It began in summer, it ended in winter.
There had been a stack of pamphlets boasting different exhibits across several museums. One on ukiyo-e, another on impressionism, a third on surrealism and so forth. They were pressed against one another between the blank sheets of sketchpad paper. Investing in a cheap 100 yen folder would have been the logical thing to do – and it would've looked more professional too.
But luck and money were two words that struggled to coexist with one another. A 100 yen coin someone carelessly dropped would be no better than 5 yen in the eyes of upper classmen. To Kitagawa Yusuke, it could have been considered a luxury.
In between the pauses for breath of hushed voices, he would allow his thoughts to roll among the landscape of his barren mind. Once lively with colors and images, it was now as blank as the paper in his hands. Forcing the ideas, yelling into the empty dustbowl of his consciousness proved fruitless than it did helpful.
Eventually, he learned to let the ideas come whenever they were ready.
But it was the best ideas that always came at the worst of times.
Frames and paintings are plastered to the walls, spread out at even intervals. In a room with long white walls and wooden floorboards, they are little beacons of color against a modest backdrop. The plaques sitting in the shadows of the artwork state two sets of characters: Family and given name, and grade level.
He's not sure why Hayashi Holdings insisted on including grades for the exhibit. An agent with a trained eye would not care for the age; all they needed was a name and the art.
This is not the first time he's been in this building, sacrificing a good chunk of his time for Hayashi Holdings. Prior to this exhibit, he picked out several sculptures and recited their history perfectly. Based on the style of the Edo period. Used a technique that had been sucked under by the currents of time. Received a few strange stares as he included his own
(personal, never professional)
opinion, and a raised eyebrow from one of the men of Hayashi Holdings.
Rinse, repeat – segregate the opinions from the facts.
A business card is held out in his direction before he can so much as breathe. "Thank you for the help today, Kitagawa-san," Ueda, an esteemed worker at this very museum, regards him with a smile as real as the plastic flowers on the secretary's desk. "I will be sure to file a generous report to your sensei."
"I'm glad I was of use," the words are rehearsed, lines to some bit play he has no choice but to play in. Show gratitude, take the card (use two hands, not one)...
Ueda's head dips in a curt nod. "Should you have more time, I would appreciate your return. You're well educated in the history of art."
"Yes, it was my best subject in school," Too proud. He backpedals. "Although there is still much to learn. Surely there are others who are far more knowledgeable."
"Nonsense," and for a brief second, the smile looks real. "You still have a few minutes, correct? Why not have a look around? We've had a sudden rush of new artists. It may get the inspiration flowing if you decide to look at something new."
He makes sure to tuck away the card in his 'folder', body tilting just slightly in a bow. "Thank you."
And new artists there are, crammed at the other end of the hallway, an appropriate place for those still inexperienced in the artworld. It only takes a brief glance of two – koi fish in a pond, a moon creeping between bushels of leaves – and his inner critic rolls its eyes. Brush strokes? Sloppy. Usage of color? The koi fish were dull; the moon a lazy mix of gray and silver that camouflaged itself among the darkened leaves. 'Value scale' may have been lacking from the vocabulary of these 'artists'.
Remember when you used to paint like this?
For every bad piece there is a good one, a piece of fruit that sits quietly atop the tallest tree. Yusuke's feet carry him by another handful before he reaches the end. It is confusion that draws him to a halt. That 'good painting', the one that screamed 'talent' was not hidden among this batch. Despite the obvious of it all, he can't help the prickle of disappointment.
He turns. There's the koi fish, the moon, a painting that would have Claude Monet in tears (and not tears that sprouted from ducts out of affection, but the ones that peeked out with barely restrained laughter), a few others that fail to catch his eye...
...And it sits quietly on the wall, bordered by two uninteresting canvases. It's of a girl, her face blank, hands cupped as the water trickles between unsteady fingers. The background is a mesh of greens and blues, but Yusuke can make out the mountains and the lake. A trickle of white, purer than her dress that is too, devoid of color. An expressionless face is hard to discern, but it is not always unreadable. Melancholy, but holding to a strand of hope – that's what he sees.
His mind tells him not to, tells him there's no point because it's setting up for another disappointment, but his eyes don't listen:
Kobayashi Chinami, chūgakusei (middle school student)
The ache in his fingers snaps him back to reality, and he doesn't realize how tight he clenches his fists when he's... when he's, what? Angry? Frustrated? Jealous?
"Impressive..." it's a compliment, his mind yells at those who may be listening. It's jealousy, his heart argues, and it's pathetic to feel such envy. He's 22 – why did it matter if someone so much younger got a seat among the higher ranks? Something that he achieved years after graduating high school?
Wow, something inside him deadpans. That's quite petty.
"Indeed, it is."
His heart skips into his throat. Art exhibits attracted all types of people: artists (obviously), admirers of beauty, wannabes, and sometimes there was that one friend who was being blackmailed into wasting their money on a museum trip. This person does not fit into any of these categories, and with his dark pants and light coat, and overall polished appearance, he makes his own.
