Lesson 1
A/N: Hi... I-Uhh... Planned to make this into a sort-of chapter fic, so... Here it is, I suppose.
Umm... Okay. /_/
"And lastly..." The professor scanned his class list. "Kirkland, Arthur with... Honda, Kiku. Is that clear? Kirkland and Honda," he repeated.
"Yes, sir," a faint voice floated off from a distance.
"Alright, then. Now, since everyone's partnered with someone with a different major, I expect results. I want variety. Understood?"
The class murmured words of agreement and moans of revulsion.
On a seat in the fourth row, near a large, pine-paned window, there sat a lone blonde Briton. His person was propped in a typical student's slothful position that spoke of severe listlessness. His seemingly unkempt hair had the tint similar to that of bright yellow dandelions. The light that bounced off his irises emphasized the color of his emerald eyes which had been floating off dazedly at a scene three floors down. He was not truly listening to anyone, or anything. Nothing seemed of interest to him. When he heard his name and judged that he had been given a partner for the joint project, he slowly redirected his vision to someone in the second row and gazed, languid still.
The student had sleek black hair that fell naturally at the back of his head. In turn, his bland, brown eyes faithfully remained attentive on the professor speaking in front as he quickly scribbled notes on his binder.
The bell's final chimes for the day resounded all over the campus, signaling the chairs to be scratched against the floor while their owners tidy their respective workplaces. Chattering filled the large room, as it usually did at that time of day.
"Why don't you come by our house after school?"
The blonde nodded.
"All we have to do later is plan. Visualize, basically."
.
...
.
Arthur had a nonchalant look plastered across his face. He was genuinely uninterested about the project that had been given earlier.
How troublesome... Bloody hell, I absolutely loathe working with other people. Doing it alone would've certainly been much, much easier. But then again… Sine Kiku is my partner, so I suppose things would go smoothly.
Ding Dong
He stood in front of the white, polished door and feigned interest. He mustn't show a lack of manners. He was a gentleman, after all.
"Oh, Arthur. Come in," Kiku said with all humble courtesy. He stepped aside. "We'll be working in the drawing room."
As they ventured inside, he took note of the details of the house's interior. He noticed a beautifully scenic painting in the hallway, one with adroit calligraphy at the side. He judged that everything was modern, but still had hints of Japanese tradition, considering the fact that he saw some sliding doors, and that he had been asked to take off his shoes when he entered earlier.
The shorter man stopped in front of a door and slid it open. "Here. Make yourself comfortable, I'll just fetch tea."
"Thanks."
And the Briton was left to survey the room. In an instant, the slight annoyance he felt earlier had been instantly dispelled. All disagreeable feelings were left hanging as he marveled at the room.
Everything seemed magical to him, truly. He recognized the paradise of an artist. The perfect lighting to illuminate each stroke of the brush, the pure, white walls that cleared the mind, its entirety that pledged to keep flaws and imperfections secret, the limitless freedom it harbored, the solitude and refuge that it promised—it was the secluded haven of any artist. On the floor were instruments of art. There were numerous paintbrushes of different variety and thickness, some still having paint at their tips, some cleaned, some unused. There were palettes that looked like they have just been washed, while some still had two, three colors that had been mixed to please the artist's aesthetic senses. Paint tubes sadistically squeezed and rolled littered near the palettes. The walls were purposely painted white-the neutrality complemented the artist's colors superbly, magnifying the melody of hues that abound the quarters.
He was stabbed with a subtle sense of envy. He did not quite understand.
In the two farthest corners of the room, large canvases leaned against each other in a single file. All of which had been stained with either oil paint or watercolor fashioned into a harmony of colors, though there were more of the latter. The subjects on the left were breath-taking landscapes that possessed a nostalgic pull, as if dipping a hand into the painting would instantly bring you to the places. On the right side, there were people, people from the Oriental half of the world.
Despite the diversity of subjects, all the artworks had only one thing in common: there was a certain celestial touch to them.
But as he turned to become grounded once more to earth, one canvas robbed him of his attention. Against the wall with two large windows at each side, there stood a very large canvas; comparatively speaking, it was the largest canvas in the room. In its four corners, it contained a painting like nothing he had seen before. Although it was still incomplete, seeing the style and technique would make anyone deem that the artist possessed immense talent.
The piece struck something; it made his heart pound painfully in his chest. He felt that the subject was staring at him and that at any moment, the person would blink and talk to him. His heart pounded harder and faster as he came closer to the canvas. He cautiously halted an arm's length away and examined the subject. The first thing Arthur noticed was that the person in the painting had blonde hair, a little sort of gold, with an iconic cowlick on the right side of his forehead. Next were his eyes—eyes that had the nostalgic color of clear, blue skies were staring straight at him, unblinking, as if he had done something to earn the man in the painting's indignation. Then, his form. With his back curved and his elbows resting on his thighs; he sat on red, brick steps, white daffodils on the ground, gently bent and yielding to the wind. And in his hand, he secured a small, blue book.
