Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Your theme for this assignment is self-hatred, you will have one month to create an art piece that represents this.” Professor Inuaki stated as he glanced around the room, although Yatora could’ve sworn that his eyes were bearing into his soul. There were a few hushed whispers from his classmates. Yakumo said something to him, but he only nodded in response.

Self-Hatred.

His hands came to rest on the top of his wrists.

There was more chatter from his classmates, Yatora lifted his head and glanced around the room, it was hard to imagine what any of his classmates would come up with, to him almost everyone in this room was undeserving of any hate whether it was from themselves or others. But like every prompt that had ever been given, it would have a different meaning to everyone.

Later that night he would sit at his desk, his pencil tapping against a piece of paper as he tried to brainstorm ideas for his assignment, he was once again drawn back towards his wrists. Most people couldn’t see it, but there was a few faded scars on the upper parts, from when he had scratched his arms during the stress of the entry exams, though his sleeves usually were long enough to cover them, and if not they were faded enough that someone would have to be really looking to even take notice of them.

His mind drifted to that night by the beach with Ryuji, as the two of them painted their naked bodies separated by a changing board. For as long as he had known Ryuji, he had thought that the other had not given a single thought to what other people thought, but that night revealed that Ryuji thought quite a bit about what others thought.

Yatora hated to admit it, but part of him felt relieved in a way that someone else could feel the heavy weight of others' judgments as well. That he was not alone in knowing that people were constantly throwing the stones of judgement. But something that stuck was what Ryuji had said on their call before the beach trip.

If you see someone drowning you’re the kinda person That’d go get the life preserver but you’d never jump in the water to save them yourself

The thing about drowning was, if Yatora jumped into the water with a drowning person he knew that the chances were that he would go down as well. A person who is drowning doesn’t care who gets in the water, their instinct will be to crawl over the top of them to get to air. They don’t care who it is, but all they know is that someone else is in the water, and perhaps at the very least they weren’t going to die alone. But then maybe that was the problem? Yatora wasn’t willing to die for someone else.

He knew that there were people, who without an ounce of hesitation would die for somebody. But two people dead is worse than one, or maybe he was thinking about it all wrong? If two people died together at pretty much the exact same time, it meant that they weren’t alone, that someone saw them in their last moment before they left.

Yatora knew that he himself was a coward.

He was scared to die, but he was scared to live as well.

His pencil shifted on the paper as he wrote a few ideas that came to mind. Self-hatred was a double edged sword, because Yatora knew what he absolutely despised about himself but he also knew that he would never want anybody to see these things. He had to use this for his piece though, this wasn’t a piece that he could step away from.

Yatora was the model.

And it was as if a class of overqualified art students were staring at his bare body and pointing out every single thing wrong on the inside and out.

If that embarrasses you, then you can’t die.

But wasn’t that the reason that some people died? The shame of who they were was too much for them to ever bear, at its core those who died of their own volition must hate themselves because if they didn’t why would they die?

Back in his first year of high school, he had heard whispers of a girl in third year who had jumped from the balcony of her apartment. The girl had apparently been horrifically bullied and ostracised by her classmates and felt like there was no point going on if this was how the rest of her life was going to be. But did she hate herself? Or did she just hate everything else around her?

How do you determine if you’re dying because you hate yourself? Or if you’re dying because you hate everything around yourself?

But if you hate everything around yourself, will anyone or anything be capable of loving you back?

Yatora bit his lip, tapping his pencil against his desk.

Perhaps he was thinking about self-hatred too broadly, maybe he needed to do exactly what the prompt stated. Self-hatred.

Ooba had once said that his art lacks self-centredness, that his paintings don’t tell you much about what Yatora feels, only what he sees.

But this assignment would be entirely focused on Yatora, afterall the first part of the prompt was Self. So Yatora had to insert himself into the piece somehow. He pondered for a few moments more, when an idea struck him.

If he created a list of things that he hated about himself, he could expand on those ideas and find some way to highlight them or use them for inspiration on his assignment. Reaching for a ruler and red pen, Yatora drew a line on top of his paper and wrote the title:

What I Hate About Myself:

Pretty simple title, but it got straight to the point, but now Yatora had to write down the most difficult part. What he really hates about himself. He knew he couldn’t just give base level answers to this, if he wanted to create an art piece that portrayed his truth on self-hatred, then he needed to be transparent with what he had to work with.

He let the tip of his pencil rest on the paper, he took a deep breath and started to write.

And he kept writing.

Some things were incredibly shallow, others were things that weighed incredibly heavy on his heart and soul that it felt like he was crushing it.

I’m Selfish

I Get Jealous

I Don’t Deserve Anything That I’ve Been Given

I’m A Coward

My Teeth Are Crooked

My Left Eye Is Bigger Than My Right

I Am Not Kind Enough

I Am Ugly

The Scars On My Forearms 

How Those Scars Got There

That I’m To Scared To Jump Into The Water

The pencil felt like it grew heavier as he continued to write, but in a way, he felt relief when he finished the list. His eyes scanned the page and he felt something scratching at his heart, and a sudden dryness in his throat. He swallowed down harshly and folded the list over and slipped it in between the stages of his sketchbook.

He felt heavier than he had for a long time as he carried himself to bed.

As he shut his eyes all he could picture was the dark blue of the deep ocean and a feeling of utter isolation as he sunk deeper and deeper into the sea.

When he woke up the next morning, he would quickly sketch an idea of the image that came to him while he was in a dream.

The next day, he could still feel a weight making itself uncomfortably known to him. But he dragged himself from bed and got ready for the day. Today, he would go out and see if he could find any more ideas and inspiration for his assignment, then tomorrow he would pick one and go get the materials that he needed to make it work.

His first instinct was to go to that beach where he and Ryuji had painted themselves, but he knew that getting there and back was something he didn’t have time for, so instead he made his way to the rooftop of an apartment building in his area. Sometimes he liked to come here to smoke with a view, other times he just liked to feel the air pass him by as he stood near the railing.

He let the toe of his shoe nudge the thin metal that surrounded the edge.

You would often hear in the news stories of people who would let themselves fall from the edge of the buildings. Yatora wasn’t sure how true this was, but he had heard that when someone falls from a great height that they’re often dead before they hit the ground.

Their body knows that they will inevitably die when they hit the ground.

So instead of letting them feel the crushing pain of hitting the ground, their body just lets them go. But if the human body is capable of that, why is it that when someone wants to die their body doesn’t just naturally let itself go.

Something Yatora had also heard was that people can genuinely die from heartbreak, that a person who had loved someone else so deeply that it was embedded into their body that the second that subject of their affection was gone, their body would start to decay away.

His sketchbook felt slightly heavier in his hands, but he reached for his pencil and added one more thing to his list.

I’ll Never Be Able To Love Someone Enough

Yatora knew that love and devotion were all necessary things in a relationship, but Yatora feared that when the day would come that he fell in love, he would never be able to give his lover everything that they wanted or everything that he needed.

Yatora couldn’t see himself loving someone hard enough, that he would be unable to go on. Which was awful, because if you love someone you should be wholly devoted to them, and Yatora didn’t mean just not being unfaithful.

Devotion and love went hand in hand, because if you loved something you should return the feelings that it gave you. But also, was it so wrong to want to hold onto some of the love for yourself? Or was it selfish to hold onto it?

Yatora glanced down at the quiet street below him, he could see a few tiny specs moving around on the ground below him, and for a moment he felt the need to lean a little further over the railing, just to get a little closer to the things below him, his torso only went forward by a little bit. But it was enough that he was standing on his tip-toes.

He only stayed like that for a few moments, before his feet were firmly planted on the ground of the roof again. He adjusted his jacket, then turned on his heel, not bothering to look back towards the edge as he exited through the door.

Throughout the day, he found himself wandering around, stopping and looking at any place that made him think, that someone who despised themselves would stop and think at. He stopped at a building, underneath balconies, the edge of railways. His final stop of the day was a tall bridge hung over a lake in a park.

Despite the proximity, Yatora had actually never been on the bridge.

In all honesty, Yatora always felt the bridge was out of place here, it was way too high to be safe for children or anyone really to be crossing safely, the railing was rusted and parts of it had fallen away, and as far back as he could remember, it had always been that way.

He had come here a few times when he was younger with his mother, but he in particular remembered a chilly January afternoon, when and as the two of them passed by the bridge his eyes had wandered towards it, she had noticed and gripped his hand tightly and said:

“Don’t go on that bridge, only people who have no hope go there.”

 Yatora had avoided looking at the bridge as he passed by, but today he was going to walk directly across it and stand in the middle. And perhaps he would let his legs dangle a little bit through the railings if he was feeling particularly brave when he made it out into the centre. The sun was beginning to set, and as he found himself standing at the entryway of the bridge, it was kind of surprising that the local council hadn’t sealed it off. Yatora let his foot rest on the wood of the bridge and was grateful that it hadn’t made a creaking noise. With a small burst of confidence, he put his other foot down on the bridge letting all of his weight rest down.

