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There is beauty in the unknown, Kazuha thinks. Many fear it, but Kazuha cherishes that moment in between question and answer, a moment that is rife with possibilities.
There are many questions Kazuha is content to leave unanswered. What inspires you? What drew you to painting? How do you bring these scenes to life? He does not know, and the not knowing is what keeps him breathing. When the snows blanket this land and everything quiets, Kazuha looks out the window and sees a blank canvas waiting to be splashed with color. He lives every day for the simple pleasure of waking up and knowing that he could do anything at all, that there's a whole new day ahead of him.
He starts more paintings than he finishes. There is satisfaction in finishing something, but he is addicted to the rush of starting anew. Kazuha likes to imagine everything a painting can be before he ever picks up a brush. He sees potential in the unknown, all the things that may yet exist. Some of them never will, and that's beautiful too. The way things get lost in his mind sometimes, the way a vision can fade from his eyes and never be realized.
Despite the fact that Kazuha would rather do nothing but ponder and paint, he does have to eat, and that means he occasionally has to paint in a way that makes sense to other people. He dreads these moments when his Mora dwindles and he has to return to reality. He prefers his clouded mindscape where the sun never shines and everything is hazy because it is still undefined, because he hasn't made it real yet.
He responds to one of the letters he received some time ago from a noblewoman looking to commission a portrait of her son. She insisted that he was the only artist she would accept for the job, likely because of the prestige attached to his name. Kazuha is a self-made recluse, and for some reason, this makes his work valuable. He does not pretend to understand such things. None of his pieces are intrinsically beautiful—it is the meaning one finds in them that makes them so. This woman did not commission him because she wanted something meaningful. It is a portrait by a famous painter. She will hang it in her home and point to it and say, "This is the work of Kaedehara Kazuha. Yes, that Kazuha," and all her friends will be impressed.
He gathers his things and makes the journey. Though Kazuha would rather stay in his studio most days, he does find contentment in nature. There is nothing quite like a cool breeze over the back of his neck, the way the wind sighs as it dances through his hair. He enjoys the trip, arriving a couple of days after the letter he sent ahead. The estate is certainly large, beautiful in every way it is meant to be and none of the ways that matter. He meets his client in the rose garden, where she invites him to find a suitable backdrop for the painting.
"Ah, but how can I do so while I lack the subject?" he asks her.
She inclines her head. "I will send for Scaramouche."
And so Kazuha waits, wandering the gardens ostensibly for inspiration though he knows—in the way one knows one's own mind—that nothing about this portrait will inspire him.
Several minutes later, Kazuha discovers that he is completely, utterly wrong.
He doesn't meet many people he would describe as beautiful. True that he doesn't meet many people in the first place, but that makes the beautiful ones even rarer. The man before him takes his breath away, steals it all and holds it in his hands even though it cannot be held. It is inexplicable, the way all of Kazuha's air swirls around his long, slender fingers as though it belongs there.
Scaramouche is small, and yet his presence is altogether more imposing than his stature. If he were any more slender Kazuha would call him sickly. His hair is a midnight blue, and his eyes- His eyes- "What color is that?" Kazuha whispers.
Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. "What?" he asks flatly.
"Your eyes." Kazuha reaches out for him though they are several feet apart. "How am I to capture their essence?"
He looks confused, saying slowly, "They're only blue."
"No," says Kazuha fervently. "Not blue. Not indigo, not violet. They are the midnight sky between the stars. How could I possibly paint them?"
"With… a paintbrush, presumably?" He draws himself up to his full height, though it is not much. "Can we get on with this? How long should I expect it to take?"
"Eons," Kazuha replies. "Until the last star in this universe dies out, and maybe not even then."
Scaramouche's eyes—those brilliant, endless eyes—travel up and down Kazuha's body. "Ah. The painter is insane. Lovely." He lets out a huff. "Where do you want me?"
"Anywhere," says Kazuha.
He thinks he catches just a hint of heat in those eyes, and it makes them even more mesmerizing. A little smirk tugs at Scarmouche's lips. "How about on the terrace? The white roses are in full bloom."
Kazuha nods, tucking his easel and canvas under one arm. Scaramouche leads him over. He pulls out a wrought iron chair and drags it in front of a display of white flowers that might be considered beautiful in some other setting. With Scaramouche in front of them, though, they are entirely dull.
