze running in the streets. Yuma brushes some of them away, putting them behind Jo's ears. It feels exactly like she expected, soft, letting her fingers run smoothly in the black ocean crowning Jo's head. She smiles bigger, almost unconsciously, daydreams of her face buried deep in the silk of Jo's hair flooding her brain. 

Yuma gets closer, her face just a breathe away from Jo's one now, and her lips gently presses against the warmth of Jo's cheek. It's softer than her hair and Yuma finds herself lingering there, her nose stroking the flesh on Jo's face. She almost wants to rub her own face against Jo's, and has to restrain herself when her cheek comes resting on Jo's, almost like her body answers to a will of its own. Jo leans into the touch, shy at first, but she grows more confident as Yuma squeezes their face together. Yuma regretfully tears herself away from the tall girl after a few second, already missing the proximity of Jo’s body, and gets down from the tiny brick wall. She gives one last smile to Jo and waves her goodbye, turning away to go home, Jo's sweet smell still sticking to her skin. 

“Text me if you feel like drawing !” Yuma yells, already reaching the end of the street, soon out of sight. 

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

Jo runs to Harua’s house right after Yuma left, the image of the cat-like girl walking down the lane, a few pear blossoms stuck in her hair, lingering in her head. Taki opens the door. Her stupid face mask has long been forgotten in Harua's bathroom, and there’s now bunny-shaped hair clips tangled in her hair, most likely the result of her girlfriend’s boredom. Taki lets Jo in and they walk straight towards Harua’s room.

“She kissed my cheek.” Jo throws the words at her friends the minute she steps in the room, not even greeting Harua and Maki sprawled out on the bed. She doesn’t let herself catch her breathe and continues after letting her limbs find comfort in the hold of Harua’s mattress next to the two other girls. “And she rubbed her face against me, kind of like a cat ? It was weird but i really enjoyed it. And she’s a veterinary student, did you know she was a veterinary student ? Harua, you never told me she studied veterinary medicine. And she loves cat, obviously. She’s just like a cat, really. She kept smiling at me and touching my hands with hers I thought I was gonna pass out, she’s so cute …” 

Jo rambles on and on, barely stopping between her words, almost forgetting some in her throat. Harua can’t help the squeal coming out of her after every new piece of information on the date and Jo can feel herself blushing more and more while reminiscing everything. Once she’s done retelling the entire afternoon in a slurred mess of words, Jo falls silent, burying her face in the multitude of pillows and plushies on Harua’s bed. 

“I don’t know what to do now.” Jo finally pleads after a pause, her voice slightly wavering, on the verge of sounding a bit too desperate. “I have the biggest crush on her and I don’t know what to do. I’ve never done this before, what is the next step supposed to be ?” 

“Well, first of all Jojo, I think it’s more than a crush.” Harua starts, her hand reaching Jo’s head to gently stroke her hair, reassuring. Her voice is soft and warm, and the proximity works to calm Jo’s nerves. “The next step isn’t the easiest to take, but look at those long legs of yours ! I’m sure you’ll do just fine when running towards her. You need to tell Yuma, Jo.” There’s a soft humming coming from the other side of where Jo’s head is still shielded by a big bunny plushie, Maki and Taki agreeing with Harua’s words. 

When Yuma held her hand, connecting invisible threads between the two of them, it felt like she wasn't that far from Jo's beach anymore. She couldn't see her yet standing in the sand next to her, but she could feel her presence lingering in the salted wind. But, now, with her every thoughts crashing against each other in her brain and the vicious claws of fear digging a cavity in her heart, Jo wonders if Yuma really wants to share Jo's stripe of dusty grain. The beach looks inauspicious, odd, like it doesn't want people living there, and Jo can feel the anxiety blocking the air in her throat.

Jo sigh and her head shots back up. Her eyes are slightly blood-shot and small tears are forming around them. “What if she doesn’t like me ? Or worse, what if she does ? What if she does and I don’t know what to do and ruin everything and hurt her ?” Her voice trails off as she’s painfully trying to keep her cries inside, but a single tear is already rolling down her cheeks, stopped by Harua’s fingers pressing against her cheek. “I’ve never done that before how can I know I’ll be good enough ?” 

