A/N: So... I thought I could write some Yume Nikki stuff to get over a huge Tetris-writer's-block. Then I noticed I came to like 2kki and .flow better. For fanfic, that is. But the latter isn't all that great for it either. So I ended up writing a one-shot-thingy for Yume 2kki. Then I thought I could write a bunch of one-shots for this with some of the male NPCs. About relationships. Probably. That's why it's only males.

That means various pairings, and the ratings will vary as well. But I don't think it'll be K... ever. I hate being restricted when it comes to cussing or something. I'll try to keep the dialogue at bay. When someone speaks it will usually be Urotsuki. And at the end of each chapter I guess I'll write my interpretation for the character of the chapter. Sometimes it'll explain why I wrote this and that, I guess.

For this chapter, it's Kamen Eshi. Love him and his art. Also, it's M. Only for a lot of skin and paint. No lemons. Nothing close to it.

... Guys wait, is this the only 2kki-fic on here? Does that mean no one's going to read this?


She had been sitting there for quiet a while now, next to him. She did that a lot, lately.

Like usual, he sat there on the floor, gazing at the huge canvas in front of him that displayed nothing but the seemingly unfinished picture that he had been painting on for as long as she had known him.

Sometimes, he'd add a few quick strokes with his brush in almost the same colour as the one that had been there before. God knows how many layers of paint were on this canvas already.

But she liked watching him paint. She admired how he would move his brushes with so much precision, how he, whenever he stood up and let her peek below his mask a bit, bit his lip, how his clothes were stained with so many colours of paint and how he would sometimes, those very few and rare times, look at her when she spoke, his face obscured by his mask.

He never answered her, though. He never spoke, after all.

She had looked around in his little atelier, sometimes. Some brushes, most of them looking pretty worn, were lying in a small wooden box to his left. When she had looked behind it, she found around sixty cans, bottles and tubes of paint behind his mural and then there was that small ladder that was almost as colourful as the picture that was occupying most of the room.

Maybe she thought she was helping him when she cleaned the brushes from time to time, when she scratched some already dried paint off the floor or put a bottle of whatever colour she thought he might need in front of him. He ignored those gestures, mostly, but she thought that perhaps, yes, he was indeed smiling behind his mask.

From time to time she wondered why she even kept coming to his place. He wasn't very interesting, even when he was painting, he didn't really pay all that much attention to her and he was so, so lonely. Yes, that could be it, actually. He was just as lonely as her. Even when he didn't talk to her, maybe, deep down, he was happy about her company.

She wondered if she could paint, too. He wouldn't teach her, that much she did know. Without asking if it was okay she picked up a brush and eyed it curiosly. To her, this thing didn't look like it was meant to be painted with. And yet it was.

Then she found her company actually looking at her, maybe even a bit interested in what she was going to do. He didn't really look like he was going to be of assistance, though. He never acted like he was meant to be talked to. And yet he somehow was.

She smiled, let the brush soak in some pink paint for a while and then looked at it again. The eyes of the male next to her were still on her. Her smile turned into a broad grin.

Carefully, she lifted the brush, reached out for his hand resting in his lap and let the soft, soaked hair brush over his hand. Needless to say, it left a pink stroke where it had touched his skin.

He looked at it in confusion, then at her, as if to ask her why she had done that. She shrugged. He sighed or did something resembling it. Then, he lifted the brush resting in his other hand and left a stroke of red on her hand.

A giggle escaped her, actually, and before either of the two knew it, she sat in front of him, his hand completely pink. And soon after that, hers was red.

They sat there for a while, just like that. However, he seemed to be quiet interested in where this was going as he, who was usually not the one to do anything, initiated the next step. He rolled her sleeve up to her elbow and started painting her arm sloppily. And yet his movements seemed to be supposed to be just that way: sloppy, curious and quick.

Once more she had to giggle. The tickling sensation on her skin was too much to bear without laughing a bit, she told herself. And then it stopped. She looked at him for a second before rolling up her other sleeve as if saying how she thought it was incomplete that way. He did what he was expected to do.

She wondered how he was feeling that moment. Did he enjoy this? Did he like painting on skin instead of canvas? She couldn't see his face after all.

Soon he had taken care of her other arm, too, and she guessed it was her turn again. When she was about to roll his sleeve up, he suddenly stood up before discarding his paint-stained apron and red overshirt. They would probably be a hindrance if he had to roll his sleeves up further.

Now she rolled up the sleeve of his yellow button-up shirt just past his elbow and tried to imitate the other's movements from before. She wasn't successful, but at least she got it done.

Soon after that, he took his brush again. She casually got rid of her shoe and stocking and rested it in his lap. He looked at it for a while, maybe calculating how many strokes he needed to paint her toes, and then started leaving bright red trails on her foot. It was just on top, first, but then he went for another colour, orange this time, and painted the spaces between her toes, went up her lower tigh and gave it a moist foundation.

