You lifted your gaze and caught him totally paused, looking at you, with the same curious expression he'd given you in the gallery that sunny afternoon. But unlike then, as soon as he caught your gaze, his eyes shifted back to the canvas and he looked serious, almost worried. The rain was starting to come in through the narrowly open window, dousing the wooden floor with the slow drip from the window sill, and as a sudden gust blew the window fully open, knocking over a jar of brushes, he jumped up and rushed over to collect his instruments, cussing quietly under his breath.
"Do you need a hand?" you offered.
"Don't move a muscle." He bolted the window shut.
"Are you sure?"
He didn't reply, simply sat down again with a deep sigh, avoiding looking in your direction, as if to say he remembered what you look like, well enough not to check every five minutes.
You cleared your throat and corrected your posture, but as his eyes remained firmly on the picture, your thoughts drifted back to your peculiar meeting in the gallery. You had spent the afternoon looking at beautiful people in beautiful portraits, and when he approached you, you couldn't bring yourself to decline his request – it was an enormous compliment, and he was being so earnest it almost felt like a confession of love. You found yourself blushing and stumbling over your words, as did he, and the whole event was awkward and wonderful at once. So you agreed, be it with a certain amount of hesitation, and soon you found yourself sitting for him twice a week, for the third wednesday in a row now.
Yet if he was a talented young artist, he certainly wasn't very experienced in making his model feel at home. If anything, you felt like you were somehow bothering him. He sat in silence, and his hand didn't move, at times you weren't even sure if he was looking at the painting or if his mind was far away from the subject matter. Why did he have to be so strange, you wondered, if he wasn't so unusual you might have asked him what to do, how to sit differently, if he wanted to walk around or have a coffee break. But the way he was, made you slightly nervous of upsetting him, especially since he hadn't been drawing much today, at least not compared to the previous meetings. He had said he was happy with the sketches, but all that initial enthusiasm seemed to have evaporated into thin air.
"Can I – " you started, but stopped as he slowly raised his gaze from the canvas.
"I can't," he sighed, peering at you apologetically. "You're free to go. I don't want to keep you."
"What's the matter? Did I do something wrong?"
"No. I'm afraid it's my own incapability. I can't reach… I don't know how to."
He tossed his brushes from his hand, and got up to walk around the room impatiently. Stopping to look out the window, he mumbled something to himself.
"What's that?" you asked hesitantly, getting up from your seat and starting to gather your belongings. The brush that had landed in the puddle was bleeding a blue river through the furrows in the old oak floor.
"It's not Sayuri. It's not even… it's nothing. I can't capture a single emotion in your eyes."
"Pardon me?" you paused, undeniably offended, but willing to hear his explanation.
"I thought I saw something special in you but it turns out, what ever it was, I am not capable of translating it into art."
You stared at him for a moment, unsure how to take it. Was it an insult, or was he having a genuine artist's block?
"Why not?" you decided to persist, out of sheer curiosity.
"I don't know. It's mediocre. The passion I saw in your eyes that day, I'm unable to reach it."
It was sounding more and more like he was blaming his shortcomings as an artist on you, and you marched over to him, with your finger pointed.
"First of all, did you consider," you had the intention of telling him exactly why he was being unreasonable – how it was cold in the studio, how you had to sit still for way too long and your legs went numb, how he didn't make any effort of small talk before getting to work, how he was downright rude giving instructions – but as he turned to look at you with his melancholy expression, his sorrowful puppy-dog eyes, you realised he was not joking. It was truly a tragedy to him.
"Oh dear…"
You took his hand, pressed his stained fingers between your palms.
"Freezing!" You smiled at him as you warmed his hand.
"How could you work, when your hands are so cold?"
His eyes widened as he realised something. "Are you cold?" he asked with a worried look.
"Sometimes, yes…"
"I do apologize. I have a heater somewhere."
You shook your head, not wanting to make a problem out of it now. He looked down at his hand, wrapping his long fingers around your palm.
"You feel warm." He paused, then inhaled sharply. "That's what I thought when I saw you in the gallery. You looked warm."
You chuckled at his way of being awkward and charming at the same time, as he went on;
"The sun was flooding in through the large windows, and it looked like all the rays of light were searching for you. They were drawn to you, and you looked so warm, glowing, like the most wonderful thing had just happened to you."
"Yusuke…" you whispered, looking at the young man who seemed so heartbroken. He wasn't a poet, you thought, that's for sure, but you had to admit his words were perhaps the most beautiful anyone had ever spoken about you. "I wish I could help you see that again. I want you to see that again. How can I?"