Kazuha considers a few angles, studying Scaramouche intently from every one. Those infinite eyes track him as he moves, and Kazuha stares into them like he's been possessed. Perhaps he has. Perhaps Scaramouche's soul has suffused his own so perfectly that Kazuha is nothing now, nothing but a hand to hold the paintbrush. Perhaps he will guide Kazuha through this impossible task, because certainly there is no other way it could be accomplished. How could he ever capture such beauty?
Though Kazuha knows he cannot complete this commission—given the length of the average human lifespan and the amount of time it would take to make sense of this enigma of a man—he finds himself eager to begin. He quietly mixes his paints and gets to work. He feels almost feverish, sick with inspiration his flesh cannot contain. He paints and paints, and Scaramouche says nothing. Even if he did, Kazuha would not hear it. His brush flies across the canvas in lines and delicate curves, heedless of any direction he could give it.
Eventually he becomes aware of the light dying and realizes that he'll have to stop. His heart thumps away in his chest. He cannot stop. He works against time, trying to capture just a few more details.
"Are you ever going to let me go?" Scaramouche asks him.
It takes Kazuha a moment to snap out of it. "Hmm?" he hums, looking up. His brain catches up to Scaramouche's words. "No, never," he replies. "How could I?"
Scaramouche huffs out a little laugh. "You really are insane. Though I admit, it's fascinating to watch you work." He stands from his seat, grunting a little as he stretches out his limbs. "Soon neither of us will be able to see a thing."
"Your image would not leave me so easily. Still, I do need light to work," he admits, reluctantly setting his paintbrush down. "Will you return tomorrow at dawn?"
"Dawn?" Scaramouche repeats with a scoff. "No. I have other duties, you know. I've already neglected them today."
"What's another day, then? They can wait."
"So can you," Scaramouche returns.
Kazuha shakes his head and says, "I cannot."
A smile lifts the corners of those soft, delicate lips. "You know, if any other man looked at me the way you do, I'd invite him to bed." His eyes flick over Kazuha again. "I suppose staring is in the job description for you, isn't it?"
"I never want to stare at anything else again," Kazuha replies.
"You're a romantic," says Scaramouche. "Normally I'd hate that, but on you I find it strangely… charming." He begins a slow walk, pacing up and down the terrace as he speaks. "What is so different about you, Kaedehara Kazuha? What is it that makes a work of art a masterpiece, anyway? Is it the subject? It couldn't be. Everything that can be painted already has been. It would have to be the artist. But it's not merely their technique." His eyes meet Kazuha's. "Is it simply that you have an artist's soul? I don't know that I believe in the soul. The world we can perceive is complex enough without bringing metaphysics into it."
"I have always believed in the soul," says Kazuha. "I like to think I see souls instead of people. Perhaps it is your essence that I see in your eyes, and that is why they have captivated me so. That is far more real to me than the matter your body is comprised of."
"Are you saying my body does not captivate you?" he asks, eyebrow raised. He clucks his tongue and says, "Shame." He straightens himself, halting his pacing. "Meet me here tomorrow at three o'clock. I can give you until the sun goes down."
Kazuha lifts his chin. "Then I shall mourn its descent."
That small, teasing smile returns. "I will see you on the morrow, Kazuha."
"And I will see you in my dreams."
Scaramouche nods once and departs. Kazuha watches him walk away. Is he a fool not to follow? He has found a muse—shouldn't he want to bed him? It's not that he doesn't. It is an intriguing thought, certainly. It has been a long, long time since Kazuha has lain with anyone. It's so rare that he finds a person to be inspiring enough, and the ones who are always seem to be just out of reach.
Perhaps the truth of it is that Kazuha would rather the mystery of Scaramouche go unsolved. He would rather not know because he wants to be caught up in imagining all the things that could be. He wants the very thought to consume him with the gravity of its potential.
Kazuha packs up his supplies and retires to his temporary abode. He dreams of the night sky coalescing into two bright pools that stare at him from within that soft-set face, puzzling over him. Kazuha puzzles back, a dance where neither of them ever touch.
***
The following day he wakes before the sun. He immediately pulls out a blank canvas and paints his dream: a close-up of Scaramouche's brilliant eyes, though he can't for the life of him get the color right. He goes through every canvas he brought with him, filling them up with eyes that don't even begin to capture Scaramouche's essence. He has to go into town to buy more, and he's so caught up in this that he doesn't realize he's late for his appointment.