He silently made his way to the centre of the bridge. He noticed a few coloured ribbons were tied along the poles, some had small cards attached to them. Something heavy came into his heart as he saw a small array of flowers and teddy bears by the centre of the bridge, his feet stopped right in front of it, there was a card that said never forgotten in the hands of the bear.

Yatora was not a religious man by any means, but he found himself saying a little prayer for whoever had left that bear there. He found himself looking down into the dark water that swelled below him, he put his hands on the rusted rails and let his legs slip through the gaps in the rails, his feet dangled over the edge, his backpack was still resting on his back, so he turned around to pull it off so he could reach for his sketchbook.

He let the backpack rest on the side of his thigh, then glanced back up at the sky as he reached for the pencil in his pocket. The last golden rays were slipping away from the skyline, and if he really concentrated, he could see a few stars making their way out into the sky.

He mindlessly hummed a tune as he started letting his pencil shift around on the page, he could see the water over the top of the pages, and he was once again reminded of what Ryuji had said about him and people who were drowning. As he watched a stick float in the water, Yatora wondered that if he were to be in the water, would anyone jump in after him?

But Yatora shouldn’t expect that of anyone, after all if he wasn’t willing to get in the water he shouldn’t expect or want anyone to do the same thing for him.

There was a light creak on the bridge, but Yatora hardly heard it as he focused on the ideas of that sketch.

“Hey.” A soft voice called out, and Yatora’s attention was snapped away from his sketch as an older looking boy stood over him.

“Hello.” He greeted, and the man gestured with his hands.

“Mind if I sit here?” Yatora bit his lip and nodded. The guy gave him a smile as he sat down cross legged next to Yatora.

“Thanks, I’m Sato by the way.” He said, keeping an easy smile on his face.

“Yatora.” He replied, trying to figure out a way to get out of this interaction without seeming rude. Sato glanced down at the sketchbook in his lap.

“So what brings you here?” Sato asked, and Yatora could’ve said a variety of things that could explain why he was here, but he went for the truth.

“I’m an art student, I came to get some inspiration for my assignment.” Something passed through the boy’s eyes as his shoulders seemed to drop in what looked like relief, and his knee which had been pressing into Yatora’s thigh pulled away, leaving a small gap between them.

“Art student, got a lot of friends in your class?” Sato asked, Yatora bit his lip again but still replied.

“I’ve got enough.” Sato nodded again, before glancing at the watch on his wrist.

“It’s pretty late, you might want to head off, this place can be pretty dangerous at night.” Sato’s eyes glanced down at the swelling water below him, Yatora closed his sketchbook and shoved it into his bag, something in the back of his head was telling him that guy was either some serial killer or just an odd man, but Yatora wasn’t sure he wanted to stick around and find out.

He flung his backpack onto his back and pulled himself up on the railing, Sato remained seated and Yatora could feel his eyes boring into him, as if Sato was monitoring his every single move.

“Yatora.” He called out, just before Yatora was about to take a step away, he turned around and Sato was standing up now.

“If you come here again, bring a friend with you, they’ll help you keep your feet on the ground.” Yatora nodded, anxiety riddling his body as he turned to walk away from the man, he tried to keep his walk calm and steady, something in his mind begging for this to have just been an odd interaction and not the start of a missing persons investigation.

He reached the end of the bridge, and he heard a creak. His head whipped around immediately, but Sato was nowhere near him, instead he saw the man kneeling by the bear. Sato clearly thought Yatora was gone or out of earshot, because he could hear the man say:

“I’ll keep an eye out for those kids, but promise if they fall, you’ll take care of them, Jin.” Yatora ripped his head away from the sight, and let his feet carry him on the familiar path to home. His parents were already asleep by the time he entered his home, but he saw a note on the table that read there was a meal in the fridge for him.

But Yatora found that he wasn’t that hungry.

Instead, he placed his stuff in his room, took a shower, then threw himself down onto his bed. His mind was running through a million different thought’s, and he couldn’t make sense of a single one of them. He tossed and turned, but then reached for his phone, picking up a familiar contact.

The phone rang three times, before the groggy voice on the other end of the line answered.

“What do you want?” Ryuji squawked out.

“Sorry, I’m sorry-“ Yatora hears a groan on the other side of the line.

“Just tell me what’s up.” Yatora swallows around the weight in his throat, just biting the bullet.

“Do you remember what you said about me getting a life preserver but not jumping into the water?” He hears some shuffling on the other end of the line, then as uncertain as Ryuji can sound:

“Yeah, why are you asking about this?” If Yatora didn’t know any better, he would say Ryuji’s voice was laced with concern.

“I’m doing a project at school, it's self-hatred and I was thinking about what you said, and well, I don’t really know but it always stuck out to me.” He heard a sigh on the other end of the line.

“Yatora, you think about things way too much.” He hummed, whether this was in agreement or an acknowledgement he was undecided on. He heard yet another sigh, he felt something building inside of himself when he quietly asked.

“If I was in the water, would you jump in?” Something inside of him hoped that Ryuji would just say no or call him stupid for asking, because then Yatora would know for certain, but just like anything Ryuji did, it was unexpected to Yatora. Ryuji snorted:

“It would ruin my hair.” Yatora rolled his eyes, and waited for Ryuji to clear their throat.

“Yatora, the real question isn’t whether someone is going to jump in after you, the real question is why are you in the water in the first place?” Ryuji didn’t give him time to respond before a quick goodnight was heard.

Yatora clenched his fingers into the palms of his hands, that was such an unfair question to ask, because Ryuji had been the one who had compared them to people drowning in the first place, Ryuji had gotten mad when it was believed Yatora wouldn’t get in the water.

But now Yatora needed a reason for being in the water in the first place.

That’s what it always went back to, Yatora couldn’t just do something. He had to have a reason, a purpose for doing something, because if he didn’t have something to show for what he had done, was it really worth doing at all?

He wanted to do art because he had enjoyed it.

It was almost as simple as that.

But anything after that wasn’t simple.

Yatora placed his phone down and sat at the edge of his bed, he was not going to sleep that night. Instead, he sat down at his desk and sketched and sketched, the sound of his pencil on paper sounded almost scarily similar to the sound his nails had made as they had dug into his skin.

____________________________________________________________________

Yatora sat in the classroom, with his headphones on and the volume turned all the way up, today he would pencil what he wanted onto his canvas. He had also pinned his list to the top corner of his canvas, he also had some craft knives in front of him.

He had very rarely worked with them, so he wanted to get familiar with them before he used them in his final product.

The idea of his painting would be someone drowning in the ocean, their guilt over things they had done or hadn’t done would be the thing that had dragged them into the water.

His idea was to make the majority of the painting with dark whites and blues, and make it look like the waves were swelling around the body in the middle. And the white curls would be pressed into slightly with the knives and Yatora would add red and browns to make it look like blood was swelling amongst the ocean.

The blood would streamline outwards from the body's forearms.

Because Yatora had his headphones turned all the way up, he had not heard when someone else had entered the classroom, but he did notice a pair of eyes burning into the back of his head.

He turned around and found that Yotasuke was standing a few feet behind him, observing what was laid in front of Yatora, who offered the other boy a simple wave. The shorter boy paused and gave him a curt nod before turning on his heels and making his way to the other side of the classroom to work on whatever his idea was for the project. Yatora turned back around and focused on his work, but he kept one earbud out.

Eventually, Yatora’s back decided he had been sitting in the same position for far too long, and he finally had to stretch his arms above his head and lean back. Which is when he caught sight of Yotasuke, shooting a glance of some sort in his direction.

But like most things about Yotasuke, he was unable to figure out the meaning for it.

So he went back to work.

Eventually he let out a yawn, and glanced at his watch.

He had been here long enough, quietly he began to pack his things away. As he was about to exit the classroom, he felt something tug at the sleeve of his jacket. He turned and was met with a slightly flushed Yotasuke.

“Walk with me to the station.” It wasn’t a question, rather a rushed demand that Yaotora felt compelled to follow, Yotasuke wasn’t usually one to make bold demands and if he was doing such a thing something must be up.

“Okay.” Yotasuke’s bag was already on his shoulders and so the two of them made their way out of the classroom and out into the quiet streets. Yotasuke was hanging awfully close to Yatora, and he found himself slightly concerned for his friend.

“How are you going with this one?” Yatora quietly asked, Yotasuke tilted his head.

“Alright.” It was short and blunt, and Yatora does not know why he was expecting anything else from his friend. But what he didn’t expect, is what Yotasuke asked next:

“I saw your list, do you really believe all that?” Yatora stopped in his tracks, and felt something cold run down his spine, Yotasuke’s tone hadn’t changed from his usual monotone demeanour but to Yatora he may have screamed it out to the whole world.