He stared at you blankly and a very long moment passed with growing confusion. Then the unexpected happened, and in the only manner that it could have happened with Yusuke Kitagawa. He let go of your palm, took a step back, then two forward and leant in to kiss you on the lips, but with such hesitation it was like kissing an auntie you haven't seen since you were five years old. He withdrew immediately, starting to pace around the room again restlessly, shaking his head.
"That was…"
"Yusuke, did you try to kiss me?"
"No, no, I do apologize," he continued.
"Why?"
"I don't know, it was a mistake."
"No, don't… why do you apologize?"
"Because I am utterly lost!" he threw his hands in the air, stopping in the middle of the room.
"Everything I knew, my whole life, has been taken away. And I don't know what to do, and I can't tell right from wrong anymore."
His tall figure seemed remarkably fragile and vulnerable, and you took a second to boldly admire everything he was, the way he was just then, because he had just given you permission. You went back to the old settee you'd been modelling on, and took a seat, patting the cushion next to you.
"Calm down. Please come here."
"Yes, alright," he responded like a puppy again, and determinedly sat down.
"Come closer," you insisted, and he did, and you did too, taking his hand once again.
"Let's try it one more time," you smiled, and he smiled back with that apologetic look, and it dawned on you this may have been the first time he had ever done this, at least the first time with that intention in his mind.
Brushing his dark hair aside, you leant closer and he pressed his mouth on yours again, this time softly to begin with, but almost instantly firmer, with purpose and growing passion. You inhaled deeply at the feeling of his surprisingly smooth lips, the scent of the paint stains on his skin, as you parted your mouth slightly, allowing your tongue to taste his. The rain beat against the window as he grew hungrier for your kiss, and with newfound confidence pushed his body against yours, gently urging you to lay down on the settee.
You had not come here today with this in mind, you told yourself, even though it felt quite alright to have him climb on top of you, play with your hair as you played with his tongue, breathing heavily with your chest rising up and down. You had not been thinking about this happening, not hoping for it to happen, you convinced yourself, although now that it was happening you felt that intense need for it all to happen right now, right here.
Opening the buttons of your dress you guided his hand to your breast, down your body, closer to where you needer him so bad, so profoundly. Sooner. Now.
He paused, sitting up and you sat up with him.
"What's the matter? You don't want to? We don't have to," you lied, catching your breath, pretending to button up your dress.
"That's not it," he protested immediately.
"Oh good," you chuckled.
"But I don't know…" he started, but paused to give you such an intense look your whole body melted under his gaze. "You could guide me."
You watched in awe as he knelt down in front of the seat, ran his delicate fingers along your shin and up your thigh as if painting tall blades of grass. He brought his lips to your skin, kissing it so gently it sent little shivers through your whole being.
"I see…" you sighed as he found the rim of your underwear, tracing it with his stained-blue middle finger, then grabbed the fabric with both hands and tugged it all the way to your ankles.
"Tell me how," he whispered against your thigh, and you understood that perhaps you were not the only one who had been dreaming of this encounter.
He was incredibly soft with his kisses, taking his time to slowly get acquainted with your most delicate area. Little moans escaped your lips as you revealed to him your full arousal, and though he stopped to ask you if you liked what he was doing, you couldn't find any words but 'yes' to every question, every movement, every sensation. Your whole body surrendered to his gradual exploration, and as the feeling grew stronger and intensified, he grew once again more confident, and pushed a little further, little faster, little stronger. You couldn't help but move your hips in time with his rhythm, slowly repeating 'Yusuke' as you felt yourself climb closer and closer to the top of the peak.
His dark blue eyes peered up at you at the sound of his name. You felt your whole body quiver, ready for the sweet release, when he suddenly drew back with a surprised and delighted look on his face.
"There it is!" he declared enthusiastically, getting up without any further explanation.
"Yusuke! You can't – " you protested, sitting up once more, but he had already hurried back to his canvas, and was picking out suitable paint brushes in a frenzy.
"But I must," he responded. "Look at me with that… that glorious glow, there it is!"
Not knowing wether to congratulate or berate him, you settled for not disturbing his freshly budding inspiration. With the aching need still inhabiting your loins, you attempted to straighten up yourself and your garments.
"No!" he interrupted, pointing at you with the chosen brush. "My darling, stay right where you are. That's perfect. Don't. Move. A muscle."
Letting out an involuntary laugh, you agreed and with a deep inhale and exhale, relaxed into the position your master had instructed you to take.
"All right," you smiled as he swapped brushes, holding the other in his mouth, mixing paint on the palette with a fresh one. "But you owe me one."
"Quite right," he mumbled, taking the brush from his lips and holding it upright towards you, measuring, planning, creating. "For this, I owe you everything."