Then he painted with yellow, the paint mixing with the still moist orange previously applied. It didn't tickle as bad anymore and she was watching his every movement. How concentrated he seemed. And, despite it being so simple, to her, it looked better than his mural in every way.

Not that his painting wasn't great. But this was just so different from it in every way... and this difference was what made her unable to compare them to each other. And yet... if she had to choose, the paint on her arms and legs was way more interesting, beautiful even.

The footwear on her other leg was quickly discarded as well and the brush was quickly placing strokes of yellow on it again, then green and for her upper tigh a light blue. She was lucky that her skirt was this short. After all, if it hadn't been, then it would have been stained with paint already.

She grabbed her paintbrush again before realising something. He was wearing jeans. Not the kind of jeans you could just roll up to your knees, but the ones which clung to your legs. She sighed when she felt him looking at her, confused. She tried rolling them up, nonetheless, with little success. That was when he got it.

Quickly, he stood up and undid a brown leather-belt she hadn't even noticed until now, followed by kicking off his shoes. Then, for a second, he hesitated. She could very well imagine him blushing under that mask of his. But then, in one fluid motion, he discarded his jeans. He didn't really move or look at her for a few seconds, turning his head away in... shame? Fear? Embarrassment?

And she didn't even gawk at him. Just briefly, she let her gaze travel up and down his legs which were so smooth that almost every girl could be envious of him. His shirt loosely hung over his upper tighs, covering everything located upwards from there. And, to her annoyance, he didn't seem to plan on letting her continue painting soon with that attitude of his.

A quick yank at his ankle, however, made him almost lose his balance and, as soon as he regained it, he flopped down again, placing his foot in her lap as she had done with him before. Unlinke her he had turned his face away from her, though. Again the urge to see his face now, probably red and flustered, came over her. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smirking before getting down to work.

Her first colour this time was purple, her favourite colour. She started between his toes, ran her brush around them, went up his foot, then under his soles and suddenly found herself fixated by his curious gaze. At least his slightly tilted head told her he was looking at her as if intrigued by the strokes her brush drew on his skin. She found her fingers trembling under the pressure of him looking at her hands and it slipped.

A stroke of purple appeared on her white skirt and she looked at it a second before shrugging and continuing to paint. His focus had shifted elsewhere again and so she felt a bit more relaxed. She continued, this time with what seemed to be cream-colour, up his lower tigh, brushing the tensing muscles on the backside and gently running the brush over his knee. He shook a bit, probably because his whole body had become tense, but he didn't back away.

She appreciated his bravery to keep still while at so much discomfort, so she made quick business of his knee before putting his foot down to reach his upper tigh. Carefully, she drew the brush around his leg without painting on his shirt. Not that it wasn't covered in flecks of colour where apron and overshirt didn't cover it, but it didn't have to get dirtied even more.

The other leg was treated the same, though the colours this time were champagne and bordeaux, just to complete the alcohol-theme.

They looked at each other again, then. She thought hard what he could paint next, having her arms and legs covered in various colours. Somehow, it didn't seem embarrassing to get rid of her pullover or skirt, but how far would he go with taking off his clothes? Surely he'd die of embarrassment she couldn't quiet understand. His face seemed so far away, behind that mask, but she really just wanted to see it, touch it, only once. Maybe, if there was nothing else left to paint, he would go for her face to make his art complete. He knew she painted the places he had dyed another colour on her body, so he wouldn't do that. Probably.

Without further ado or any hesitation at all, he pulled her favourite pullover over her head and threw it somewhere, though hopefully not an open bucket filled with paint. She looked at him to see any reaction but he just stared. Not the way he would look at her if he was turned on by this, but the way he would look at his very own muse, at a body that wanted to be drawn, to be painted on and to be art. This reaction she couldn't quiet grasp, but then shrugged it off and quickly reached behind her back and undid her bra, her soft, almost flat bosom being fully revealed.

A soft pink blush adorned her cheeks, but at the same time she was quiet alright with this. After all, her male company had no such intentions as taking advantage of her. With only her skirt around her hips she felt a little awkward, but shook it off when a cool, wet brush started traveling up her ribcage. A quiet gasp left her lips when she noticed how cold the pain actually was but kept quiet afterwards.

She lifted her arms a bit to give him more space to work with and he gladly took the opportunity, running the brush around her breast and under her armpit. She flinched a bit at the tickling hair of the brush, but tried to stay as quiet as possible. He ran the brush around her upper body quiet a bit, seemingly very fond of her collarbone, ribs and shoulders, and at some point she found that the tickling, cool sensation had stopped and he body was almost completely covered in dark blue, lavender, lime green, Prussian blue and many other hues resembling them.

That, however, was only on the front, and he didn't seem to want to paint her back at all.

After a few seconds she concluded it was her turn again, so she leaned forward, taking him by surprise and undoing the top button of his shirt. He quickly seemed to catch on and let her do it, waiting until the last button had become undone. Involuntarily he shivered and tensed when she was looking him over. He had to admit he had done the same to her before, but he didn't want to compare her beauty to himself.