The subject seemed to be the most beautiful thing to him.
Unconsciously, his hand began to reach to the man that sat on brick steps.
"Arthur?"
He jumped violently at the sound of the voice, and his heart jolted in his chest, feeling it spring up his throat. He whipped around and saw Kiku with a tray of tea in his hands and a curious, puzzled expression on his face.
Oh god. He didn't see me. He absolutely did not see me. Oh, dear, dear, dear bloody—
"Is there something wrong?" Kiku persisted when he received no reply.
He propped a straight face, but remained evidently red around the ears. "N-No," he finally answered, averting his lightly sanguine cheeks.
Brown eyes stayed fixed on him, still questioning. "If you insist, then." He settled the tray on the table sitting in the middle of the room. The table was unnoticeable, given the fact that it was covered with books, photos, pens and tubes of paint, and a mountain of paper, both soiled and untouched. "I'm sorry if the room's a little—no, really messy. We should be in the living room, but my brother would be discussing arrangements with his business partner, so..."
"It... It's fine. This is a good place, anyway," he trailed. "Your brother? You mean Yao?"
"Yes. He and Ivan planned to discuss business matters, so..."
The blonde nodded.
He vaguely remembered a sketch he made of Yao years back. He had taken a liking to him, he recalled. Yao was kind to him. He was the kind of person he would like to have as a brother. All that until Yao shifted from studying arts to business. He merely shrugged away the thought.
"Say, Kiku... What's this?" He pointed to the painting he had been previously absorbed in.
"Oh, that?" He grinned at contained pride. "That's a piece for forms. Body positions. The professor told me to put a hint of something I wouldn't normally do, so I painted someone blonde, Western, if I may. And I've also used oil paint instead of my usual watercolor, although... It isn't quite finished yet."
The Briton nodded, his eyes mainly planted on the figure of the person sitting on the red bricks.
"Why do you ask?"
He shook his head. "Kiku, you... You paint brilliantly."
The Japanese smiled sweetly, elated. "Thank you."
And both sat down to tea and spoke of their plans on the assigned school work.
_Ho~hum_
The final ring of the bell that day reverberated throughout the campus, as it did any other day.
The usual sound of chairs scraping the floor. The usual chattering hovering above the room. The absence of his usual vexation, which had been replaced by unusual enthusiasm and excitement that ran through his system.
Ding Dong
"Hello." A modest bow. "Come in."
He was to go through the same routine: walk down the hall, wait in the drawing room, and stare at the painting. Each day, more and more details were incorporated to the canvas: how the light bounced off the sky blue irises, which were now concealed by a pair of glasses that gave him an intelligent air; how the wind appeared to caress his richly aurous hair; how the daffodils were now accompanied by dandelions with their seeds fluttering all around; how the form and posture began to bear the imperfections of man… He took note of every detail.
Today was the third day. He wondered what he would see.
And as any other person notices any slight difference in the normal course of things, Arthur panicked the moment he failed to find the painting he was so dearly smitten by. But he had his own pride to hold on to. He was a British gentleman. He wouldn't let Kiku, or any living soul, for that matter, see him behave so hysterical over a piece of art. With a frantic mind, he devised a plan.
Get a hold of yourself, Arthur! Calm down! Take pride in being a British gentleman, for heaven's sake! British gentlemen are always always composed! They never panic! Why the bloody hell are you getting so agitated over a single painting? Just ask Kiku where it is when he comes back. And don't act too obvious!
"Tea's here," the Japanese said as he entered the room.
He took a breath and straightened himself before turning to the painter. "Thanks." When they settled down, he asked, as composedly as he could manage, "say, where's your painting?"
"The one I've been working on?"
"Yes. The blonde one with the blue eyes."
"Oh, you mean Alfred? I just finished the thing last night and I brought it to the third evaluation hall this morning. The deadline's still tomorrow, but I wanted to submit a little earlier."
Arthur took his cup of tea and was distracted in an instant. It was purely reflex. His mind was torn between the painting and the cup. He examined the ceramic piece in his hand while he listened. The cup was exquisite.
...as exquisite as anything I can make.
"Wait, Alfred?"
"It's the title of the piece. It's basically his name. Alfred F. Jones."
Arthur had comprehension dawn on him and he nodded. He pondered for a moment before concluding that the name suited the owner. Then, setting discipline upon himself, he detached his thoughts from the artwork and proceeded with the original agenda.
"I'll finish the pottery tonight, and I'll hand it to you by tomorrow morning. You can paint it afterwards." He thought for a second. "If you see some points in the pottery that need improvement, just tell me."
"Okay."
_Ho~hum_
"So, what do you think?"
The Japanese lifted the piece of pottery and examined the technical details. Between the bottom and the near the tip was smooth, but the edges had no definite shape and were just flowing freely. It was a majestic contrast. The kind of contrast in pottery was known to be immensely difficult to achieve, but he somehow managed to bring the piece to near perfection.