Harua’s face crumbles after Jo’s last words, and her arms are immediately running to hold the tall girl close. “That’s the trick of the game, you never really know if you’re good enough. It’s an everyday gamble where you can always try to be.” There’s a beat, Harua taking her time to choose the right words, to find the right way to reassure Jo. “It’s just like painting. You will never know if you’re good at it if you never try, right ? It’s the same with relationship. You have no choice but to take the brush, dip it in paint and have a try on the canvas. And if you’re bad at first it’s okay, you can always practice to get better. After trials and errors you’ll eventually have positive results. And hey, brushes and easel and canvas never run away from you even when you’re painting the worst portrait ever, so Yuma won’t leave you behind even if you make a couple of mistake on the way.”

Jo sniffles loudly in Harua’s embrace, Taki rubbing her back affectionately and Maki holding her hand tight. It’s like Yuma’s kiss on her cheek made her brain sink in a well of sugary syrup and mellow dreams. Now that Jo reached the bottom of the well, the sweet liquid evaporated completely, pulverising the fantasy like teeth crushing a sugar figurine — the little one they put on top of cakes. The honeyed fog clogging her brain lifted like a veil being pulled off, and the only things left under are anxiety and fear. She’s terrified of ever hurting Yuma, and it’s pulling her heart appart like it’s stuck in different moving trains all going in polar opposite directions. Suddenly, she's all alone on the beach again, and everything is grey and gloomy, a storm coming.

“Harua is right, you know.” Taki says, her voice ringing really close from Jo’s ear, her arms soon joining the embrace of Harua’s. “Look at us. We’ve had our highs and lows, we're still going through trials and errors, we learn together in our own pace, but we never leave the other alone to figure it out. That’s the thing with relationship, Jo. You’re never alone. It won’t prevent any of you from getting hurt, that’s true, but I know deep down everything will be fine for the both of you.” 

Harua’s hands cups Jo’s face gently, forcing her to look at her. “I know Yuma from like, the day she was born, okay ? She’s not fragile, she can take a few blows if necessary, as long as you’re honest with her and as long as you try hard enough. So don’t give up without even trying.” 

Jo is scared. So scared. She’s never been as scared in her life. Even when her parents convinced her to take the entrance exam for the art department of the university. Even when her teacher pushed her to show off some of her paintings during a small local exhibition. Even when her middle school’s basketball team had to go against one of the strongest school in the country during a tournament. Even when Harua forced her to listen to her incessant ghost stories for an entire night while they were camping in the forest. But, just like every time she was afraid of taking risks, she wants to hope there’s something beautiful waiting for her on the other side of the bridge. If she squints, Jo can almost discern Yuma, standing a few meters away, on a rusty but steady boat, waving happily towards her. She desperately wants to take a step — she wants to dive in unexplored sea and carefully sort every new experience she will discover there with Yuma, and pile them all up on each other to build something— even as horror is slaughtering her brain. So she looks back at Harua, a few tears still pearling at the corner of her eyes, and gives her a weak nod. It’s Jo’s first step in the water, and she tries to stay firmly grounded in the feeling of the wet sand under her feet. 

“You need to call her Jojo.” It’s Maki’s turn to speak now, and when Jo turns to her, she’s met with a fond, understanding smile that warms her heart. “Don’t wait too long.” 

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

Jo ponders on her friends words the entire next day. The weekend is almost over and she knows she’s going to see Yuma on Monday. When the first streak of the evening lights start shining through her windows —embracing her apartment in an orange, almost pink, colour— the floor of her room is almost fully covered in sketching paper where Yuma is portrayed all over. Sometimes it’s her eyes, sometimes her mouth, there’s a cluster of studies of her hands and fingers, incredible care put on the details of her fingernails always coated in messily applied nail polish. In a corner of the room, piled up, gouache painting of Yuma’s face and hair, and there’s even a few dragon fruits and pear blossoms illustrations scattered in the mess. She used pastels for those ones, but it didn’t feel quite right —even her trusted watercolours and gouache are not what feels like the right pigments to put Yuma on the paper— and she starts to wonder what would feel right. If Jo lifts up some stray pages here and thee, she might even find a few light coloured pencil drawing of the sea. She can’t even take a step without risking to crumple the sheets of paper or crushing the few canvases under her feet. 