Instead of answering Yotasuke’s question, Yatora let his own slip past his own lips.

“Don’t you have things you don’t like about yourself?” Yotasuke just stared him down, they stood there in the middle of the street just looking at each other for a few moments before Yotasuke opened his mouth.

“I do.” Yotasuke conceded, but something sharp passed through his gaze.

“But not enough to hurt myself over.” Yatora’s hands immediately latched onto his forearms, and he saw Yatsuke’s eyebrows rise as he glanced down at Yatora’s arms. Yatora opened and closed his mouth a few times, something ugly was crawling its way up his throat. Whether this be a defence or a cutting remark, was unknown to Yatora as he swallowed it back down.

“Will miss the train.” Yotasuke said, brushing past Yatora like he hadn’t just thrown one of Yatora’s biggest insecurities out into the world.

“Yotasu-” A small hand pressed onto his shoulder.

“Don’t be an idiot Yatora.” The fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket.

“You’re the muse, not the canvas.” The fingers uncurled themselves from the fabric and Yotasuke stepped ahead of him. They didn’t say anything for the rest of the walk to the station but the words kept ringing in Yatora’s head.

You’re the muse, not the canvas.

Yatora knew that, he knew that in every art piece he created in a way he was throwing everything that was swirling inside of him onto the canvas, but wasn’t everything around them in a way a canvas as well?

Anything could be used to make art, including oneself.

But maybe your body should not be something to paint your feelings onto, maybe it was just something that was made to hold in everything that you felt until you found something that you could push them onto.

Yotasuke didn’t say anything when his train arrived, but he shoved a piece of paper into Yatora’s hand before the train doors closed behind him. Yatoar waited until his own train arrived, then when he sat at the farthest end of the carriage all by himself he allowed himself to unfurl the paper. 

It was an address. 

And right underneath was a small note.

There’s plenty of paint at my house 

Yatora couldn’t help but feel the corners of his mouth perk up slightly.

To some people, this would mean nothing. But for Yotasuke to invite Yatora into his own space, something that Yatora knew that the boy was fiercely protective about, meant the world to Yatora.

He made sure to tuck it into his backpack pocket, somewhere that it was always in reach to Yatora just in case he needed it, a small reminder that even if Yotasuke didn’t show it as clearly as others, that he cared about Yatora.

Their friendship was not a one sided affair.

It made something inside of Yatora feel a little lighter.

_____________________________________________________________________

The month seemed to pass in heavy blur, and Yatora couldn’t say that he was one hundred percent pleased with how his painting had turned out, but he also couldn’t say that a small part of him wasn’t pleased with what he had created.

Using the craft knife, had taken multiple attempts and many sleepless nights, but it had been worth it in the end because of the realisting jagged marks that appeared on his skin within the painting. The list that he had made at the beginning of this piece was tucked into the back of his pocket, something that was a small reminder in how he came to create his piece.

On that day, Yatora ended up being the last person to be reviewed.

He watched as the professor's gaze looked up and down at the painting, then it narrowed in on him.

Yatora very quietly explained the story about the night Ryuji had called him and said that he wouldn’t jump in the water, he talked about the all consuming guilt he felt when he got into the program when he knew that there were others out there who deserve their place here more than Yatora ever would.

He talked about the list that he created at the beginning of this project.

Then in a voice that was hardly above a whisper, Yatora talked about the nails digging into his skin, and something in the back of his head that told him that he didn’t deserve anything that he had.

When he looked up, he found that Professor Inuaki was right in front of him.

“You very clearly understood the prompt, Yatora.” He glanced down at Yatora’s arms.

“But for future projects, try not to let yourself get so wrapped up in your own feelings.” Inuaki called for the other’s to follow after him, but before they did Sakurai took a step closer to him.

“Yatora, you have plenty of people around you who will help carry your burdens, try not to let them weigh you down.” Yatora nodded, and Sakurai shuffled out of the room, as soon as she was gone Yatora let out a sigh and let himself slip down onto the ground.

Usually after a review, he would like to go seek out the others and see their art pieces, but today he found that he was absolutely drained and that he just wanted to sit here by himself for at least a few moments. His knees pulled up to his chest, and his head resting on them.

He hadn’t realised how much of himself that he had put into this piece, until he found himself here at the end where he felt like there wasn’t anything else that he could give in that moment. He heard the sound of the door opening and shutting to the room that he was in, and found that it was Hachan who had opened the door.

“Yeah, this one was hard wasn’t it.” Hachan was leaning on the doorframe.

“Yakumo, Momo and I were going to go grab some lunch, want to come with?” Yatora stretched his shoulders back, and nodded. Hacchan waited at the entryway of the door for him, but Yatora could see that he was shooting a glance at Yatora’s painting.

“You can come in and see if you’d like.” Yatora offered, when he was a step or two away from the door, Hachan gave him a nod and stepped into the room.

His eyes danced across the painting, and Yatora saw the mental cogs turning in his head, in a way people who looked at art all had their own questions and interpretations about a piece, but something that always seemed to ring true when people saw art was to ask:

Why?

Why was this made? Why had someone thrown what themselves onto the canvas like this for everyone to judge?

Maybe the answer was that the artist wanted to be seen, that they wanted people out there who  felt the same way that they were not alone.

But this was not the case for this piece.

This was probably Yatora’s most self-centred creation, this piece was made up of nothing but Yatora’s insecurities, the things that would keep him awake at night and slowly chisel away at any sense of self-confidence that he had, every doubt and every fear that he had went into this piece.

And this picture was really for no one but Yatora.

How much more selfish could he get?

He couldn’t even make a piece of art that everyone could understand.

“I can tell that this was really personal.” Hachan turned on his heels, and it seemed that he had something more to say, but he was interrupted by Momo poking her head around through the door.

“Hachan, are you guys coming?” Unlike Hachan, Momo didn’t wait at the door, instead she bounded over to them and planted herself in front of his painting.

“Wow Yatora, there’s a lot of detail in this!” She exclaimed, standing up on her tiptoes. Yatora hummed in acknowledgement, suddenly feeling a sense of awkwardness that people that actually knew him were seeing this piece.

Soon the three became four, as Yakumo casually strolled into the room, whistling some kind of tune.

“We going or no-” His eyes immediately went to the painting hanging on the wall.

There was an almost haunted look in his eyes as he took in the entirety of the piece.

Something was turning in the back of Yakumo’s head, and Yatora had a feeling that whatever it was, for a moment Yatora was back in the top of the warehouse where Yakumo told him the story of Sanada.

Sanada had drowned.

Yatora had painted himself drowning.

“Damn, whoever painted this was not having a good time.” Yakumo siad, in his usual way as he walked closer. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to find something else within the painting.

“This one's yours?” Yakumo lips had pressed into a thin line, Yatora nodded and the boy in front of him made a humming noise, whether this was a sound of approval or a simple acknowledgement of what Yatora had replied was yet to be determined.

“Well let’s get going then!” Momo announced with a clap, grabbing onto Hachan’s sleeve and pulling him towards the door. He and Yakumo weren’t too far behind them, but before they left Yatora turned and sent one more glance towards his painting, Yakumo did the same thing, but he was quick to turn himself back around and throw a lazy arm around Yatora’s shoulder.

Yatora hated that Yakumo could be so casual about things sometimes. (He didn’t hate it, in fact he admired it, loved it even.) 

Yakumo was an easy person to admire.

He made things both simultaneously so easy and so hard, because he was one of those people who had confidence in themselves and their work, Yakumo wasn’t someone who would let doubt get in his way.

That didn’t mean he didn’t have doubts though. Yakumo had plenty of doubts that Yatora had come to learn about, but Yakumo had never let those doubts get in the way of what he wanted to do or who he was.

“Leave it here, Yatora.” Yakumo’s fingers squeezed into his skin, and Yatora got the unsaid message behind the words.

Leave Your Feelings Here

The door shut behind them, and Yatora for a moment felt a little bit lighter. The two of them followed slightly behind Hachan and Momo, but Yakumo’s arm did not move from his shoulders.

“How’d your review go?” Yatora found himself asking. Yatora had not seen Yakumo’s final piece and he had actually hardly seen Yakumo throughout the planning and creating process. Yakumo flippantly waves his free hand around.

“Professor said I didn’t really stick to the prompt.”  As they turned a corner down the hallway, Yakumo stopped walking and made him turn and come to a stop in front of a massive canvas.

The painting, as expected, was larger than life and was of a man holding someone on the water's edge, with a blank face. It reminded Yatora of another painting that he had seen somewhere, but he wasn’t sure or more like he couldn’t recall what the painting was.

“The guilt of surviving is something I find myself pondering alot.” Yakumo told him, as he pulled Yatora away from his painting.

Yatora knew what he meant. 