"The edges are delicate..." He began. "I admire the workmanship. I can tell the maker is skilled. As expected from a pottery major. Moreover, a Kirkland."
The Briton grinned dryly at the mention of his last name.
"I'll start painting tonight," Kiku added, beaming.
"Okay."
_Ho~hum_
"Prepare for an objective-type quiz on Monday-which means you have to bring pen and paper. And don't forget, the submission of the integrated projects is on Monday, too."
There was a murmur of agreement before the professor took his things and left.
Arthur wore a blank expression on his face; his mind was far too occupied with the subject of Kiku's painting.
Alfred.
He retraced every line, every combination of color he could extract from his memory. He had been so absorbed he failed to hear the loud whining and complaints of his classmates, panicking how to cram a rushed integrated project in one night. He, on the other hand, was completely oblivious. He heard nothing. But he felt uneasy. Troubled. He shook his head and focused solely on his way to the third evaluation hall to seek some sense of solitude.
He took out a pin from his pocket and picked through the lock and, as if they were nothing, pushed the doors open and waltzed inside, ignoring the sheet of paper that said Reserved for Monsieur Bonnefoy. No Entry to students. The room was spacious and the walls were white. Numerous canvases in various sizes leaned against stands, some hung on walls. Each canvas had its own artist. Each of them bore a different play of color. Each had its own voice. Each told a different story.
But only one screamed at him.
Alfred.
The canvas was set between two windows, which reminded him of its position in the drawing room in Kiku's home. As the horizon slowly swallowed the sun, the phenomenon gave the room a warm orange glow, making some colors prominent, and others overcome. He pulled a seat from one of the corners and sat in front of the painting, his intently fixing his gaze. A strange feeling had swept over him. To say that he was impressed would be an understatement. He was overwhelmed.
A cracked part of his heart chipped off.
"I... I want to create something as magnificent as you..."
Two fat teardrops materialized at the corner of each of his eyes.
"Unfortunately, I doubt I can make that into reality..." He sadly concluded as the tears he failed to suppress quietly rolled down his cheeks.
The child handed him a sheet of wood which he had stapled with a rough fabric. Colors were in harmony and the strokes were calculated. He had spent everyday for the last week completing the piece. There was a concealed sense of pride in the smile he suppressed.
"And what the bloody hell is this supposed to be?"
"It's... It's a painting."
"Of what?"
"Of grandfather's oak tree by the back."
There was a short pause, and a sigh. "Come here, son." He beckoned the lad to the living room, where the fireplace was cackling and ceramic pieces were abundant. They sat by the warm hearth. "Do you see these?" He asked, pointing to the pottery that lined the shelves. The child nodded. "Have I ever told you how long our family had been preserving the legacy of the mastery of pottery?"
"Yes, father," he answered with his head low.
"We've been doing it for six bloody generations, child," his voice nearly shook. "You know what you should be, don't you?"
Once again, he nodded. "To... To be the seventh."
"The seventh what? Be more specific!"
"T-To be the seventh generation to carry out the legacy of the Kirkland's Pottery..." He trailed.
"So I suppose you understand fully what that means?"
"Y-Yes," he mumbled, refusing to take his eyes off his trembling fingers.
"Good."
He heard big, heavy footsteps that abruptly stopped. The next thing he heard was the sound of wood braking in half, and fire devouring it. Tears silently ran down his youthful face.
He looked up. "Why can't I do both?" The child pleaded. "Grandfather was pleased with my paintings, so was mother! Why can't you be pleased, too? You-you never even looked at them! You never cared!"
Slap
Through gritted teeth, his father said, "don't you dare say I don't care. I treasure tradition. That old man didn't care about it enough."
He suppressed his sobs and refused to speak.
"Don't you ever," he emphasized, "dare lay your hands on a canvas nor a paintbrush nor a pencil ever again."
The room was enveloped in darkness, and the two more fat tears rolled miserably down his cheeks. Wiping them with the back of his hand, he mocked himself with a smile.
"How stupid I am," he told himself, his voice breaking. "For a British gentleman, this is... Exceptionally embarrassing." He stood up and decided to step in the bathroom and fix himself. He looked in the mirror and saw his own emeralds glimmering with dampness. "Honestly, Arthur, this is embarrassing... What would have grandfather thought? What would've mother thought?" He turned on the faucet, placed his hands under the running water, and felt the coldness slip through his fingers. He cupped the water, washed his face, and repeated.
How pathetic I am.
He dabbed his face with his handkerchief and resumed his position in front of the painting. He straightened his tie before looking up. It took him a minute to realize an alteration. His eyes widened at untainted shock. The canvas was there. The blue sky, the daffodils, the dandelions, the brick steps were all still there. The only thing missing is the one who was supposed to be sitting on them.
"What the—"
"—bloody hell?" A voice finished from behind the canvas.