Author's Note:
So I haven't written in a while. And I recently came across "K" and found my muse to attempt something once more. This little drabble is what came of it. It's not overly stylish or profound. This is more for myself: practicing and dipping my toe into other fandoms.
"You know, it really does remind me of you," said Izumo Kusanagi. He took hold of the canvas that was set on the easel to dry, studying it for a moment. "It captures your essence."
The aforementioned masterpiece (if you could call it that) was an eyesore. There was no other way to describe it. It was as if someone had puked paint by happenstance onto the canvas and called it an abstract for want of a better classification.
Mikoto Suoh would have just torched the thing. However, a certain eleven-year-old was the proud artisan of it. Despite how awful it really looked, the HOMRA leader would not lay a finger or flame to the painting. Even if he wanted to light it up and get the satisfaction of watching it smolder into ashes.
Anna, his clan's unwitting mascot, would be upset. And the last thing the Red King wanted was a irked pre-teen. Her moods, that had recently started to fluctuate, were already more than he could handle.
Yes. The stoic, often apathetic, head of the Red Clan didn't know how to cope with teenage hormones. He also didn't know what to do with these new forms of "expressions" Anna was trying. Like in this case, Mikoto wasn't sure if he should be flattered Anna wanted to paint a picture dedicated to him or insulted that the picture she painted that was devoted to him was hideous.
Izumo was poorly concealing his mirth. The blond turned his back to Anna and Mikoto, though the shaking shoulders and his heaving sides gave him away.
"It's wonderful, Anna-chan!" Izumo's voice was muffled. The idiot was probably attempting to fight off a laughing fit with his hands over his mouth.
Mikoto glanced back at the painting. Tilting his head to the side, he considered it once more. Considering that it was done by a child, a color-blind one at that, it was . . . no, it was awful. When Anna asked for his opinion, he opted for his traditional noncommittal grunt.
So long as she decided not to make a job out of it, he figured neither discouraging nor encouraging her would hurt.
The next time she painted, he decided that he liked it better when she didn't attempt to make people into conceptual art. When she wasn't trying to be serious, her work was actually tolerable. Somewhat.