Or at the very least he thought he did. Yakumo felt guilty for being alive and living his dream, while Sanada was gone. It must be a hard burden to carry that around, the weight of knowing that there was someone who wanted something just as badly as you did but for some reason or another they didn’t get it. But for some reason, Yatora couldn’t hold back the question that was on the tip of his tongue.

“Do you hate yourself for surviving?” 

Yakumo tilted his head back, he looked like he was caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, but he seemed to settle on a small huff.

“What a question.” Yakumo hummed, but he leaned his head a little closer to Yatora, so that his lips were only an inch away from the skin of his ear, and if Yakumo hadn’t been pulling him along, Yatora is sure that he would’ve stopped in his tracks as he tried to comprehend the closeness of another living being to himself.

“I don’t hate myself for it.” Yakumo quietly whispered to him.

“But I might if I let someone else fall .” 

Yakumo pulled away from his ear, and all of a sudden everything felt like too much for Yatora. Yakumo was too close, his clothes were too tight and it felt like every breath he was taking in and out of his body took a tremendous amount of effort.

It took everything inside of him right then and there to not let tears fall down his face. 

Yatora shouldn’t cry, they were talking about Yakumo. This was about Yakumo, not Yatora and if he let the tears fall down his face, he knew that the attention would be turned to him and Yatora wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle that.

To know that someone had seen him be so vulnerable.

It was one thing for them to see it through his art, they could choose to take it or leave it then, and if they chose to leave it, Yatora wouldn’t be as fussed, it would still sting but it wouldn’t cut him as deep.

But if someone saw him in some completely vulnerable state and chose to leave him, Yatora isn’t sure what he would do with himself. To know that the people around him couldn’t bearw to look at him when he was showing them everything that was brewing within him.

He took a steadying breath, and in a blink he was sitting at a table with the others.

Yatora isn’t sure when they had gotten to the restaurant or when he had even sat down at the table, but as he took in another breath, he realised that Yakumo still had an arm draped around his shoulders and that at the very least counted for something.

Momo passed him the menu, and Yatora glanced it up and down and found that he wasn’t actually that hungry, in fact he reckoned if he ate something it might come right back up, so instead he silently passed the menu over to Yakumo who loudly exclaimed that it was crime how much they were charging.

Something pressed against his leg, and Yatora looked up from the table and saw that Momo was giving him an inquisitive glance and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She leaned back in her chair more, but Yatora could see that she was still keeping an eye on him.

Hachan ends up going up to order.

When he comes back, they sit in silence for a few moments before Yatora can’t help but open his mouth.

“Did you guys like this assignment?” 

He could see that Hachan shot a glance across to Yakumo, then he leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh.

“Honestly, I’m more glad that it’s done.” Momo nodded from beside him and stretched her own arms out across the table.

“It was such a bleak topic.” She added, and Yatora noted that if he looked really close that he could see some dark marks underneath her eyelids.

“How did you guys figure out what to make?” Yatora could still feel Yakumo's arm around him, and if he was really paying attention he could feel that the boy seemed to be pulling him as close as he could within the confines of the space that they had between the two of them.

“I kind of just thought about things that would make others envious in a way.” Hacchan leaned forward and rested his face into the palm of his hands.

“I kept trying to think about what common insecurities that people would have, you know, things like I wish i was skinner, I wish my nose wasn’t as big or that my face was more round.” 

Yatora nodded, and Hachan described how he had ended up using a mirror shard within his piece to represent every aspect that people wanted to change about themselves.

Momo went on to talk about how she had focused on social media and how it influences how people look at their own bodies. She had ended up making a collage piece of the negative comments that she had found under people’s posts.

The attention then turned to Yakumo, who leaned back in his chair and kicked one of his feet up onto the table, but his arm was still around Yatora, only just a bit more loose.

“I just focused on something that I felt guilty about.” He didn’t need to say anything more.

Their eyes then focused onto Yatora, he suddenly remembered what he was keeping in the back of his pocket. But before he could open his mouth to say anything, their order number was called.

“Yatora, mind helping me carry it?” Hachan asked, pushing himself up. Yatora shook his head and Yakumo lifted his arm up from his shoulder, and Yatora found that he missed the gentle contact.

He and Hachan chat about lighter things as they carry the trays of food back over to the others, but when they return they find Momo engrossed on something on her phone, while Yakumo seems to be glaring at the ground table in front of them.

Their pieces on self hatred seemingly forgotten for just a moment. 

But eventually the conversation turns back to it, and he could feel their curious gazes as Momo asked how Yatora came up with the idea for his. Now that he actually was thinking about it outside of art, making a list like he had was kind of silly.

“I made a list.” He started, and he saw that Yakumo’s hand was curling into a tight fist around something.

“Of things I hate about myself.” Yatora quietly added, and he could see that Momo and Hachan had stopped whatever they were doing to listen attentively. 

“That must have been a very short list then.” Hachan said, with a small giggle and Yatora glanced at Yakumo and noticed that Yakumo was biting down on his lip hard enough that it looked like he was about to break the skin.

Yatora was about to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, and ask if he was alright, but then:

“Hachan! It’s seven, we're going to miss the show!” Momo suddenly exclaimed grabbing onto her companion's arm, the two of them then quickly packed things up and explained that they had tickets to some kind of performance, but they would see them tomorrow at clean up.

It was just him and Yakumo left.

Yatora packed up his own bag and was going to say that he was off to the train station then, but before Yatora could say anything Yakumo stood up and grabbed his arm and all but dragged him out of the restaurant.

He ignored any of the questions that Yatora had about where they were going, but they eventually came to a stop at a quiet street. Yakumo was still gripping onto him, and then with his other hand he thrusted something at Yatora.

“This is your list.” Yakumo all hisses out and Yatora felt dizzy from trying to understand what was going on.

“Yeah, Yakum-” The boy’s grip on his arm tightened.

“Did you mean it?” 

“What?” Yatora asks, now trying to pull himself away from Yakumo.

“Dammit Yatora!” The boy reached for his collar and yanked it so that their forehead was almost pressing together.

“Do you believe what you put on that list?” Yakumo very slowly asked, and Yatora saw a flash of fear in the other boy’s eyes, and for a moment he was reminded of that day wandering down the street with Yotatsuke, telling him that he’s the muset and not the canvas.

“I do.” Yatora met the other boy’s gaze, and lifted his hands so that they were now resting on Yakumo’s shoulders.

“I do.” He quietly said again, but this time it was more for himself than Yakumo.

A confession to oneself.

The thing about that list, is that Yatora could’ve crumpled it up as soon as he was done with and tried to push it to the back of his head and pretended that it never existed, but he had held onto it like he held onto all the feelings that were burning in his soul.

Yatora was selfish.

He was ugly, and he got jealous and he was a coward, and he didn’t put others before himself, and he hated the white marks on his forearms and:

He wouldn’t get in the water.

Yakumo took a shuddering breath and very quietly he whispered out a curse.

“Fuck.” Yakumo leaned forward bringing his arms to wrap themselves around the slopes of Yatora’s shoulders.

“Fuck Yatora, you can’t, you-.” Yakumo let out another curse before pulling Yatora into a full embrace.

Yatora just let his weight lean into Yakumo. In a way it was comforting, to let someone hold onto him, to know that there was someone who could hold him up when he felt like falling. Yakumo’s head came to rest between the shoulder and his neck, and Yatora lifted his hands to rest in the dark haired boy’s hair.

“I’m sorry.” He finds himself whispering, and somehow Yakumo’s grip on him is even tighter than before.

“Don’t be.” The boy whispers into the skin of Yatora’s neck.

“Please don’t be.” Yakumo lifts his head from his neck and moves his hands so that their cupping Yatora’s cheeks, and Yatora is hit with the realisation that no one had ever held him this gently before, Yatora thinks that he may be back to being on the edge of bursting into tears.

“Come home with me.” Yakumo demands, Yatora nods and the taller boy removes his hands from his face and links their arms together. No words pass between them as Yakumo leads them through the almost silent streets.

As they walk, Yatora shoots a text to his parents, letting them know that he’s spending the night with a friend he's met with a positive reply. Eventually he and Yakumo come to a stop in front of an apartment door.

Yakumo didn’t let go of him, even when he was struggling to reach for the key in his pocket. But Yakumo, who had never let anything stop him before, managed to get them through the door and into a small living area.

He pushed Yatora down onto the couch by his shoulders.

“Wait here.” Yatora did as told, but when he saw that Yakumo only walked few steps away from him, to take hold of a blanket that was spread across a small ottoman, and without a word Yakumo draped the blanket over his shoulders, then sat back down and curled against Yatora’s side.

“Yakumo.” Yatora calls, shifting his head to lay against his friend's shoulder.

Any other day, Yatora may have felt embarrassed or even ashamed of the actions that he was taking, but today he felt too tired to feel ashamed. Or maybe he had used all the shame that head left, but could a person even run out of shame? And if he had run out of shame did Yatora even have the right to call himself a person anymore?

