Chapter Text
Noriaki Kakyoin had been staring at the canvas in front of him for almost too long.
The light in his dorm room had shifted without him noticing, afternoon bleeding quietly into evening, casting long shadows over the cramped space.
Sketchbooks lay open on the floor like fallen birds, their pages warped with paint and graphite. Tubes of acrylic rolled beneath his desk chair.
His shirt, once white, was now a palimpsest of greys, oceanic blues, and bruised greens, stiff with dried pigment.
Even his face bore the evidence of neglect: a smear along his cheekbone, a faint line across the bridge of his nose, as if the painting had reached out and marked him in return.
Kakyoin himself looked like someone perpetually halfway out of the world.
Tall, slim, shoulders broader than they had any right to be, with posture that folded inward rather than outward, as though he was always listening for something beneath the noise.
His red hair fell into his eyes in soft, unintentional curls, catching the light in ways he never seemed aware of. His expression, calm, distant and thoughtful, rarely changed, but when it did, it was subtle enough to be missed by anyone not paying attention.
The canvas in front of him seemed to stare back.
It wasn’t blank. It hadn’t been for a long time.
A face emerged from the layers of paint, precise and unmistakable despite the loose brushwork.
Sharp jawline, mouth set in a permanent, unreadable line. Eyes rendered in deep greens and blues, like seawater caught under glass. A cigarette rested between the subject’s lips, the smoke curling upward in a way that felt almost alive.
The painting was beautiful.
Kakyoin knew that much.
He was an art major, after all: one of the department’s quiet prodigies.
His professors spoke of his technique with careful admiration, of his understanding of composition and color theory far beyond his years. If he kept this pace, if he continued to submit polished work and attend lectures with his usual diligence, he was on track to become a professor’s assistant before graduation.
The problem was that he kept painting the same thing. Over and over.
His professor had told him so gently, but firmly. He needed to expand his subject matter. Push himself. Explore.
At first, Kakyoin had tried self-portraits.
He had sat in front of the mirror for hours, studying the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the shape of his own eyes.
Every attempt came out wrong. The faces were distorted, blurred at the edges, like reflections in moving water.
No matter how carefully he worked, he could never capture himself with any clarity. It was as if his own image refused to settle.
Then he tried drawing his roommate.
Jean Pierre Polnareff: Cinema and Filmmaking student, self-appointed hurricane, and the kind of presence that had blown into Kakyoin’s life and made itself permanently at home.
He was, in theory, an easy subject: loud, expressive, always in motion.
But perhaps that was the problem. Polnareff never sat still long enough to be captured, his sharp features exaggerated by constant movement, his expressions shifting too quickly. Every sketch felt unfinished, incomplete, like chasing something that didn’t want to be caught.
The face on the canvas hadn’t come from observation.
It had started one night when Kakyoin was alone in the room, just like now.
He hadn’t planned it.
He had picked up the brush without thinking, dipped it into paint, and let his hand move.
One sharp line for the jaw. A confident stroke for the bridge of the nose. A curl of dark hair, then another. The image had emerged fully formed, as if it had been waiting for him all along.
When he’d stepped back, breath caught in his throat, a stranger had been staring at him with an expression that felt almost accusatory. As if the man on the canvas knew him. As if he had always known him.
That had been weeks ago.
Since then, no matter how much Kakyoin tried to paint something else, his hand betrayed him. The same face resurfaced, again and again, with minor variations. Different lighting. Different angles. But always the same eyes. The same quiet intensity.
And Kakyoin couldn’t answer the question that haunted him every time he lifted the brush.
How exactly was he painting someone he had never met?
The door burst open with a sharp clatter, snapping his thoughts cleanly in half.
Jean Pierre Polnareff swept into the room like a force of nature, all long limbs and uncontained energy.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with pale hair styled into an aggressive upward spike that seemed to defy both gravity and good taste. His grin was wide and unapologetic, his blue eyes bright with perpetual mischief. He moved as if the world were something to be engaged with loudly, enthusiastically, and without hesitation.
“Party tonight!” Polnareff announced, voice echoing off the walls. “Dorm building three. Are you coming?”
He stood with his chest puffed out, hands on his hips, like a peacock showing off its feathers.
“Pass,” Kakyoin replied, waving a dismissive hand without looking away from the canvas.
Polnareff clapped his hands once, already undeterred. He began weaving through the maze of art supplies, stepping over sketchbooks and nudging aside discarded brushes, until he reached Kakyoin’s chair. He placed his hands firmly on Kakyoin’s shoulders and spun him around on the rolling stool with little effort.
“Mon amie, come on,” he pleaded, leaning down until his face was level with Kakyoin’s. “Are you still trying to draw something new?”
He gestured vaguely at the canvas, then paused. His expression shifted. The grin softened, curiosity creeping in as he leaned closer, hand moving to his chin.
“…This one is actually impressive, though,” he muttered, more to himself.
Kakyoin stiffened slightly, a familiar unease curling in his chest.
Polnareff straightened, enthusiasm roaring back to life. “Seeing new faces might give you some inspiration, too!” he declared, clapping Kakyoin on the shoulder.
Kakyoin turned back to the canvas.
The painted man’s gaze remained steady, unyielding, as if he were waiting.
“Pol, I have work to do. I don’t want to waste time with—”
Noriaki stopped himself, brows knitting together as he glanced toward the door, lips twisting into something close to disdain. “Who even lives in building three? Earth sciences majors? Do you think those people even know how to throw a party?”
Polnareff paused.
This was rare enough that Kakyoin looked at him.
The Frenchman leaned back against the cluttered desk, arms crossed, gaze tilted toward the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. He hummed thoughtfully, nodding to himself once, twice. Then he shrugged.
“No idea,” he said easily. His hands were back on Kakyoin’s shoulders a second later, warm and insistent. “But I do know I’m planning to get some game tonight.”
He clapped his hands again, sharp and loud, and then pressed them together, this time pleading. His grin softened, turned almost earnest. “Please, Nori. Be my wingman.” There was a little pout too.
Kakyoin exhaled through his nose, eyes sliding back to the canvas without really seeing it. The face stared back at him, unchanging, unhelpful. He’d been circling it for weeks now. Same colors. Same eyes. Same dead end.
“I don’t belong at those things,” he murmured. “You know that.”
Polnareff tilted his head. “You belong cooped up in here, then?” He gestured broadly at the room—the mess, the half-finished sketches, the air thick with turpentine and frustration. “You’ve been painting the same guy like he owes you money. One night out won’t kill you.”
Kakyoin opened his mouth to argue. Then closed it.
Polnareff smiled, sensing the shift. “You don’t even have to talk to anyone,” he added, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Just stand there. Look mysterious. You’re very good at that. I’ll do all the embarrassing parts.”
A beat passed.
Kakyoin glanced at his hands. At the paint beneath his nails. At the brush still resting against the rim of the jar, unmoving.
“…One hour,” he said finally. “Then I’m coming back.”
Polnareff straightened like he’d just won a prize. “Magnifique!” He grabbed his jacket in one fluid motion. “See? Science majors, art majors—everyone’s human once the music’s loud enough.”
As his roommate headed for the door, Kakyoin spared the canvas one last look.
The painted man’s eyes seemed almost sharper now, intent in a way that made Kakyoin’s chest tighten for reasons he didn’t yet understand.
For the first time in weeks, he was going to leave the room unfinished behind him.