As the light plays its usual dance on the ground, tinting everything of the very specific red hue of the sun now descending, Jo contemplates the mess taking over her apartment. There’s a storm inside her, coming from the shore where she took the first step towards Yuma in the muddy sand of the water, and it’s slowly escaping the depth of her brain. It’s just a feeble breeze blowing inside her flat even through closed windows, but she knows that if she keeps ignoring it or try to run away from it, the wind is going to pick up and mirror the tempest twisting everything inside out in her brain. 

Jo’s slightly trembling fingers tap on her phone, looking for the familiar letters in her contact list. She stops on Yuma’s name, embellished by a cat emoji right next to it, and before her sudden newly found confidence can leave her, she presses the little phone symbol. Yuma doesn’t let the line ring more than twice, sweet voice on the other side of the phone making Jo shivers deliciously. It doesn’t take a lot of words for Yuma to agree to stay and pose longer for Jo the next day, during lunch break, after their usual class session.

It’s where they are now, Jo’s hands furiously sketching on her notebook, scratching the paper faster and faster. Her eyes always lingers on Yuma's lips, even though she's trying really hard to look somewhere else. She’s not good with words, never has been, and her brain is working overtime since the night before to find the right phrase, the right way to talk to Yuma. But all the scrapes of conversation she starts in her head get eclipsed by Yuma’s plump and pink lips. 

“Jo.” Yuma's voice makes Jo raises her head to meet her gaze. “If you want to kiss me, you can just say it you know. Actually you can even do it. But no need to draw them again and again.” Her voice is tinted with amusement, and the corners of her mouth are pulled in a small grin, her tooth peeking out. Yuma plays right on the edge of seriousness, trying to pick up wether Jo truly wants to kiss her. 

Jo looks back to the sketchbook opened on her lap, and as Yuma said, she's met with bunch of drawing of her lips. She didn't really pay attention to what she was sketching and only realises now that the fixation on Yuma's lips she was trying really hard to contain, ended up being spread out on paper. Her head shots back up when she's finally hit with Yuma's words. “I can kiss you?” The words escapes the jail of her brain and run through her lips, before she can even think. The minute they leave her mouth, Jo's turning red again. 

Before Jo can say anything else, try to take back her question or even act like she doesn't want to kiss Yuma very badly, Yuma leans forward, closer to her. “Of course you can kiss me. I kinda want you to kiss me.” 

Jo doesn’t move, almost frozen in place, but Yuma doesn’t let her move anyway and leaps in first, closing the space between them. Jo’s eyes shuts immediately, the minute Yuma’s lips crashes against hers. The notebook falls on the floor, a few pages crumpling when it meets the ground, but Jo doesn’t care. She’s tasting Yuma’s lips, feeling their shape, their plumpness, and the sweet trace of passion fruit chapstick lingering on them, and she’s imprinting everything in her brain. It almost feels alright if the drawing get ripped by their tangled feet on the ground because Jo knows she will never forget Yuma’s lips now, and she’s positive she can draw them without even looking anymore. It maybe is the right path of things, to destroy them. They don’t feel accurate now that she’s exploring Yuma’s lips with her tongue and teeth. 

Yuma’s hesitating hands reach for Jo’s shoulders, gripping softly her frame, trying to stay grounded on something. She’s still standing, getting closer from Jo, finding a spot she seems to like between Jo’s legs now that the sketchbook fell down. The thought of Yuma not even having to bend her neck that much to capture Jo’s lips with hers while the taller is seating makes Jo shivers. Yuma’s arms tangle around her neck, tilting her head just enough to deepen the kiss, and Jo’s fingers fly to her waist, gently tracing drawings against the bare skin under Yuma' shirt. Jo thinks she’s going crazy. It all feels so good, the way her mouth opens for Yuma, the way Yuma’s tongue comes stroking the inside of her mouth like a caress, the way Yuma taste, the way Yuma smells, the way a few strands of Yuma’s untied hair are tickling Jo’s cheek, the way Yuma’s fingers are softly digging in the flesh of Jo’s neck, the way Yuma always tries to get closer, barely letting Jo breathe between their kisses, like she wants to melt into her. It feels oddly natural, like it was always meant to be this way, like Jo’s body was made to complete Yuma’s one. They just fit perfectly inside each other’s embrace, they mix like paint pigment on a canvas, like wind and sea on the shore. 