Shame was one of the most humane emotions that a person could feel, and if Yatora had lost his ability to feel shame did that mean he had lost any sense of humanity that he had?

“You can rest now, I’ll stay here.” If Yatora had looked up, he would’ve seen that Yakumo’s eyes were brimming red and that the boy’s cheeks were flushed as he looked down at him. But Yatora did not look up, instead he let his eyes slip shut.

“Thank you, Yakumo.” Yatora whispered out, as he could feel himself slipping away into the place between dreams and reality, but he wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t feel lips pressing against his forehead, and in the most broken Yatora thinks that he had ever heard Yakumo sound say:

“Don’t thank me for this.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Yatora wakes to a hand gently shaking his shoulder and a hot drink being placed down on the coffee table in front of him. He and Yakumo sit across from eachother on the ottoman that the blanket, that was still resting on Yatora’s shoulders, was originally draped across.

“I don’t ever want to hear you say that shit from that list again.” Yakumo starts, placing his own coffee mug down on the table with a loud thunk.

Yatora simply nods, but this seems to anger Yakumo.

“I mean Yatora, do you really have not one good thing to say about yourself?” Yakumo’s hand was curling into a fist again, similarly to how it had been holding onto the list in the restaurant.

“I could.” Yatora starts then continues to say:

“What do you wan-” Yakumo slams his hands down on the table, which makes Yatora jump back into the plush fabric of the couch.

“It’s not about me Yatora!” Yakumo looks up from the table and Yatora can see that absolute rage in his eyes.

“This is about you! You stupid-”

“I’m not stupid.” Yatora snaps back, not nearly as loud as Yakumo does but it’s enough that the other boy sits himself back down, pressing his fingers into his forehead. The two now sit in an agitated silence as the seconds tick by, but in the end, it’s Yakumo who concedes.

“You're not stupid.” The boy starts with.

“But you're foolish if you think anything on that list is true.” Yatora pulls his knees up to his chest, waits a moment, then meets Yakumo’s gaze.

“Do you think anything on that list is true?” Yatora was as close to begging as he could get, he wanted Yakumo to say that there was one or two things that he might agree with on that list, and then Yatora could take comfort in knowing that he was right about himself.

Knowing that he was a person who wasn’t worthy of what he had.

This was the foundation that Yatora found himself on.

He wasn’t worthy of the things or the life he had been given.

 Therefore he had to make art that had meaning to make up for the fact that he was the one who created it.

He wanted Yakumo to acknowledge this fact, condemn him even for who he was, that way Yatora could hold onto the truth that he knew. But the thing about the truth is that everyone’s version of the truth was going to be different.

So when Yakumo says:

“Everything on that list is bullshit.” That’s the truth.

And when Yakumo kneels in front of him and gently holds Yatora’s hand in his own, and presses a delicate kiss to the knuckles and says:

“I’ll prove it to you.” 

It’s a promise.

That morning he and Yakumo very slowly make their way to clean up, but along the way he can see that Yakumo is shifting between texting things back and forth on his phone and then giving his full attention to Yatora.

Yatora wasn’t used to someone giving him attention like this.

In fact the only time Yatora was sure people were giving him their full attention, was when they were making a judgement.

But Yakumo’s gaze did not feel like a judgement.

Rather it felt a little something like adoration.

As they wander into the classroom, Yatora is nearly knocked off his feet when Momo all but throws herself at him, he crouches down so that he’s at her eye level.

“What’s up?” She stutters a few times, before she slaps her hand down on the sides of Yatora’s face.

“Yatora is a very pretty person!” She babels on for a few more minutes, and Yatora lets her.

“Thank you.” Yatora tells her, Momo very reluctantly let go of his face, but she stuck to his side. Yakumo, who had taken a step back, slung his arm back around Yatora’s shoulders.

They end up running into Hachan as well, and Yatora would have to be blind to miss the relief that passes through the older man's eyes. He rustles his hand through Yatora’ hair and says:

“You can talk to us Yatora, you don’t need to carry everything by yourself.” He nods, Hachan pulls his hand away. For the rest of the day, the three of them are practically glued to Yatora, in fact Yatora is almost sure that for not even one second did he not have a hand or an arm slung around his shoulders. Even while cleaning everything up.

 At some point he ends up seeing Yotasuke and his painting, and Yakumo who had been leaning against Yatora’s back pulled his weight away and said he’d be back in a moment. 

“It’s great.” Yatora tells Yotasuke, who is looking at his painting with nothing but contempt.

“It isn’t genuine.” Yotasuke hisses out, a beat of silence passes through them.

“Do you remember what you told me that day?” Yatora asks, Yotasuke nodded and Yatora knew that they were both on the same page.

“I’m the muse, not the canvas.” Yatora starts.

“But you have to remember that the muse is going to end up on the canvas.” Yotasuke shoots him a glare, and Yatora was sure that if the boy was any taller, then he would’ve reached across and smacked him across the head.

“Yatora, there’s plenty of paint in the world, and there’s plenty of canvases as well.” Yotasuke turns his back to him, slinging his backpack up onto his shoulders.

“Don’t ruin yourself because you think you deserve to be ruined.” 

Yotasuke walks away, and Yatora is left standing in front of an impersonal project that was based on a way to personal prompt. He can hear that Yakumo is loudly complaining about something to Hachan, and Yatora couldn’t tell anyone why he had done this, but he shot a text to Haruka, asking if he wants to go to one of the art galleries in town.

He shoves his phone back in his pocket and follows the familiar voice of his friends.

That day Hachan walks him to the station, Yakumo and Momo saying that they had somewhere to be. Along the way they quietly chat about future projects and art pieces that they would love to see in person.

As the train approaches, Hachan gives him a wave, but before Yatora boards he says:

“We’re only a call away Yatora.” 

Yatora smiles at him, and the train door shuts.

Almost at the exact same time, Yatora’s phone pings and Haruka has agreed to meet him tomorrow morning at the art gallery. That night Yatora finds that sleep almost comes too easy to him.

But maybe things coil;d be easy.

Maybe Yatora didn’t have to earn every good thing that came his way.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He and Haruka meet at ten, and for the first hour everything goes as Yatora expected, they pause in front of almost every other piece of art, and Haruka shares his immense knowledge on art history, but he leaves plenty of space for Yatora to ask his own questions or interject his own opinions.

Eventually they come to a stop in front of a painting of man impaled on a sword.

Haruk gestures for them to sit at the bench in front of it, he then asks what Yatora’s last project was.

Without a word Yatora pulls out his phone, and shows him his piece. He can see the way that the taller man’s eyes widen as his gaze flicks between the painting and Yatora.

“The prompt was self-hatred.”  Yatora quietly says.

“It’s very honest.” Haruka says.

It’s almost too much. Haruka is someone who could talk and talk, but having him limited the amount of words he says makes Yatora second guess everything about himself and his art again.

“Do you think I’m a good person?” Yatora asks, his gaze falling back onto the man on the sword. Haruka shifts closer to him. No words pass between them, but Haruka reaches for Yatora’s hand and rubs a thumb over the top of his knuckles.

“You’re more than good.” He lifts Yatora’s hand higher, and presses his lips to the skin on the knuckles. 

“You’re a beautiful person Yatora.” 

Yatora knew that Haruka didn’t mean beautiful in the physical way, he pulls Yatora by his hand and leads him to a painting that is someone's interpretation of what aphrodite would look like.

“Haruka, you're beautiful too, you know.” Yatora settles on saying, but Haruka shakes his head, his long braids sway as he does so.

“Not in the way you are.” They stay in front of that painting for a long time, but eventually they exit the gallery, before he goes Haruka bends down and presses a chaste kiss to Yatora’s face,

“You’re good Yatora, you’re so good and I hope that you know that.” Haruka pulls away, sending him a wave before he walks away amongst the bustling crowd.

Yatora wants to believe what Haruka says.

A small part of him does.

But every other thing inside of him is saying he doesn’t deserve the praise he has been given.

___________________________________________________________________

Yatora takes Yakumo to the bridge in the park, the place where he came at the start of this project.

They sit on the edge, feet dangling through the railing, Yakumo intertwines their ankles together, and Yatora finds that he doesn’t mind at all, and perhaps if he was a braver man he would’ve been the one to close the few inches of space between them.

From the corner of his eye, Yatora could see that the teddy bear was still there, but the flowers had been changed.

Sato must have come by again.

Yakumo has the list in his lap, a pencil tapping against the railing that is preventing them from hurtling into the murky water below.

“Let’s go from the bottom up.” Yatora doesn’t say anything, but he takes a chance and leans his head on Yakumo’s shoulder, the boy does not pull away and something warms inside of Yatora’s heart.

“What does it mean?” Yakumo’s free hand began running itself through the curls that rested on the edge of Yatora’s ear.