Kazuha hurries to the rose garden, fear pulsing in his veins. What if his muse has left already? What if Kazuha doesn't get to see him today? But there Scaramouche is lounging on a chaise, reading a book. Kazuha stares at him for a long moment, taking in his quiet concentration and the furrow of his brow.
"How long do you intend to stare at me today, Kazuha?" he asks without looking up.
"As long as I can," Kazuha answers honestly.
Kazuha catches the ghost of a smile on his lips. Scaramouche closes the book and sets it down, then gestures over to the terrace. "You're late," he comments as they walk over. "I wondered for a moment whether you had moved on from me so quickly."
"Never. Those eyes will stay with me to my dying breath."
"Flatterer," he teases. He sits in the chair once more. "Was my posing satisfactory? Should I do something else?"
"No," says Kazuha. "Only sit there and continue to mesmerize me."
"That I can do," he murmurs.
Kazuha sets up again and paints. He brought a new canvas with him today. His first attempt wasn't quite right. Scaramouche shifts and sighs as the afternoon becomes evening, but again, he does not speak.
They continue in this vein for several days. Whatever tasks are required of him as the scion of a noble family, Scaramouche disregards them each evening to instead spend his time with Kazuha on the terrace. Kazuha paints him and loses himself in it, the hours passing like seconds. None of his work is acceptable. Each day he starts from nothing, nothing but the afterimage of a dream and the figure of the man before him, quiet and beautiful and infinite.
One day Scaramouche asks him, "Do you mind conversation while you work?"
"I am ill-suited to conversation," Kazuha says faintly, swiping color onto the canvas. "I rarely have occasion to speak."
"How is that, when you have such a soft, pleasant voice?" Scaramouche asks.
"I spend most of my time alone."
Scaramouche hums. "Yes, I've heard. Deep in the wilds of Inazuma, the famous painter spends each day creating beauty from blank canvases."
"I do not create beauty," says Kazuha.
"You wouldn't consider your work to be beautiful?"
"Not inherently."
"Then why do you paint?"
Kazuha's eyes flick to his, searching those strange depths for something he cannot name. "What else can I do?"
"Anything," Scaramouche says with a shrug. "Become a samurai. Travel the world. Surely you have the Mora to fund anything you would like to do."
"Hmm. What would I like to do?" Kazuha ponders. He picks up more paint with his brush. "I have never considered it."
"Truly?" He sounds surprised. "Do you not like painting?"
"It is not a matter of liking it. It is what I am for. It consumes my every waking thought and midnight dream. There is nothing else, and there never will be. I am a painter. That is all."
A chuckle slips past Scaramouche's parted lips. "You are a strange man," he says. "I'm not quite sure what to make of you."
"Whatever you would like, my lord," Kazuha says lightly.
"That's the first time you've addressed me by my title," Scaramouche points out. "I don't know that I like the sound of it on your lips."
"I dislike the sound of 'artist' myself," Kazuha offers in reply.
"Do you?"
He nods. "It is too concrete. I resist definition with every breath I take. To call me an artist is to put a name to something unnameable, something that does not yet exist. I will forever be in the state of beginning, a dream that will never be realized."
"That's… sad," Scaramouche remarks.
Kazuha blinks, looking up. "Is it?"
Scaramouche nods back and says, "If you are always beginning, you will never know the satisfaction of an ending."
"Ah, but that is the beauty of it. I will simply go on forever in the state of incompletion, for what could complete me? There is nothing on this earth or in the sky above that could satisfy this hunger within me. It is an ache in the soul that nothing can soothe."
"Does it pain you?"
"Endlessly," Kazuha replies. "And I would not have it any other way."
Scaramouche is quiet for a moment before he says, "You want to know something funny?" Kazuha inclines his head, and Scaramouche goes on, "I exist in endings. Bridges burned, doors slammed, rooms stormed out of. I suppose that means… all we need now is a middle."
Kazuha ponders this. "A middle," he repeats. "What would that look like?"
"Well," says Scaramouche. "I'd tell you how handsome you are, and you'd insist I'm far more beautiful. You'd charm me with every word, without even trying. I'd flirt with you and eventually drag you into bed, where we'd make love to each other in the lamplight, and I'd call out your name into the dead of night. Afterward, we'd lie in bed and speak of a thousand impossible futures and decide on one. And then we'd spend the rest of our lives trying to get there, knowing that we never will. But it won't matter, because we'll be together."