They have a familiar face too, but Yusuke's not sure where he's seen it.
"And you are?" he finds himself saying. The blunt edges of his words aren't meant to cut, but they have before...
...Thankfully, this man's skin is tougher, and aside from the astonishment that races across his face, he smiles. It's as real as Ueda's. "My apologies. I didn't mean to startle you," he says. "Kitagawa Yusuke, correct? You were helping with the tour from earlier. I'm Akechi Goro. I've never had much of an interest in arts, but I found your speeches quite engaging."
Hollow flattery was not something he was unfamiliar with. Yusuke had been subject to it one time too many in high school. "Hrm..." is all he can manage, gaze dragging back to the painting- the plaque.
"I hope you don't mind me asking, but are any of your paintings in this exhibit?"
Yusuke feels the familiar lines of a frown creasing along his face. "No. I didn't sign up for this one," the lie rolls off his tongue. It wasn't a complete lie, but it wasn't entirely true either. "Bold of you to assume I was a participant."
A one-note laugh. "You're quite popular, Kitagawa-san. At least that's what social media dictates."
That snags his attention. "Social media...?" he echoes. "I was unaware I had gathered such... attention." Fanbase is a bit egotistical. "Though if I had the luxury and time, I'm not sure I would put it towards the internet."
"I understand; it's not for everyone," Akechi says, voice unnaturally calm. Yusuke wonders if he's struck a nerve. "But it's something I've come to use over time. I'm able to stay in the loop of things so long as I'm connected in some way."
Silence drips by, his brain searching desperately for something to criticize in the painting. There had to be a slipup in the strokes, the usage of color, the grayscale, the highlights – anything. Thinking about art, even critiquing it, was better than talking to this Akechi person. Yusuke is not unfamiliar to the feeling of being 'cornered', and Akechi does a good job of exuding this – intentionally or not.
A sharp chime trills from Akechi's pocket.
"It's rude to have your ringtone on at a museum," Yusuke quips as Akechi's finger fumbles to the silence the call. "You're being disruptive."
"I don't mean to be," Akechi responds. "I should be going. I'm not sure they appreciate me hanging up like that, but I don't want to upset you and the guests further."
Yusuke says nothing. How was he to respond to that anyway?
"There's this café in Yongen-Jaya," the sudden shift in subject catches him off guard. "I frequent there whenever I'm feeling stressed or need a break from the crowd."
What crowd?
"Maybe you should go there yourself, Kitagawa-san," he turns. "It'd be healthier than purposefully surrounding yourself with this talent."
Yusuke can only glare at his retreating back, a rush of words and carefully chosen retorts clogging his throat as they nudge one another for release. The girl in the painting is no longer unreadable, but smug, as if to say she is brimming with talent, that her creator hoisted her on such a pedestal at a young age. For a split second, she reminds him of Akechi, and that is enough for Yusuke to tear his gaze from the image.
Words were useless if the person they were intended for couldn't (refused) to listen.
He sits outside the room, sketchbook flipped to a clean sheet. Soon, that too is closed, and he departs without so much as a farewell to Ueda-san.
(How ungrateful, Kitagawa, how immature, how petty—)
The café sounded lovely...
...but Yongen Jaya is nothing like the Central Street or Akihabara. The paint on the local grocery store is faded, chipped, and one of the kanji on the sign is missing two or three strokes. There's a local clinic at the right of the intersection, and Yusuke reminds himself that if he were to ever fall sick or be jumped in rundown Yongen-Jaya, that he is to crawl back to Shibuya, because if a doctor couldn't care for their building, how would they treat their patients?
There's a guard standing at a lamppost, and he raises an eyebrow as Yusuke approaches.
"Need something?"
"Yes, I..." he pauses. Akechi never gave him a name, and Yusuke had been too wrapped up to ask.
He frowns. "What is it?"
"I was told there's a café here," he tries. "Would you happen to know where it is?"
The guard scoffs. "There's only one here in Yongen, but yeah, it's down the alley across from here," he points to where the street branches off.
"Thank you," Yusuke manages.
The café is two-tiered, but no larger than an average city house where it rests pressed between two other buildings. There's a blackboard sign by the door, listing off beverages and something about curry too. Scribbled above the list in white text is 'Leblanc', a rather fancy name for a dying café. But time had its way with eating at just about anything. Perhaps a decade back, Leblanc was deserving of its name. Maybe the bricks were bolder, the shades stronger, and the print less faded.
A panel hangs from the door.
Open.
Yusuke shifts his weight. Is it worth spending what little money he had on (possibly) disappointing food? He could always wait another hour, have leftovers. At least that food was familiar, and he knew what he'd be putting in his stomach. And there was the absence of prices, too...
He thinks back to the exhibit, the painting of the girl and the water, to Akechi Goro, and he grasps the doorknob.