“If someone loves me, I’m not going to have earnt it.” Yakumo sighs, and a finger lightly twists some of his locks around.

“You don’t need to earn love, Yatora.”

But he shakes his head.

“If I don’t earn it, then am I even worthy of it?” Yatora tilts his head up and meets Yakumo’s eyes.

“If someone loves me, do I not owe them everything that I can give them?” Yakumo flicks his forehead.

“For someone so smart, you can be so stupid Yatora.” 

Yatora opens his mouth to defend himself, but Yakumo shushes him.

“You don’t earn love Yatora, people give it to you and then you can decide if it’s worth taking.” Yakumo speaks as if love is an easy thing, and not something that could shatter people to a million different parts if their heart isn’t even looked at in the right way.

“People’s hearts are delicate Yakumo, for someone to love me it must be very daunting and they de-”

“Why is loving you daunting?” Yakumo cuts him off, he doesn't even wait a moment before asking again.

“Why would loving you be daunting?” Yatora gestures to the list in Yakumo’s lap.

“All of that.” Yatora settles on, because anyone who had to deal with the challenge of loving Yatora would need to see all of these things and somehow be willing to look past all of it, and even of they looked past it, surely they would come to resent Yatora for having all of these traits.

Yatora was sure that he wasn’t brought into the world to be loved.

And if he was, then he was not worthy of any of it.

“ We - 

Yakumo says it was a given that they were in this together.

“Are going to go through this list, and we are going to prove that it’s all bullshit.” 

Yakumo reaches for something in his pocket, and pulls out a small notebook and hurriedly scribbles away at something. He makes a pointed gesture to show Yatora that he’s not going to let him see what he's writing.

The notebook goes back in his pocket, and Yakumo is bursting with energy as he bounds to his feet and takes hold of Yatora’s hand. That day Yakumo takes Yatora to all his favourite spots around town, there mainly quiet corners and they run into a few acquaintances of his along the way.

But at the end of the day they find themselves standing on the ledge of an apartment building that has no railing around the top.

“Why do you think you’re selfish?” Yakumo asks, his hand was still tightly clenched around Yatora’s and Yatora chose not to comment on the fact that his grip grew tighter when they had approached the edge.

“I want to do art.” Yatora tells him.

Because that is what makes him selfish.

There are so many people in the world who want to do art, and so many people out there who are a million times better at it than him, people who deserve the place that Yatora stands in right now, creating his own art.

Yatora is good at other stuff, he would’ve managed to find a job doing something else, and he could have left room at Geidai for someone who had really wanted it, someone who had really deserved a place there more than him. 

But he hadn’t.

Yatora had wanted this, and he had taken it.

Like a child stealing a cookie from the plate, oblivious to how much work his mother had put into making it.

 Yatora wasn’t a child, and he knew how much work other people put into their art.

But he still took it anyway.

“So are you saying I’m selfish then?” Yakumo asks, his voice verging somewhere between a thin line of anger and sadness, as if the implication alone was enough to make him want to shove Yatora from the top of this building.

But his hand hadn’t let go.

“No, of course not.” Yatora reassures.

“For you it-”

“So if someone else wants to do art it’s fine, but when you want to it’s wrong.” It’s not even a question, what Yakumo says hits the nail on the head. Yatora knows that if he opens his mouth, a choked sob is going to make its way past his throat, so instead he just stands there in silence.

His hand in Yakumo’s

Letting the other bask in the glory of getting something right.

Though this wasn’t something to be glad that you were right about, it was something that you would suspect, and then would pray that there was any other answer to it.

Yakumo scrounges around in his pocket and pulls out the list, he lets go of Yatora’s hand and he finds that he misses the steadying presence that it had. He pulls out a pencil, and hovers it over the words at the top of the page.

“You’re not selfish, Yatora.” Yakumo meets his eye.

“Say it.” Yatora swallows, and very quietly he whispers out.

“I’m not selfish.” Yakumo strikes the words from the page.

“It’s a start.”

A start to what, Yatora couldn’t say.

But all he knew (standing on the edge of that building watching as Yakumo prattled on about the history of art, as the breeze tugged at his dark locks, and the setting sun caught in his eyes, which made them all but shimmer)

Was that whatever they had started, Yatora wanted to see it through to the end with Yakumo.

_______________________________________________________________________

“Look at my mouth.” Yakumo says, as the two of them sit in a park, sketchbooks scattered in front of them.

A bit further away Hachan and Momo are throwing a frisbee between them.

A cool breeze passed by, and Yatora was grateful that he had the foresight to pull a jumper on when Yakumo had decided to take them on an expedition to one of the parks closer to the city. He claimed that he wanted to sketch some of the landscapes in the area.

But Yatora thought it was just a poor excuse for the fact that he wanted to hang out.

“Why would I do that?” Yatora asks, looking down at the boy who was resting his head in Yatora’s lap, the boy had a lazy grin on his face, and Yatora resisted the urge to reach his hand down and run his fingers through the hair splayed on his thighs.

“Because I told you so.” Yakumo rolls his eyes, and reaches his hand up, takes hold of Yatora’s wrists, and guides his hand so that his fingertips are brushing at the side of Yakumo’s lips.

Yakumo opens his mouth and uses his free hand to point.

“Look.” He says, but he sounds more like a groan because he says it without moving his tongues or lips at all.

“I’m not a dentist.” Yatora says, but still peers down anyway, curious about whatever point Yakumo is trying to make. Yatora politely waits for Yakumo to make some grand statement, or maybe reveal that this was some practical joke of some kind, but he does none of that.

“Congratulations Yakumo, you have all your teeth.” Yatora deapans, pulling his fingers away from the corner of the mouth, he had just been peering into. Yakumo does not release his wrist, but he does shake his head.

“Do I get a prize then?”

Yatora rolls his eyes, and pulls his hand away from Yakumo, who rolls over so that his chin is now resting on Yatora’s thigh. If Yatora pushed him, Yakumo would end up rolling halfway down the hill they had found themselves on, but Yatora didn’t want to push Yakumo away, in fact he wanted the opposite.

If he was a little braver he may have let his hand come to rest on top of Yakumo’s back, as he took in Yatora’s personal space.

But Yatora wasn't brave, so his hands stayed pressing into the ground beside him.

“If you were going to get a prize, what would you want it to be?” Yakumo’s eyebrows quirked at the question.

“A kiss from you.” Yatora does shove him that time, and as predicted he ends up halfway down the hill, but he laughs the whole way down, and doesn’t seem to care that there are leafs scrambled through his hair when he plops back down next to Yatora.

“Jeez, you know how to win a guy over.” Yakumo reaches for his discarded sketchbook, and Yatora has to hold his own wrist to stop himself from reaching out and gently brushing the leaves out of Yakumo’s hair.

They sketch for a few more moments, before curiosity finally gets the better of Yatora.

“What were you trying to show me?”

Yakumo smiles and points towards his mouth.

“My teeth are crooked.” Yakumo, glances down at something on the ground and Yatora realises that he’s glancing down at Yatora’s covered wrists, he only looks for a moment, but it’s enough time for Yatora to have noticed.

“Do you hate me for it?”

Yatora shakes his head.

“That’s ridiculous, Yakumo.” Because it was ridiculous, Yakumo having crooked teeth was hardly worth any kind of resentment, Yatora reckons that there’s probably a whole story behind the slight chip that he noticed on one of them.

Yakumo licked his lips, and Yatora for a second considered leaning over and giving him the prize that he thought he had won.

“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” Yakumo asks, a pencil in his hand and then it hits Yatora.

“Oh.”

 Yakumo laughs, then Yatora finds that a giggle makes its way past his own lips.

He holds the list up in front of Yatora, a silent question and Yatora nods. The pencil flies across the page, after he has crossed it off, Yakumo holds a thumb up and closes one of his eyes.

“You know, I think your right eye may actually be bigger, Yatora.”  A burst of confidence shoots through Yatora, and he stretches across to snatch the list and the pencil from Yakumo’s hands.

“I don’t care.” He says, running a harsh line over the words that he remembered ahad kept him up for many sleepless nights. His eyes look back down at the list, and he is hit with how much is still on it, and how much that he still cares about those things.

Then how many more sleepless nights he’ll spend thinking about all of it. Yakumo gently pries the list from his hands, shoving the crumpled page into the back of his pocket. But Yatora did not miss the frown on his face as he did so.

“I will hold it for you.”

Yakumo does not say, I could or I can, he says he will.

Which means that no matter what, Yakumo is going to do it, and Yatora would be a fool to even try and stop him.

______________________________________________________________________

“Why do you think you’re a coward?” Yakumo mindlessly asks, sipping away at the bubble tea that Yatora had just bought him.

Yatora sips his own bubble tea.

“I don’t always say what I want, or what I mean.” 

