Work Text:
the sound of a brush gliding against a canvas filled his studio, he sat under the dim, flickering lights and it felt almost as if the world was suspended in time, hours have passed by like a blur, focusing on small details and being critical of his work, has bent into spilling out his frustrations and ordeals, disregarding everything else.
each stroke felt like it had personally swore to ruin him, he smeared his fingers against his
shirt, a mixture of scarlet and black. His brows knitted with frustration. His palms damp and his grip around his brush so tight, almost as if it could anchor him back to reality.
his brush glided furiously onto his canvas as if it had wronged him, as if it is the only thing sturdy enough to survive his wrath and agitation, dragging color across it’s skin in violent, desperate strokes.
his fingers tremble, and the brush draws uneven lines, not from uncertainty but from abundance — from the way his fingers gripped far too long onto his brush — each smear a confession he cannot afford to name. and each time he sat back to admire his painting, he could read stories that twisted his heart with resentment. There is grief in the way the light swallows the darker colours, and tenderness in the places he softens the roughest edge without executing it, betraying a radiance he refuses to utter.
He presses harder where love curdled into shame, where love broke him when it was supposed to lighten him, lighter where longing learned to mutter instead of plead, layering pigment the way memory layers significance and clarifications — nothing ever entirely trimmed, only buried deep with a vengeance. Words would ask him to specify, to simplify, to fabricate; the paint does not. It allows wavering contradictions to conflict.
outrage bleeding into devotion, fear radiating beneath beauty, the unbearable intimacy of wanting to be understood thoroughly without being sighted. By the time he steps back, exhausted and hollow of feeling, it is no longer a painting to him, but a pulse — proof that what he feels is real, even if he can’t utter it, proof he is still alive and tangible.
a weary sigh escapes him, and his eyes search the canvas as though it may offer him answers to the same unanswered obstacles. His hands dry with cracked paint under his nails, and probably a smear on his face too.
He tossed his brush to the side, his eyes lingered longer than necessary on his canvas, before drifting away as if reluctant to move along, his footfalls were louder than the quiet itself, it felt as though his surroundings were aware of all that he’d been through, every creak, every brush, and every smear varnished onto his canvas.
water cascaded down his hands as he rinsed away the remaining paint, staring up at his reflection, and he hated the man who stared right back. A low, and quiet exhale escaped him once he noticed the paint smeared against his chin, rubbing it off rather aggressively until his skin tinted with a light scarlet, he quickly dried off his hands and his chin, stepping out with yet another sigh.
this piece was one he must keep near to his heart, a piece where no one can sight, not even those closest to him, every brush stroke speaks it’s own story and every droplet of sweat that glided down his temple were symbolical of his tears that he cannot bring to a halt.
returning to his studio, he stretches out his arms and a yawn escapes his mouth, he shrinks the moment he felt a pair of two warm arms wrap around his waist, but contented instantly, it was the warmth he loved so much, the pulse he knew so well, the arms that held him without feeling repelled. And he couldn’t help but lean back to his lulling embrace, words weren’t needed, they could simply exist in the quiet, silently appreciating each other’s presence. Whatever amount of love swelled kyo’s heart for die is where words failed.
with a gentle peck planted against his cheek, his gaze couldn’t help but drift towards his painting, presented so radiantly and certainly across the studio, but there was weight held behind it and die could sense it, each stroke cried out a story he does not demand to hear, and with his grip growing firm around his waist in a loving manner, he murmurs, "that painting, it’s beautiful."
a smile tugged onto kyo’s lips, a smile that spoke words when the world felt too heavy for him to speak, to die, his smile was about enough for an answer, “I only just now finished it, thank you.” He responded murmuringly, his gaze examining his painting with a shine of melancholy, “it took a few hours.”
“I can see that.” Die replied, his tone laced with amusement. “the effort is noticeable.” He continues, planting yet another kiss against his cheek, a tad bit rough.
Slithering his arms away from his frame slowly, he walks over to his canvas to examine it closely, in closer inspection, kyo’s work is beautiful, And he could see each stroke of grief, where the darks clash with the lights, and where the sting outweighs the softness. It all appears to him with crystal clarity without at all blurring or impeding that tribulation and misfortune.
there was hesitation in the way Kyo stood. His gaze averted and fidgeting with his fingers irregularly. And in that quiet, hushed moment, he took it as a chance to draw him close, and press a reverent kiss against his lips without warning.
for a moment, it didn’t register to him, but almost instantly melted into his kiss, his arms wrapping around him as if by instinct, where the roughness of his fingertips met the softness of die’s being.
the kiss was brief, but just about enough for die to spill his undying gratitude towards him, slowly pulling away, he pressed his forehead against his, “you’re strong.” He began, his grip growing slightly firmer, “strong for putting up with all of this.” He continued, heart swelling with reverence.
he slowly began to draw himself back, but he continued to hold him closely. His eyes locked with his and tinted with devout, as if standing before something sacred, and his hand takes ahold of his, squeezing it firmly, “you don’t have to experience it all alone, though.” He said murmuringly.
for a moment, words failed to escape kyo’s lips, stillness danced onto die’s fingertips as he dragged his thumb gently against his chin, "you still have a little bit of paint down there.” he chuckles, which earned him a grin from Kyo.
“how come I didn’t notice that..” he rubbed onto his chin roughly, a light scarlet tinting his cheeks with bashfulness. And the two broke out into a laughing bubble, for a moment, it felt as though all of his worries were swept away from his mind, and that all that weighed on his heart was the radiance of their shared moment, just the tug of die’s lips was enough to vivify his day.
he was able of softening the roughest edges of his life, and of him too. he has this quiet ambience surrounding him, the ocean of radiance was him. He can catch his spiralling thoughts with a simple tease, and he could see through him like glass when it felt like all his struggles pressed onto him all at once. When it felt like he was all alone in his experiences, he is only left to wonder how someone like him, has secured such a special place in his heart, and in his life?
he sees him even when the shadows envelope him, awaiting him like the light. Standing and smiling at his very presence, and he was wrapped in sorrow, as if born within it’s mask. He could clasp him with undying love, within ghostlike rapture the final word was "mine".
he sung a last goodbye to love, and carried a burden deep inside. The path seemed endless, his sensations were dulled, his soul had long lost it’s flame, walk with me, you’ll never leave. Allow me to send your spirit free, and tell me how your heart is in need. His heart still beats for the cause, but his soul still feeds on the loss.