--When Fire Met Ice--
"…they say he was a child prodigy…"
"…so much talent for someone so young..."
"…he's so handsome too!"
"…people say he's cool as ice…"
"…his art is just amazing…"
The setting was perfect for the pompous and aristocratic company currently attending the latest art showing of the talented young artist, held exclusively in one of Tokyo's most prestigious art galleries. Whispers carried through the crowds, rumors and gossips circulating more about the enigmatic artisan responsible for the featured work than his actual art. With an ear tuned to the conversation revolving around him and an eye on the phenomenal artwork currently displayed, a certain young man gracefully mingled throughout the crowd, halfheartedly indulging in shameless flirting or dry small talk. Adjusting the silken collar of his customized Armani suit, he let his eyes lazily trail over his surroundings, and as they came to rest, he momentarily recalled why it was he both despised and adored these social events.
Standing before an exceptional piece done in oil paints of two winged figures locked in a struggle amidst a wintry landscape was the young man who had caught his attention. With his hand casually linked behind his back, the pose appeared both lazy and relaxed, his face portraying nothing more than polite interest. But it was his eyes that spoke volumes, holding a rapt fascination similar to the look a besotted man would cast a sweetheart.
Tall and deceptively lean, the black slacks and matching dress shirt tailored stylishly close to his frame betrayed the wiry muscle of his sinewy body. The face was boyish yet attractive, features cut into the maturity of adulthood but still portraying a genuine innocence that proved immediately endearing. Eyes wide and feathered by thick lashes any woman would envy, they were a startling amber-red, the kind of rare color one would only expect to see in the deepest depths of an inferno. His hair was a nearly identical color, only a few subtle shades darker, gravity defying tresses combed back with some semblances of order. Casual as he attempted to be, he retained a certain grace, radiating a gentle and friendly aura that drew the young man to him.
Stopping only inches from the turned back, the other man gave no sign of noticing his approach or his attention. Smoothing back a few stray blonde strands from his face, his lips quirked into a sly smile as he opened his mouth to say his first words to the fascinating redhead.
"It certainly is a unique piece, don't you think?"
Momentarily startled, the other's back tensed before relaxing, his eyes never leaving the painting before him. "Yes, I would say so."
"The artist must have quite a talent to manage to portray such message and emotion from a simple painting."
The red-haired man smiled, the lifting of pale lips bringing a unique fire and flair to his eyes. "You can see it then? This is one of his best pieces, I think. Every stroke of brush was meant to convey something different. So much to convey something different. So much subtlety, color, emotion, and symbolism, all of it layered on one another, each connected together and still significantly different."
"He has a fine eye for color."
"Hai, hai. The way he used the brush strokes, and used the subtle blues and grays in the background instead of more blatant colors. Not only does it allow emphasis on the main focus of the painting, it also allows the viewer to feel the emotion behind the struggle, dark and conflicting."
The blonde man turned his attention closer to the painting. The main focus the other had spoke of came off as the two winged figures in the center of the canvas, one dark and the other light, arms locked in struggle and their bodies radiating tension, their faces featureless but beautiful, mirroring the desperation charging their conflict. In the background was a barren winter landscape, done in pale and restrained tones of blue, gray, and white that helped to emphasis the center picture, the shadowed outline of a distant mountain range filling the back corner of the canvas. What especially caught the blonde's eyes, however, was the use of brilliant red hues behind a far-off mountain, a startling affect in the otherwise bland and understated color of the painting, giving the impression of an approaching sunrise.
"The most obvious issue, I think, is the struggle between light and dark. But what intrigues me the most is the use of the brighter colors in the distance, to give the impression of the sunrise. Fire and ice together…they make such a paradox. Surely, neither will survive long in the presence of the other."
"Ah, you're right. They are an utter paradox. Like light and dark, they are completely contrasting. Each element holds the properties that can bring about the other's destruction. Each can stand strong and independent on its own. But together…together they become something incredible. The fire brings warmth to the ice, and the ice brings strength to the fire. Neither is entirely complete without the other."
The blonde-haired man smirked, enjoying full well the way he could so easily play the other man, take advantage of his distracted state to subtly ply the inner contemplations and vaguely veiled secrets from him.
In the wake of his silence, his companion's face stained with an endearing blush, lifting a hand to rub the back of his head sheepishly. "Listen to me ramble on. Gomen nasai, pardon me for taking so much of your time."
"It was no trouble at all. I found it refreshing to hear such an incredible perspective. I'm sure Hikari-san would be pleased to hear such praise over his work, ne…Niwa-kun?"
With a gasp, a startled Niwa Daisuke whirled around on his heel to stare at a face he hadn't seen in nearly six years. "S-Saga-san?!"
"It's been a long time, hasn't it, Niwa?"