“That must suck, doesn’t make you a coward though, just means you're way too considerate of other people Yatora.”

“But don’t you think It’s unkind that I’m not fully honest?” 

Yakumo just loudly slurps at the last of his drink, and Yatora wishes that he could reach across the table and hold onto Yakumo’s hand as easily as the other boy slung his hands around Yatora’s shoulders.

“It’s unkind to yourself Yatora.” Yakumo’s foot taps on his own under the table.

“Not to anybody else, but I think we can work on that.” Yakumo slips him the list across the table, Yatora still had a pencil in his back pocket so it's hardly an effort to strike out the two points that they had just discussed.

Yakumo grins across at him, his lips still wrapped around his straw, and Yatora is grateful that Yakumo takes the list back before he can strike anything else off of it.

______________________________________________________________________

Falling in love with Yakumo is almost too easy.

Yatora finds himself seeing things that remind him of the boy everywhere, and he finds that almost every other thought or action that he takes goes back to the other boy. Yatora finds himself wanting to give to Yakumo.

What he wanted to give to Yakumo, he was unsure of but he knew that he wanted to.

He wanted Yakumo to know that Yatora cared for him, he wanted to hold onto every second that he had spent with him. Yatora wanted to go out and find things that he knew the other boy would like. Walkin down the street one day, he passes a small market that’s selling earrings in the exact same style that Yakumo wears.

Before he knows it, Yatora is passing cash over to the lady behind the counter and placing the now wrapped earrings into his bag.

The day after that, he, Yakumo and Momo and Hachan end up taking the train down to a temple that Momo knew of. She said she wanted to go take pictures of it to send down to her dad. When they get there, Momo wanders off almost immediately saying that she’ll be quick, Hachan is quick to follow after her.

Leaving him and Yakumo at the entryway, of what Yatora was realising was now an abandoned temple.

“Up for some exploration?” Yakumo challenges, he doesn’t even need to ask. If Yakumo had just started walking, Yatora would have followed after him.

There was a Greek myth that Yatora remembered learning in his literary class, the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. Eurydice had ended up in the underworld, and Hades, the god of the dead, had issued a challenge to her lover Orpheus.

That they could leave the underworld together, but Eurydice would need to walk behind him, he was not allowed to turn around to see if she was still there and if he even glanced back Eurydice would be dragged back to the underworld.

They had almost made it.

Orpheus had crossed the threshold between the land of life and death, and had immediately turned around to see his lover. Probably desperate to embrace her, and see that she was there and know that they now had all the time in the world to love each other. 

But Eurdyice hadn’t crossed the threshold, and Orpheus had to watch as his lover who was arms length away, be ripped away from him again.

When people tell the story, they focus on the grief and the guilt that Orpheus most of felt, in knowing that he was so close to having what he wanted and knowing that he was the one responsible for it being so violently torn away from him.

But Yatora thinks of Eurydice.

Was she angry that Orpheus had let her down like that?

Or was she relieved? 

Relieved to know that there had been someone who had loved her so much, that they had been counting down the seconds till they could see her again, could she have taken solace in the fact that in her final moments that she got to see the face of her lover?

Yatora had thought, if someone had turned around for him like that, even if it damned him to hell. He would be happy, he could die knowing that someone in the world had been so desperate to see him, hold him, he could die knowing that there was at least one person out there who had wanted him.

But he knew he didn’t deserve a love like that.

Because if Yatora was in Orpheus' shoes, he wouldn’t have turned around.

In fact Yatora would have walked an extra distance with his back to someone just to make sure that they were truly out of hell. 

But Yatora knew that wasn’t how love was meant to work.

He glances up at Yakumo, who’s pointing at a statue and making silly faces to match it. His earrings toss around, everytime he throws his head back and laughs at his own antics. Yakumo would look back for someone. Yakumo deserved someone who would look back at him.

Yatora knew that he couldn’t be that person.

So as Yakumo continued to drag him through the temple, Yatora had to silently come to terms with the fact that at the very least one thing would not get crossed off his list, not in this lifetime anyway.

Yatora could love, in fact he could love so much.

But his love wasn’t good.

It would never be good, Yatora’s love wasn’t anything like the countless poems, songs and stories that told of something so easy, yet so hard. Loving someone had consequences, Yatora loving someone had consequences.

Because when Yatora loved, it was a heavy burden.

Yatora had a heavy heart, one that he could hardly carry on his own. But he knew the only option was to carry it by himself, because giving anyone else the burden of holding it for even a moment was unjust and unfair.

Yatora’s heart was his own responsibility to bear.

“What are you thinking about?” Yakumo asks, standing on his tip-toes as he peers down at Yatora.

“I was thinking about love stories.” 

Yakumo tilts his head.

“Any in particular?” He goes back to standing on the soles of his feet, but even without his added height it would feel like he was towering over Yatora.

“Orpheus and Eurydice.” Yakumo clicks his tongue, and looks irritated.

“Not a fan?” Yatora pushes, when Yakumo also throws in an exaggerated eye roll.

“I think Orpheus was a fool.” 

Yakumo spits out, like the man from a thousand year old story had personally wronged him, he tugs on Yatora’s sleeve and pulls him through the door into an inside garden. Though it was more overrun with weeds, then the flowers that had probably once resided in it.

“Why do you think he’s a fool?” Yatoras asks, as Yakumo gestures for the two of them to sit down on the edge of the garden.

“He should’ve waited.” Yakumo, plainly states, his voice was still filled with disdain. Yatora hums, and glances towards the dead weed in the middle of the garden.

“Everyone talks about Orpheus, but I always think about Eurydice.” Yatora tells him, Yakumo leans against his shoulder.

“What do you think?” 

“That she couldn’t be mad at Orpheus, that she must have taken solace in the fact that someone had loved her so much.” Yatora for some reason, became aware that the earrings that he had brought for Yakumo were in the back of his pocket.

(He had slipped them in there this morning, hoping that an opportunity, more like he would have the confidence to give them to Yakumo, would arise at some point.)

“I think you’d look back Yakumo.” He added, reaching his hand for the back of his pocket.

Yakumo scoffs at the exact same time that Yatora’s fingers wrap around the earrings.

“I hate that you’re right.” 

Yatora smiles.

“You wouldn’t look back.” Yakumo states, unlike Yakumo though, Yatora doesn’t shrug it off instead he can feel the second that the warm feeling that was in his chest (one that came when he lets himself hope for a second) fall away immediately.

He lets go of the earrings.

Yakumo notices, because of course he does.

“That’s not a bad thing Yatora, it just means you know how to hold onto the things that you love.” But Yatora shakes his head.

“It means that I don’t love things enough.” This time Yakumo shakes his own head, some of his hair falls in front of his eye and Yatora is grateful that his hand is still in his pocket, otherwise he would have reached out and tucked it back behind his ear.

“Who gets to decide that your love isn’t enough?” Yakumo asks, pulling his head away from Yatora’s shoulders, reaching up to tuck his own hair back in place.

“I do.” Yatora adds, letting his finger run against the cold metal of the earrings.

“But why don’t you give it to someone? Let that person decide for themselves if your love is enough or not?” Yakumo speaks as if the act of giving love isn't one of the hardest things in the world. 

“Because someone, especially someone I love, doesn’t deserve to carry that burden.” Yakumo’s shoulder tenses, and some kind of choked sound escapes his throat.

“Do you think love is a burden Yatora?” There’s another question underneath what Yakumo is asking, but Yatora doesn’t have any idea what else the boy could be asking. All he knows is that the cold feeling in his chest is growing and that if he says one wrong thing his heart (as much as a burden it is) will ice over.

“Only mine.” Yatora tells him, as he fishes the earrings out of his pocket, they make a sound similar to wind chimes as he sticks them out in front of him, Yakumo goes from looking irrationally angry to confused when he catches sight of the jewellery in his hand.

“I got these for you.” In a bold move, for Yatora at least, he reaches out his free hand to grab onto one of Yakumo’s and uses his fingers to uncurl the fist that the other boy was making, he slips them into Yakumo’s palm.

Yakumo’s fingers curl around it, in a manner that Yatora could only describe as protective.

“You don’t have to keep them if you don-”

“Shut up.” Yakumo hisses, before Yatora can even finish his sentence. Yatora feels himself take a step back, the wooden panel that he steps onto creaks and he can’t help but fear that the ground that they stand on may be unstable.

“Why are you angry?” 

Yakumo scoffs, as if what Yatora is asking is completely ridiculous.

“You want to  know why I’m angry?” Yatora knows that the boy in front of him is being rhetorical, but his tongue slips before his brain catches up.

“Yes.” Because Yakumo looked like he was fuming, something Yatora had done had made this boy look like he wanted to reach out and wrap his hands around his neck. Yatora just prayed that he’d put the earrings down before he did.