The bell rings the end of lunch, their panting breathe louder in Jo’s ears than the strident ringing. Yuma leaves Jo —after one last kiss— with a few blossoming flowers in her heart and a lingering taste of passion fruit in her mouth, Yuma running to her next classes. Jo stays there a while, stunned to immobility. When she finally gets up, she goes straight to the supply cabinet and pulls out oil paint tubes. 

  ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

Graphite pencil felt like the mot obvious choice to draw a portrait of the pink haired girl when she was just a stranger for Jo. It was grey and cold, appropriate for the unfamiliar person on the other side of the window. It had no personality, just bland lines and shading. A first step, a first sketch, the premises of something greater, the draft of a bigger design. A fire always starts with a few weak branches thrown together the same way the rough draft of a painting starts with lines running around haphazardly on the canvas.  

On their second meeting, when Jo could finally put a name on the cat-like stranger, Yuma had rhymed with watercolours. She seemed light and joyful, staining just enough the paper to not be forgotten but not strong to resist if water ever tried to wash it away, just like the water-based paint. It was a comfortable tool for Jo, something she used all her life and knew the vices and advantages like the inside of her pocket. It helped her to understand something unknown through a familiar path, getting used to Yuma’s presence on the paper. Yuma was a new variable in the perfectly sorted program of her mind, and watercolours were the built in extensions Jo’s software needed to take the variable in.

Soon though, watercolours didn’t feel nearly enough anymore. Yuma felt more familiar, almost closer but still out of reach. Watercolours was suddenly too gauzy for Yuma’s person. She needed something more tangible, something that sticked to the paper the same way sea salt never rubs off completely from your skin, or the way dirt stays stuck under your fingernails. Something that would help imprint Yuma’s image directly into her flesh, to finally get her to stay on the same beach Jo’s standing on. Gouache didn’t feel perfect, but Jo knew she was getting close to it. Gouache is a good in-between. It’s heavier than watercolours, but still needs to be diluted in water. It’s easy to manipulate, easy to erase, although it stains and leaves the paper forever coloured. Ghost traces of washed out pigments never fully escapes the fibre of the paper, just like you can never shake thoroughly the sand under your feet after a day at the beach. 

Jo now knows oil paint was the answer all along. The minute their lips regretfully parted, the minute Yuma flew from her embrace, walking away from the art room, the minute she was left alone with her spiralling thoughts, the faint taste of Yuma still stinging her tongue and her muffled breathe echoing in the silence of the space, the minute she started missing the weight of Yuma’s lips on her own, oil paint felt just right. Oil paint is made from pigments and an oil-based binder, usually linseed or safflower oil. It dries slowly, through a process called siccativation. The paint hardens when in contact with oxygen. It’s a long process, building each coat after each coat, necessitating time in between to let the paint solidify. It stains the canvas and stays firmly gripped, tangled in the sackcloth fibre, not letting wind nor water wavering its anchor on the jute clothe. Yuma’s presence in Jo’s life feels like oil paint on a canvas.

The thing about oil paint is that the metallic chemicals crushed in the solvent mixed in it can be highly poisonous if inhaled for too long, but Yuma is like that too, intoxicating. Jo wishes to bask in Yuma’s sweet aroma for the rest of her life even if it could kill her. 

Jo battles with the windows for a few minutes, the old wood around the glass a bit too rusty to let the frames budge. She’s met with the trees in bloom, branches scratching the walls of the university, once the widow finally gives in. Her hands tugs at the hem of her sleeve, rolling them up, walking back to her easel, her tool table prepped with oil painting and freshly cleaned brushes. The door of the art room isolate her from the noise of the other student walking around in the hallways, and only the chirping of the bird and the whistle of the wind through the leaves break the stillness of the room, coming from the open windows. It’s a quiet melody, and usually Jo would take her time to listen to it and appreciate the warm breeze filling the art room, but today her thoughts are clogged by Yuma, and Yuma only. She can only hear her laughter ringing in her ears, she can only see her toothy smile and her pink hair framing her face so perfectly, and Jo wants to let it all out on the canvas. 