Saga Keiji had changed little from the last time Daisuke had seen him, though seeming more mature and calmer in his expensively tailored suit, his blonde hair long and pulled back into a loose ponytail, his mouth pulled into a cocky grin as he regarded the Niwa heir over the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, in retrospect, I have to say that I'm not surprised to see you here, considering how close you were to Hiwatari. Still, you weren't someone I expected."
"Hikari."
"Pardon me?"
"Hikari. Satoshi changed his name once he came of age. Hikari is the name he was born with."
"Ah, I see. I've heard of the Hikari family. The family is quite renowned for their artistic talent, and their…unusual work."
The former tamer chuckled lightly. "Yes, they are. So what brings you here, Saga-san?"
"Pft. Nothing much, just entertaining the whims of a client. While I have the time, however, I would like to ask if you would mind reintroducing me to the infamous Hikari-san."
"Satoshi? I suppose I could."
His face pulled into a reflective frown, and his eyes scanned the room in search of the object of their conversation. In the far corner of the room, surrounded by a group of well-dressed entrepreneurs, stood the reward of his research. Hikari Satoshi, tall and slender, a man with the kind of face that women swooned over, simultaneously hard and elegant, the handsome features honed and sculpted by an unnamed celestial genius. A body which Daisuke knew every mark and crevice, muscled and trim without being overly bulky, outfitted in a dark suit that emphasized the unusual color of his eyes and hair. Thick and silky blue hair was long enough to brush his collar, yet short enough to still be respectful. As he lifted a hand to tuck a stray lock behind his ear, he revealed the golden earring instilled into the lobe of his left ear, an accessory he had installed after losing a bet with his lover. Daisuke remembered that rather eventful evening well: involving a great deal of sake, a motorcycle, and public nudity, though not necessarily in that order.
Daisuke reached up to touch the matching hoop in his own ear, and across the crowd, their eyes met. Satoshi's mouth quirked into a slight smile, and having spent years growing used to Satoshi's subtle expressions, Daisuke took in for the sign it was. Despite the circumstances, Satoshi hadn't forgotten about him in the least, and wanted him to know it.
"So, how long have you been together?"
Where ten years previous, Daisuke would have grown bashful and flustered, blushing and stammering to deny whatever statement had been made, the twenty-four-year-old merely quirked an eyebrow in query. "Is it really that obvious?"
"Only if you look for it. Besides, I happen to have a network to find out these sort of things."
Daisuke wryly arched an eyebrow. "Sometimes, Saga-san, I wonder what kind of connections you really have."
Earning a laugh from the older man, Daisuke smiled. "About eight years now. Satoshi and I, I mean."
Saga gave him a slightly surprised look. "You must have been what...sixteen, seventeen when you started dating? It must have been difficult hiding that. Especially with your school's heartthrob."
"Mmm...it was worth it in the end."
Saga nodded approvingly. "Congratulations, Niwa. You managed to domesticate the untouchable Hikari-san."
"...it wasn't as hard as you'd think..."
Before the film producer could respond, a furious-looking brunette came storming through the crowd of people, grabbing the arm of a startled Saga to glare down at his employer. "Keiji-san! What on earth are you doing?! Leaving a client to fend for himself in a crowd like this! How irresponsible can you be?"
"Funabashi! Minions shouldn't speak in such a way to their masters."
"I'm not your minion! I'm your secretary!" Funabashi spared Daisuke a respectful bow. "Though unexpected, it was a pleasure to see you again, Niwa-san."
"The same to you, Funabashi-san." Watching with amusement as the secretary dragged away his irresponsible and flailing employer, he shook his head. Some things never changed.
Having made his way through the crowd, Satoshi appeared at his side, casually slipping an arm around his shoulders. "I've paid my due for the night. Want to get out of here?"
"Sure." His auburn-red gaze glanced up at a familiar face, and Daisuke found him staring into powerful blue eyes, once as cold as ice, warmer and more brilliant now than ever before. He took his silent exploration, pausing on a pair of strong and slender hands, sharply defined with muscle. An artist's hands, capable of both force and the creation of beauty.
"Fire and ice…" he murmured under his breath.
"Did you say something, Daisuke?"
"No, Sato. Just muttering to myself. Let's go home.
A group of young women congregated around the front doorway sighed as one as they contemplated the two figures who had captured their attention. The handsome young artist held out a coat for the attractive redhead at his side, and then wrapped his arms around a lithe waist as they made their way toward the exit.
"…he's so handsome, and elegant too…"
"…I'd go for the redhead any day…"
"…it's always the cute ones…"
"…the cutest guys are always gay…"
Pointedly ignoring the whispers around them, Satoshi leaned down to gently kissed the shorter man beside him. Eagerly reciprocating the soft kiss, Daisuke smiled as he pulled away. He sighed with pleasure, looking up at his lover through half-lidded eyes.
"What was that about?"
"I was just thinking, love. Fire and ice. They're utter opposites, but I think they somehow complete one another."
"I think, Sato, that you're absolutely right."