She, however, found it quiet amusing, how shy he was. He had no reason to be, in her opinion. His torso wasn't muscular, not sculptured or anything, but not an eyesore, really. She assumed it was because he never was around others much that he thought about himself so much. It was cute, in some way.

It was her turn, she had to remind herself again, and so she did what she was supposed to do. The colour for his belly was a minty green, for his chest she chose a cold blue, yet took the freedom to messily draw a red heart on it, for his shoulders it was a light pink and his neck was quickly dyed a bright orange, even though the collar of his shirt, which was hanging loosely on his shoulders by now, tried to dip into the paint from time to time.

They sat there for a while, silence setteling between them, before he took his brush, maybe to correct something, and tried to let the paint soak into it. However, he found it being taken from his hand and he gazed curiously after the girl that had taken it. Then, she grabbed his hand and let his fingers be enveloped by the wet paint before pulling it out, then leading it towards her face and let his fingers caress her cheek, the paint leaving wet streaks on her soft skin.

A few moments later he added his other hand on her other cheek, doing the exact same thing as she seemingly wanted him to do. When the paint had dried on her face and his fingers he withdrew his hands and let them rest in his lap, waiting for her to do something. And, as she had done before, she copied what he had done, sticking her fingers into the paint and reaching out to-

His head shot back at what felt like the speed of light. A gentle chuckle escaped her lips and she smiled at him, her smile almost urging him to feel at ease and let her touch his still masked face. After a while he leaned forward again, allowing her fingers, once again covered in fresh, wet paint, to graze his cheekbones which where still partially accessible with the mask on. Only after she tried to move her hands it got harder to reach anything. And when she was about to withdraw her hands, he did something she didn't expect to happen.

He gripped on one ear of his asymmetrical mask and pulled on it in a hesitant movement. Another tug and another and he had moved the mask to one side of his face, the other half of it being clearly visible. And, as she had been expecting all this time, his cheeks were a bright red, almost as red as the paint on them. Long blond bangs hung into his face and his eyes were cast downwards as if it made her disappear if he didn't look at her.

But instead, she smiled, gripped his chin and forced him to look at her. And, while reluctant, he did. As soon as that happened, fingers were on his accessible cheek again, rubbing the slowly drying paint onto his skin. Red, blue, purple and yellow, his jawline orange from her thumb guiding her other fingers from below.

And then she thought for a second before her face reddened and shee looked away. She could impossibly-! But then again, why not? Neither of them would mind, she concluded and withdrew her hands from his face, applying new paint to them but instead of colouring his or her own face with it, she coated her lips in the green hue she had randomly chosen. A confused gaze was shot at her.

One deep breath and then she leaned forward in just the right way to capture his lips with her own. She moved a little against his but after a few seconds she pulled away. He didn't seem flustered, happy, unhappy, shocked or at least surprised, but confused. She shrugged and grinned before getting up. She could feel his gaze follow her but just ignored it picking up her bra, her shoes and her pullover, ready to leave.

Just when she turned around to leave, just then, she heard it, soft, barely audible but still there, a voice, shy, quiet, soft, speaking as if it were the first time anything had ever been said in it.

"Your socks..."

It was a just a helpful remark, reminding her of how she had almost forgotten something, but to her, to her it was a lot more. The ever silent, faceless character she had come to adore had not only shown his face, but also his voice to her. And she was at loss.

"A-ah, yes! Thanks!"

She had replied hastily, quickly picking up her stockings before facing the male again, smiling a broad smile. Again, a gaze was averted and a head was turned away, a mask clumsily pulled over a face to hide flushed cheeks. She chuckled.

"I'll drop by when I'm around, so see ya!"

She had said with a small wave and a grin. He turned away.

"That'd be... nice."

Was what she had heard him say when she walked out of the painting, somewhat happy at heart.

Too bad all the paint will be gone once I wake up...

Not that he would mind. She had never given him an understanding of what time was. Neither did he know about the meaning of the physical contact they had shared today. But that was okay. He didn't have to have a vast knowledge, after all.

With a sigh, she brought her fingers to her cheek and pinched it.


A/N: I don't think someone hiding behind a mask is really talktive... Just gives off that vibe, somewhat.

Anyways~ I said that I was going to say how I think the NPCs are involved with Uro or something like that, so...

Kamen-San always stuck me as a friend who got hurt and then shut himself off, hid behind everything he could find and got lost in his own thoughts at some point.

The mask, as I said above, seems to be hiding his face, his emotions, what he wants to say. He lives in that painting which he never seems to finish even though he works on it, shut off in the art gallery. When he's killed he leaves his mask behind, which could mean that no one really remembered the person behind the pretense or self-exclusion.

2kki seems to be a lot easier to interpret. After all, the worlds are more obvious. So are the characters.

I dunno who will be next, but hey~ surprise, surprise~