"Here's the studio," Soubi said quietly, unlocking the door where the pieces for the summer exhibition were stored. He flicked the switch, the dull fluorescent lights flickering on, illuminating the wall covered with a variety of canvases. Gently leading the other to the back wall where his paintings hung, he watched the younger boy's expression with not a little anxiety.

Ritsuka stood, stunned. On the wall were numerous paintings, all centered around the huge canvas that was a great deal bigger than himself. Upon it the immense wings of a brilliant blue butterfly spread out before him, captures in canvas and paint, but alive in a way he envied.

And the sadness. There was just a gut wrenching reaction to every line, every spot of paint that made him want to look away, but captivated him in a sense stronger than a spell battle's restriction. His breath caught in his throat as he started to say something, fingertips shying away from the surface of the canvas.

"The paintings are all... crying," he murmured quietly, not even aware the words had left his lips. But the words were spoken, falling upon the ears of the watchful man behind him. Soubi shifted uneasily, realizing the younger boy was instinctively more perceptive than he gave him credit for. Suddenly, he felt like he was more exposed than he had ever been in his twenty years on earth. Ritsuka's unblinking gaze on the wall was harder to bear than the longest "discipline" sessions he ever had to endure under Ritsu's whip, and those slender fingers poised inches away from the canvas hovered like the blade that inscribed the name upon his throat. Stripped of his shield of smiles and pretenses of endurance, he waited . And then it passed as quickly as it came, with the small boy turning to him.

"These are really good," Ritsuka said in a hushed tone, as if he didn't want to disturb the paintings. Soubi nodded, leading him out of the studio. Ritsuka took one last look over his shoulder, the paintings back to simply being boards of canvas and paint, the echoing sorrow and wistfulness ringing in his ears. He felt heavier, leaving the university building, as if something had escaped from Soubi's work into his chest, clinging there with all its strength. Ritsuka found that he didn't mind, even if it hurt a little.

--

The pair sat in the park, idly consuming lunch, looking for all the world a child and his guardian, probably a babysitter or a relative.

"When is your exhibition?" Ritsuka asked, popping the top on the can of juice.

"Next week," Soubi replied, smiling gently for the boy's sake. "Would you like to come see it?"

Ritsuka nodded, pleased at the idea. Maybe Yuiko would like to come too. "Hey Soubi..."

"Yes, Ritsuka?"

"Did Seimei see your artwork and stuff too?" he asked.

"No," Soubi said quietly, looking at him intently. Why was Ritsuka asking this? "He did not particularly care for what I did when we were not working," Soubi said, leaving the unspoken qualifier: Because he only cared about you.

"I see," Ritsuka said, filled with a warm wash of relief, and then sudden cold guilt. Why am I relieved Seimei never saw his art? he thought, shivering even though the air was warm. It frightened him a little, such feelings, pushing them vigorously away in his mind.

"It's almost curfew."

Soubi nodded at the unspoken order, or had it just become a habit in their days together? He took the boy's small hand in his own, who was too wrapped up in his thoughts apparently to even protest the casual intimacy he would have made a big deal of on a given day. In the warm summer evening, the streets empty and silent, it was easy to slip into the dream they were in a painting, a defined world only for its two subjects.

"I love you Ritsuka."

Ritsuka said nothing at that, but Soubi felt that small hand tighten around his, and smiled.