At some point during this monologue, Kazuha's eyes meet his. They hang there once he's finished, suspended in a charged moment that could mean everything or nothing at all. Kazuha turns back to his canvas. "It sounds to me like you've already written our ending. And here I am, beginning with the dawn each day." His eyes flick to Scaramouche's. "It would never work between us."
"I know," says Scaramouche. "Because you are the earth spinning around the sun, and I am the tick of a second. You could never understand how infinitesimal I am, and I will never grasp your enormous scale. Yet here I am, drawn in by your gravity." His voice softens to a whisper. "Does that make me a fool?"
"No," Kazuha says, "not a fool. Only a dreamer. And when the dawn comes, you will wake."
They speak of nothing else until the light fades. Kazuha paints, and Scaramouche retreats into his mind. What a fascinating place it must be. Kazuha has been so engrossed in what he can see that he did not stop to consider what he cannot. He will have to find some way to paint that, too.
"It's no use," he says as the sun dips further in the sky. "We'll have to begin again tomorrow."
Scaramouche raises an eyebrow at him. "You're never going to finish this painting, are you?"
"I never want to," Kazuha replies.
He smiles, and there's a hint of something more there, gone too quickly for Kazuha to catch. "You might as well move into the estate, then."
Kazuha stares at him, assessing the offer. "If there is a place for me," he says at last.
"I will carve one out myself," Scaramouche says with conviction.
***
A new day dawns, and they start over. They do this every day for several months. Scaramouche ensures he is fed, clothed, sheltered. Kazuha does not miss home, not at all. He does the same thing here that he'd be doing there: trying and failing with each new day to capture Scaramouche's eyes. His room is full of half-finished canvases, and eventually Scaramouche furnishes him with a studio. The light is perfect in the mornings, and in the evenings they retreat to the rose garden, where Kazuha paints him over and over again. He is so familiar with the shape of Scaramouche's face by now that he could paint it blind.
His mother inquires about the portrait several times. Kazuha merely tells her it is not finished. "How is it not finished?" she finally asks him. "You've been here for months."
"My sincerest apologies, my lady," he says, bowing his head, "but the commission will never be completed."
"Why ever not?" she asks with a frown.
Kazuha smiles faintly and says, "Because his eyes are as vast as the sky above, and I am but a humble painter."
She eyes him carefully for some time, then shrugs. "Very well. Would it be too bold of me to request your attendance at one of my gatherings?"
"I rarely socialize."
"Just a quick appearance, then. You are living under my roof, might I remind you." Her violet eyes narrow. "If you refuse to complete the task I hired you for, then surely I am owed some manner of recompense."
He thinks about this, then nods. "Very well," he says. "The request is fair. I shall be in attendance."
She insists he dress for the occasion and has him measured up by the seamstress. His hands itch to paint, but he allows her to drape him in cloth and pin it in place. Scaramouche is there the entire time, calling out notes and comments. He makes the experience bearable, because all Kazuha has to do is look into his eyes to be transported elsewhere, some twin reality where they are the only two in existence.
Kazuha had thought, erroneously, that learning more about Scaramouche would cause his interest to wane. After all, if there's no mystery, why should Kazuha be drawn to him? But he is finding that every second they spend together only makes him want another. He is insatiable, hungry in more ways than one. Yet the dance continues, and still they do not touch. Kazuha burns with the desire to close the distance, and it pains him each day. Normally the ache of longing is as dear to him as the air he breathes, but he cannot help wondering what it would be like to have for once, to reach out and take.
He imagines it, sometimes. The brush of Scaramouche's skin over his, the way he'd look with his head thrown back in ecstasy. Usually Kazuha is content to imagine, to dream. He lives for the moments leading up to a realization, those moments where nothing is defined and so they are everything all at once. He doesn't want that to be over so soon. But the more time they spend together the more Kazuha thinks that in some ways this thing with Scaramouche has already defined him. It has shown him the beauty of existence, and though he has never wanted such a thing, every time he looks into those eyes Kazuha wants to exist. It is a foreign feeling, startling and amazing all at once.
The gathering Lady Ei holds at the estate contains more people than Kazuha has seen in the entirety of the last decade, if not longer. He spends most of the evening lost in thought, speaking rarely, even when spoken to. Lady Ei introduces him to a few of her friends, and he smiles faintly and nods. They don't seem to mind his reticence. They find him curious, unusual, and that's understandable. Kazuha has always been unusual, and he is quite accustomed to it by now.
