Characters/Pairings: Shiraishi/Yukimura
Rating/Warnings: PG; AUish, OOCness, fluff?
Word Count: 1,110
Prompt/Theme: "Sometimes." prompt_in_a_box's Round 2 (revisited)
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. No own, no sue.
Summary: Different times call for different styles. As an art student, he had to know.
Notes: Written in January.
He can remember the places where new worlds waited at every turn – sunny meadows, lush green forests, autumn skies or winter fields – landscapes so real they look framed and frozen like a photograph.
He can remember tugging at his mother's hand, impatient to explore. Move faster. I want to see more. Her fond laughter still rings in his ears like silver chimes. We have plenty of time to look at everything.
He was in love with these places, the sense of adventure that gripped him with every new detail he spotted. He imagined hidden doors would open, leading him to far-off lands where people dressed in garish clothes and spoke in cryptic tongues, inviting him to magic carpet rides or banquets with their kings.
He imagined the paintings would suck him in if he touched them, allowing him to live what they depict (to feel the wind in his hair as he ran across rolling planes until his legs gave out; to peek inside the windows of lonely houses to see small families at dinner, silent but comfortable in the dim candlelight.)
Some of these imaginery journeys still played behind his eyes whenever he stepped inside these places, but memories have become dull with age.
Times changed and the more tennis took over his life, the less he needed his vivid imagination.
Later, his feet carried him past images of lives he hasn't lived, of places he hasn't been to, not even in his mind. With steps slow and measured, he gave memories the chance to jump at him again, to take him away and show him what it meant to be young again.
Unable to find what he was looking for, he joined the boy who stood in front of a too-familiar picture, equally unable to wrench his eyes away from the nameplate beneath.
"I didn't know you paint." It was an off-hand remark, no more. Spoken without curiosity that invited a reply.
Yukimura, though, wanted to continue the conversation that had not even begun. Silence was an uncomfortable thing. "There are a lot of things you don't know."
Shiraishi looked at him then, and grinned in retaliation. "Would be boring if I did. Surprises are what make life interesting."
"Sometimes." He tugged the edges of his lips apart in the semblance of a smile, thinking how losing the ability to dream came as a surprise, one that made his life so incredibly dull.
That was years ago. They were innocent schoolchildren back then. Yukimura had long since stopped painting castles and enchanted forests; or anything he had glimpsed during his private exploration of the world.
The more he saw of the places outside his dreams (and tennis allowed him to see more of those), the more he became preoccupied with realism. Drawing from imagination was never as perfect as copying reality, after all.
Different times call for different styles. (Change is preferable to giving up.) As an art student, he had to know.
As charcoal stains virgin paper as though the fluid lines belonged right there, Yukimura breathes. The way his hand transfers what he sees to what he draws feels almost natural, flowing with so much ease it's like an epiphany.
Painting has always been his indoor equivalent to tennis; something to dedicate his time to on rainy days or whenever training by himself was insufficient.
This morning is an exception. Yukimura is neither alone nor was the weather anything short of beautiful; he had simply awoken to an opportunity too good to pass up, a scene he wanted to – needed to – immortalize before it vanished like mist.
He is fascinated by the way light catches on hair, shadows play on skin; the way child-like innocence was able to bloom on a face that has long since forgotten what a soft expression like this feels like.
Shiraishi stirs.
Biting his tongue, Yukimura moves pencil over paper in a frantic attempt to copy the last of his memory before it fades.
There's a short moment of silence. With bated breath, he hopes Shiraishi will settle down again, so he can finish his drawing. (It has been too long since any image captivated him this strongly.)
"What are you doing?" Shiraishi's voice is rough with sleep, able to shatter the after-image despite its low pitch. He yawns, then wiggles his head between Yukimura's arm and torso, nuzzling the warm skin and taking a better look at the sheets in Yukimura's lap.
Quick as a viper, Yukimura smacks his sketchbook on Shiraishi's nose, reprimand heavy in his tone. "Lie still, damnit." Although a reflex, the command is already too late.
"Never," Shiraishi drawls, playful as ever as he trailed lazy kisses up Yukimura's stomach.
"I wanted to draw you." There's a sprinkle of indignation in his voice, like a child that doesn't get its wish fulfilled. Yukimura likes acting out the spoilt child.
Shiraishi stops and looks up. "You can continue later," he says, a touch bewildered, as if he honestly thinks it was that easy. And maybe he does.
"It's impossible now," he sighs and shakes his head, blue curls falling over his eyes. He tucks them back behind his ears, unable to see the faint smear his coal-black fingers leave on his cheek.
"It's not like you to complain about something you can't do. I can lie back down if it's that important."
Yukimura snorts, a sound too unrefined for his pretty face. "Art is about capturing the perfect moment. Which is gone now. There's no way to recreate everything as it was before, especially the innocent look on your face." In short: the spell is broken.
"Hey, I always look innocent," Shiraishi laughs, before reaching out to wipe the smudge off of Yukimura's cheek.
Yukimura rolls his eyes and slaps the offending hand away; he had expected something like this. "I don't need to grace that statement with an answer."
"You don't. But grace me with something else then." One disarming grin is all it takes to make Yukimura release his hold on both sketchbook and pencil; they slip down the covers to lie forgotten beside the bed for the rest of the morning.
The charcoal would smudge, and Yukimura would be annoyed for some time that his effort did not show anymore, but as long as Shiraishi was still around he could try to catch him unawares in his sleep and draw a new picture.
In the meantime, he could always look for other objects or settings to draw. He would itch to do just that, an itch he hadn't been able to feel in years. He'd run with it this time and hold it tight.