Jo stops in front of the white surface staring at her in the middle of the room. She moved her easel in a spot where the light is better, where the sun rays can touch the ground and make colours vibrate more vividly. It’s slightly propped up higher than usual as she ditched her stool. There’s still adrenaline from the kiss fuelling the blood in her veins and even if it makes her feel like her knees are going to give out to let her fall on the cold stained floor, she knows she won’t be able to actually sit still. 

Only five paint tubes are on the table, red, blue, yellow, black and white. It’s everything Jo needs. She takes the red tube and squeezes gently on the plastic wrapped around the coloured paste, pressing it against the palette. It’s a brand new palette she took out specially for this new piece. It’s bare, immaculate white never touched by paint before. Everything in her feels new, just like baby turtles walking their first step on the beach, and she feels like she needs her tools to mirror this fresh first step. Even oil paint is new. Jo used it maybe once or twice, she knows how to make it work, she understand the ropes, but it’s her first serious try at it. White paint is next, smeared on top of the already flattened red pigment. Jo mixes them with her palette knife, turning in the perfect shade of pink, and lastly a drop of blue. The churning of the knife makes the paint look like coloured wave melting into one another, like lover tangled in a tight embrace. The type of paint changes but not the colour, the pink never leaves Jo’s mind. 

Once she’s satisfied with the final colour, Jo grabs safflower oil and liquin —to make the paint dry faster— and pours a few drop onto the blended shades on the palette. The mix turns slightly softer, letting the knife cut into it like butter. There’s solvent on the table too, right next to the liquin bottle, and Jo remembers her teacher telling them to use it to thin out the paint, like you would use water to get a more fluid and light coloured result in gouache or watercolours. She shoves the solvent at the very back of the paint cabinet, behind dusty pots of acrylic that have been forgotten for ages. She’s almost mad at the thinner, mad at the liquid she’s been using to water down her pigments, even maybe mad at herself for trying to use all the sea water when she should have relied on the firmness of the sand beneath her feet. 

A thick brush find its place in between her fingers, like it’s natural, like it’s supposed to be there. Automatically, like Jo’s on autopilot, her hand dives towards the palette, dipping the stiff hair of the brush into the thick pigment. She starts with the pink curls crowning Yuma’s head, like she always does, letting them run freely on the bare canvas. Coat after coat Jo gives more definition, playing with lights and shadows, adding drops of black and yellow in the mix, giving life to the painted face. Just like Pygmalion loved his statue to the point of it waking up one night, breathing and alive, Jo pours her overwhelming feelings for Yuma on the paper. There’s a ghost of a smile on the lips, a teeth peeking out, like the flat portrait just stopped smiling, and Jo can almost hear Yuma’s laugh still echoing, like a subtle purr escaping the paper. The hair can almost move if the next breeze coming from the open window hits the canvas hard enough, and the eyes shine just like when the sun hits Yuma’s pupils. 

Jo doesn’t feel time slipping through her finger like fishes in the sea. The evening lights bleed through the windows, submerging the art room like a giant wave in its cozy orange hue. The constant muffled pitter-patter of the student in the corridors has quieted down, and night is slowly falling. It’s only when Jo has to squint aggressively in the growing darkness of the room that she finally realise how late it is. She spent the entire afternoon painting in the art room, probably missing some of her last classes of the day, although she’s not sure which one, her brain still foggy. 

Jo lets her tired limbs fall on her stool, using the small heels to roll all the way to her easel. Some part of the canvas are still somewhat sticky, barely dried enough, and she can even feel light sandy patch all over her face and arms, most likely from her rubbing oil paint on herself. In front of her, Yuma looks right back at her, all paint and paper. The strident noise of the door’s joint turning makes her jolt slightly from her seat, waking her up from her contemplative torpor. Jo turns around as the door closes, expecting her teacher or maybe even Harua, but it’s Yuma standing in the shadows of the folded easel next to the door. Yuma all flesh and blood, looking back at her. She’s next to Jo in barely five steps, and Jo’s not alone on the beach anymore, Yuma dipping her feet in the sea, testing the waters. 

“Hi, again.” She says, and Jo is slightly taken aback by the shyness in her voice, like Yuma lost all her confidence during the few hours she was in class. “I missed you.”