The little bell above the door sings, and Yusuke's struck with how homely it feels. Leblanc's interior is nothing like its outside. There was a strange beauty about the modest atmosphere, the wooden walls, the bar, the booths... A yellow payphone sits at the end of the counter, the cash register diagonal from it, and lining the shelves are an endless arsenal of coffee beans stored in glass jars. Closer inspection reveals three coffee machines murmuring softly among each other at the arrival of their new customer.
And at the little sink in the back, resting comfortably beneath a hanging tv, is a young man about his age. Dark hair, dark eyes framed by glasses, a splotch of soapy water against his green apron. Their gazes catch.
From the chiseled features to the steady way he departs from the small mountain of dishes in the basin, Yusuke comes to two conclusions: 1) He's either the owner, or a helper. 2) With a little polishing, he'd make a decent model.
"Welcome," there is a deep softness to his voice. "Can I get you anything?"
His eyes latch onto the menu hanging above the coffee shelf, but he's not close enough to read the characters. Actually. He's not even sure why he's here. Yusuke had been expecting the barista to be as old as Leblanc itself – not whoever this person was.
"What would you recommend?" Yusuke finds himself saying.
And he blinks once, as if contemplating. Then, "The house blend is good, but if you're hungry, there's curry as well."
He feels his stomach practically tug itself at the mention of food. It's been a while since he's had curry. Well...
Maybe another time.
His stomach sends a pain to his nerves as he turns down the offer. "I'll have the house blend."
"Have a seat," he says, swinging open a cabinet door hidden from the entrance's view.
So Yusuke does, a seat over from the payphone. There's a blank space on the wall behind the door, an ideal place for a painting. Leblanc's interior seems to be lacking in the picture-department. Its palette is dyed browns and faded whites – fitting for its modesty.
"You new around here?"
Yusuke nods slowly. "I'm afraid I don't come to Yongen-Jaya very often."
The barista shrugs. "Can't blame you; there's not much out here."
He hums in agreement.
"Did someone tell you about Leblanc? I don't normally get new customers."
Hesitation cuts in front of his answer. He juggles the options in his head – the truth, or the lie – briefly. Akechi Goro didn't seem like a bad person.
"Akechi Goro?"
Ah. He must've said that aloud.
Incredulity lines his name. "You mean T.V. pretty boy?" there's a teasing lilt to his voice, and Yusuke's eyes widen in astonishment. That was... not the response he had been expecting. "He comes by a lot, although not sure why he would prefer to spend his time at an old place like this when there's a maid café in Akihabara."
Yusuke's shoulders lift in a shrug. "Perhaps it's not his thing."
"Maybe so," he responds distantly. The cup scrapes along the wood of the table, the scent of the coffee alone is strong, stinging his nose just slightly.
"Thank you," Yusuke says, withdrawing slightly in his eagerness to grasp the ceramic. Its touch stings his upper lip in a hasty attempt to drink. He manages to swallow a tiny spill, and it warms his tongue as it slides to the back of his mouth, both soothing and harsh against his throat. "Hm... It has a strong acidic flavor."
Barista seems impressed. "You know your coffee?"
"No," Yusuke admits. "But it's different from the others I've had." a pause. "It's better than the maid cafés."
A soft chuckle. "Give them some credit: At least it looks good; they draw pictures in the froth."
"That is true," he feels a ghost of a smile tugging at his own lips. "But there is more to art than just the appearance. Something that catches the eye is indeed interesting; creators need a hook to draw in the attention. However, food and drink can be just as hollow as art if there is nothing more to it. A painting with the right techniques lasts in our minds for a few hours. A painting with technique and a theme can last for days, maybe years if they're lucky."
"I see," he says, and Yusuke glances, searches his face for dismissal. There is nothing of the sort. "I take it you're familiar with art then?"
He almost laughs. Almost. "That is an understatement," Yusuke sighs. The sketchpad still sits in his lap, patiently waiting to be revealed.
(If only it had drawings worth sharing.)
The clock on the wall hovers just shy of evening, 17:13. For most, the day is ending. For Yusuke, it's one last task before he can retreat to his home. He's not ready to leave, or maybe he doesn't want to, but he doesn't want to stretch the time any longer.
A little over half of the coffee remains.
It would be a waste.
"By any chance, would you happen to have to-go cups?" he finds himself saying, eyes glued to the big hand.
"No," is the response. "Leaving already?"
Yusuke swallows. "I... should have been paying more attention." 17:14. No doubt the rush hour of businessmen and women would be lining at the train platforms. He rises from his seat. "Forgive me; I feel as if I'm wasting this. I blame it on my poor timing."
"Don't be," he says, but makes no movement to grab the cup. "We're open all week, so you can drop by whenever."
"Yes, I think I would like that..." Yusuke's words hang, searching desperately for the name he was not given.
He smiles softly. "It's Kurusu. Kurusu Akira."
Yusuke rolls the name around in his head, commits it to memory. Something told him he'd be using it in the near future. Maybe as soon as tomorrow if he were lucky. "Kitagawa Yusuke," he returns. "Thank you for the coffee, Kurusu-san."
The door closes behind him as the big hand lands on the 3.