Soubi's canvas is bare, untainted and new, so much unlike himself. His paints lay untouched, brush warm in his hand and anticipating change, awaiting the white to dissolve into spring.

His heart sits in his fingers, leading them to the paper and striking it. A beautiful blue scars the canvas, and Soubi suddenly knows what to do.

He is still painting when Ritsuka enters his apartment, still too focused to look up until the younger speaks. "You didn't come pick me up today." Anger scratches at his throat, Soubi can hear it and he says nothing.

"Soubi!" Ritsuka's ears rest against dark hair as he approaches his fighter, fists clenched. It was a mistake to glance at the canvas; he stops and blinks, once, twice. His tone is a squeak, something muffled with confusion, awe. "Soubi…"

Soubi leans back, though his eyes stay firm on the art. "It's you."

Ritsuka doesn't question the evident delight upon his portrait's features. It is him, just him, just smiling and he wonders if this is how Soubi remembers him. "…Thank you. Can I keep it?"

Soubi wants to laugh. He loves the admiration on the younger's face, the cautious curiosity. He'll teach the sacrifice to paint someday. And if all he gets is that look of sheer happiness in return, it'd be worth it.

"Anything, Ritsuka. You can have anything."