Jo swallows hard, trying to stay grounded in the sand of the beach, grains getting stuck between her toes. Her hands reach out, trembling slightly —Jo’s not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or her tired muscles finally giving out after hours of painting— and interlocks their fingers. It’s a quiet answer, an ‘I missed you too’ whispered, something you can only hear when putting your ear against a shell, listening closely to the secrets it has to tell. She’s not sure her voice will work like she wants it to be, and silence was never a problem between them, she knows Yuma understands her like they share one body. 

She tentatively scoots closer to Jo, like she’s trying to go back to her earlier spot, safe in Jo’s arms. Yuma looks at her, and there's so much fondness in her eyes that Jo swears she can feel it filling the air between them, almost palpable. She smiles, her tooth peeking out, and her hands comes to rest against Jo's cheek, gently stroking it. The touch makes Jo’s skin burn like there’s lava underneath the flesh and the muscles, and she can feel flowers blooming in between her ribs, growing from her heart.

“I would kiss you right now, but you're covered in oil paint and it's kinda disgusting.” Yuma giggles between every words and it makes Jo's stomach turn like a washing machine. She can still feel the nervousness hidden behind Yuma’s buzzing skin, but it’s subtle, Yuma taming it little by little. “I don't want to ruin our kiss with the stinky taste of oil painting.” 

Yuma’s gaze wavers after her last words, seemingly unsure on whether or not the feeling is mutual, but Jo is already rummaging through her art supplies, frenetically looking for the wet clothe she keeps to erase mistakes on her canvas. It makes Yuma laughs even more, for real this time, mouth open big and the perfect sound of her laugh reverberating through the room, clear and happy. When Jo's hands finally feel the familiar texture of what she's looking for, she wipes her face —hopefully— clean, not even checking thoroughly if the clothe is not also stained by paint. 

The clothe falls forgotten on the ground once Jo's done using it. She looks up at Yuma still standing in front of her. Yuma stopped laughing, but there's a remaining trace of a smile on her lips. She looks paused, like she's holding her breathe, waiting for something. Jo can't tear her gaze away. She knows Yuma is beautiful all the time, mostly when she laughs, but the way she looks right now, small tears accumulated at the corner of her eyes, the last ghost of her giggles still echoing in her throat, hair slightly disheveled, a few strands sticking to her forehead with sweat —Jo wonders if Yuma ran all the way from her last classes to the art room— Jo thinks the way Yuma looks right after laughing might be her favourite thing to admire. 

“You can kiss me now.” The words slips through Jo's lips in a breathe, like a secret. Maybe it's because they're standing in her favourite room, the place she made hers entirely, but everything feels like a secret, like they have to be careful, tiptoe and whisper to make sure nothing breaks, to make sure the outside world doesn't catch up to them too soon. 

The light is almost gone outside and the wind blowing from the open window is almost cold, making Yuma shivers slightly. Jo can’t really discern the rest of the art room —everything drowning in a thick darkness, like they’re stuck under the heavy wave of the sea, the shore out of reach— but there’s just enough light left for her to study the every details of Yuma’s face. Somehow, Yuma is so luminescent, so solar, that Jo thinks she could see her perfectly even in total blackness.

“You know, I think I can understand why you like mixing pigments and playing with colours so much now. Your face always flushes in the prettiest shades of red and pink that sometimes it makes me want to learn how to paint the colours on your face.” Yuma's voice is barely a whisper reverberating against Jo's lips, but they're so close anyways that she can hear everything clear like the chirping of birds in the trees next to the building. Yuma seems satisfied by the almost immediate answer of Jo's cheek colouring red and a proud grin makes way on her face. Her hands are still cupping Jo's face, gently rubbing the skin under her fingers. Jo hopes she will never let go of her. 

“I don’t want to just kiss you, Yuma.” Jo says, surprised at her own confidence and at the way her voice sounds steady. Clear as the water cupped in her hands, tiny fishes swimming across the lines of  her palms. 

Yuma smiles, lightning up the entire room, and to Jo it’s like the sun just rose back up to embrace the earth once more. “Me neither. I like you. I like you like, a lot, Jo.”

Yuma breathes in, like she's about to jump in unknown water, and dives in, drowning in Jo's touch. Jo meeting her right there in the sea is the only answer she needs.