He stares at Scaramouche throughout the night, and he is certainly a sight to see. He wears a navy silk surcoat with gold brocade, every inch a lord from his gleaming shoes to his tamed blue hair. People notice Kazuha's fixation, and some of them comment on it.
"May I ask you a question?" one woman inquires. He did not catch her name. "It may be impertinent."
He gestures for her to go ahead. "By all means."
"Are you the young lord's lover?"
"Hmm," Kazuha remarks. "I suppose not, though he captivates me with every look and gesture. When he smiles I find I cannot look away. I see him even when he is not before me, as well as every night when I sleep. They are pleasant dreams. Were I not certain I would see him each evening, I would loathe to wake."
The woman's hand flutters over her mouth. "Oh, my dear. Does he know?"
"I tell him every day," Kazuha answers.
She begins to coo. Kazuha cocks his head at her. "Please excuse me," he says, and walks away without another word.
No one else is bold enough to ask the question, but several others flick their eyes to Scaramouche every time Kazuha does. Only the women, he notes. Curious. Kazuha has been called a romantic, but he's never thought of himself that way. He only speaks whatever comes to mind. He sees no reason to lie or tell half-truths. He does not say everything, but when he does speak, it doesn't even occur to him to hold back.
As the party wears on, Scaramouche excuses himself. His eyes meet Kazuha's across the room for a moment, and he inclines his head slightly. Kazuha abruptly steps away from his one-sided conversation and follows him out into the hallway. The sound of the music dies down the farther they get from the ballroom until it is only a faint, wistful melody. Eventually Scaramouche stops at the bottom of the staircase, turning around to face Kazuha.
"Do you think we're far enough?" he asks.
Kazuha tilts his head. "Far enough for what?"
"For this," Scaramouche replies, and he steps forward, winding his arms around Kazuha's neck. Kazuha grips his waist on instinct, not thinking twice about it. "You look ravishing tonight," Scaramouche murmurs.
"Not next to you," he replies.
A smile curves over his mouth. "Everyone saw the way you stared at me. They'll have questions, you know."
Kazuha hums and says, "One woman asked me if I was your lover."
"And what did you say?"
"I said that I was not," he replies.
Scaramouche leans in closer. "Is that right?" he whispers. "Do you not love me, Kazuha?"
"I don't think of it that way," he says, shaking his head.
"How do you think of it?" Scaramouche asks him.
A stray lock of midnight blue hair falls over Scaramouche's forehead. Kazuha reaches a hand up to brush it out of the way. He finds now that they have finally touched he cannot stop, and so he trails his hand over Scaramouche's face until it cups his cheek. "You are my…" He pauses, suddenly at a loss for words. This rarely happens. He frowns, feeling unsure, unbalanced. The only way he can think to finish that sentence is with a soft, "Everything."
Scaramouche's eyes darken. They flick down to Kazuha's mouth and slowly travel back upward. He leans in close enough that Kazuha can feel every exhale against his own lips. "Kiss me," Scaramouche breathes.
"I can't," Kazuha says softly. "I never want the anticipation of kissing you to end."
"Every ending is a beginning, Kazuha. They are one and the same." Scaramouche stares deeply into his eyes, and Kazuha finds his breath stolen once more. What will Scaramouche do with it this time? "I want you in every way. I want you to wake up with the dawn and with your first breath kiss my lips because you cannot bear to leave them unkissed. I want you at the beginning of every day and the end of each night. It doesn't matter to me what happens in between. I don't care how I spend the rest of my life as long as it's with you."
Kazuha stares into his eyes and wants, more than he has ever wanted anything. And in this moment, he finally understands what it is about beginnings that fascinates him. There is a story Kazuha tells himself every day, the one where he is a painter attempting to capture the beauty of this world. He has spent all these years trying to bring fantastical things to life, but he is not a creator. He is a traveler stumbling across things that have always existed and always will. He is unwrapping the mysteries of the universe in Scaramouche's eyes, and he realizes suddenly that he would be perfectly content to spend the remainder of his days doing just that.
A beginning. An ending. This is both and neither, and he wants to live in the place where they meet—the middle, that infinite moment between open and close where there is possibility in each new day that dawns and a promise at the end of each night to start again tomorrow.
With the brush of a kiss against his lips, Kazuha transcends.