“I’m angry that we live in a world, where you’ve even had to consider the notion that you’re anything but good.” It’s said through a shaky laugh, Yakumo tilts his head back and if Yatora really looks, he can see that there are tears forming in his eyes.

“I’m not good.” Yatora quietly tells him.

This is Yatora’s truth, that he is anything but good.

Yakumo takes a step closer to him, Yatora doesn’t step back.

“You are, you are so good.”

This is Yakumo’s truth.

Yakumo, takes another step closer to him, he hunches over and lets his forehead press into Yatora’s shoulder, Yatora brings his hands up to rest on Yakumo’s back. Rubbing small circles into it, a reminder that he was here and that Yatora would bear any weight that Yakumo gave him.

Even if it made Yatora’s own heart heavier than it already was.

Yakumo’s arms wrap around him, and Yatora can feel burning hot tears on the flimsy fabric of his jumper, but he doesn’t mind.

Yakumo needed someone to hold him and take the weight away from the burdens that he was bearing on his shoulders, Yatora could take it.

He would take it for Yakumo.

Because in a way Yatora knew his love would never be enough for Yakumo, he didn’t deserve to have that burden. But the selfish part of Yatora knew that he could hold onto anything that Yakumo gave him, even if it was everything but love.

He would hold it.

Because that’s the best Yatora could do.

He couldn’t give enough, so he would carry the weight of everything else to fill the gaps that he had.

_____________________________________________________________________

A few days later, Yakumo and Hachan end up dragging him out to a club.

Yatora had been to bars with his friends before, but he'd never been to a club, though Ryuji had tried to drag him along to one a few times. The thing about a club though, was that it was so easy to get lost in it.

He found after the temple incident that Yakumo had put a small amount of distance between him. Yatora did not blame him for this.

Music was blaring, people were everywhere, and random drinks were being passed around. Yatora tried to keep his drinking to a minimum, knowing that he might lose himself if he drank like a madman.

Yakumo didn’t though.

He drank and danced, then drank more and then danced some more.

His face was red, and his words were slurring together when he sauntered back over to the stool that Yatora was sitting on, flinging his arm over his shoulder.

He had seemingly forgotten the distance that he himself had imposed after a few drinks. 

“You should dance.” Yakumo says, and with the best effort tried to pull Yatora into the swirling bodies, Yatora let him pull him out of the chair at the very least, he had been sitting for far too long now anyway.

Hachan had been sitting with him, but had gone in search of the bathrooms.

“I don’t think so.” Yatora says, taking hold of Yakumo’s arm, but the boy just instantly tugs on his shirt.

“Come on!” Yakumo manages to get him a few more steps closer to the dance floor.

“It’ll be fun!!” 

Yatora glances back out to the bodies on the dance floor, there are so many people but not one of them looks out of place, Yatora fears that the second he steps out there, the people will part, leaving him stranded in the middle.

The odd one out, they’d have a silent understanding that he does not belong there.

But Yatora doesn’t feel anywhere close to out of place, when Yakumo grabs onto his hand and leads him into the crowd. Yakumo leads, pulling Yatora up and down to the music, and Yatora finds that he himself is smiling and laughing as Yakumo horribly sings along to whatever song is playing.

He watches as Yakumo looks so alive and for a moment Yatora is struck with the urge to paint this.

To capture the way Yakumo looks so overjoyed to be here with Yatora, how happy he is in that very moment to just be alive.

Yatora wants to remember that forever, and be able to hold onto it. Yakumo deserves a painting that shows who he is in full. It’s in that moment however, that someone bumps into Yatora’s side and he loses hold of Yakumo’s hand.

He gets twisted around a few times, ending up wedged between a few other people. He just decides to slip by, make his way back to the edge of the dance floor and hope that Yakumo is sober enough to remember how to make his way off the dance floor, without having to hold onto Yatora’s hand.

But if he wanted to hold onto, then Yatora may not have any objections to that either.

Yatora finds himself back in front of the bar, and debates with himself if he should have another drink or not, but his thoughts are interrupted by an arm around his shoulders. He knows that it’s neither Yakumo or Hachan.

Hachan would’ve said something before he threw an arm around him.

The weight that is leaning onto him is way too heavy to belong to Yakumo.

(Yakumo also smells like a mix between watching detergent and mandarins, Yatora doesn’t remember when he got familiar with the smell, but sometimes he knows that the other boy is approaching purely by the change in the air.)

“What’s your name?” a boy with black hair asks, and Yatora finds that his feet are glued to the ground.

“Yatora.” The boy tilts his head back and laughs.

“That’s a nice name, you here with anyone Yatora?” The arm slung around his shoulder grew tighter.

“I came with a fri-”

“Just a friend?” The boy excitedly asks, and Yatora realises now that he’s pulling him along further into the club.

“Yeah, I-”  Yatora is unceremoniously pulled to sit on a couch that feels way too small, because this boy’s thigh was pushing into his side his weight was all but crushing down into Yatora’s ribs.

“I’m Araya!” Araya is shouting in his ear, and using his other hand to wave someone down, he leans back into the couch and pulls Yatora along with him, a waiter passes and places something down on the table in front of them.

“I come here all the time, first time here?” He leans forward slightly, but his arm is still tightly (too tightly) wrapped around Yatora, who swivelled his head around in hopes of catching sight of either one of his friends.

But they were lost somewhere in the now blinding lights.

So Yatora nodded, and tried to push down the uncomfortable feeling building in his chest, maybe he should give this a shot, talking to someone new and maybe he might even enjoy it if he gives it a shot. 

“I’m an art student.” Yatora states, as Araya chugs a shot down from the table in front of him, the boy doesn’t even bother to put the glass down on the table when he’s done with it.

“Art huh? That’s stupid, what are you going to do with that?” A spark of anger flickers deep in Yatora, but Araya doesn’t seem to notice, instead shoving a glass up to Yatora’s lips.

“I don’t go to school, waste of time when I could be hanging out here!” Some bitter liquid slips into Yatora’s mouth,  he has to resist the urge to gag, but Araya shoves the glass closer to him which makes it hard.

“Loosen up a bit.” The boy in front of him scoffs, and Yatora is hit with the feeling that something may be wrong here, but before he could even do anything with that feeling, Arya slings a leg over the top of Yatora’s own and takes hold of his wrist.

Trapping Yatora between him and the couch. Araya did not look much older then him, but he was in fact bigger then Yatora, and he knew that any attempt to push this boy off would only result in more pain for Yatora.

“Been with anyone Yatora?” He shakes his head, feeling dizzy from the way to close contact, the lights and whatever drink had been shoved into his face.

“Nice! Want to?’ Not with you , Yatora thinks, but the words don’t come out.

Because Yatora didn’t want this, some stranger who had shoved himself onto him and couldn’t seem to understand that he didn’t want to be here with him. But maybe this is what he deserved.

Early that night, he had seen Yakumo talking to a girl, and she had so easily reached across to place a kiss on the side of his cheek. Yakumo had played it off, but when Yatora had seen it happen, a sharp pain had passed through his chest.

He knew that it was jealousy.

And he was so mad at himself for feeling it. He had no right to be jealous.

Yakumo deserved an easy love.

Yatora knew this, and hated that he was aware of it.

Because even though he knew it, his heart still hurt.

Araya is looking at him, his eyes had an expectant gleam in them, like he knew that he was going to get what he wanted in the end. 

He probably was, whether Yatora liked it or not. But maybe Yatora could tolerate it.

But before he could even make a decision to put up with it or not, the weight on top of him was gone.

“We’re leaving.” Yakumo’s cheeks are red, and his eyes don’t have that glimmer in them anymore, but they have a spark.

Araya had been hauled to the otherside of the couch, he seemed like he was caught on making a comment about how much audacity Yakumo had, but Yatora had quickly stood up and had turned away from the other boy, Yakumo put an arm around his waist and pulled him to the nearest exit.

Yakumo’s feet were staggering, and in the end he had to come to a stop and lean against a wall.

Yatora puts a hand on his back and rubs circles into it as Yakumo takes in staggering breaths.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Yakumo says in between some dry heaves.

Yatora’s phone pings, and using his free hand he reaches for it. He sees a message on his home screen, Hachan ran into a friend and was going home with him, but Yakumo said he’d come grab Yatora.

Well Yakumo had done his due diligence alright. But a hand tightly garbs onto his wrist.

“Who’s-” Yakumo heaves again, Yatora crouches down to his current eye level.

“Who’s texting you?” Yakumo manages to get out, but before Yatora can even reply, a hand bunches into the fabric of his shirt.

“Is it that stupid boy?” Yakumo’s voice is filled with nothing but venom, and his eyes still have that spark in them from when he had shoved Araya off of him. Yatora shakes his head, and finds now that there outside in the fresh air, the dizzy feeling that he had was gone.

“It’s that stupid boy.” Yakumi grumbles, using Yatora’s shirt to pull himself up, Yatora puts his arms out, offering some extra support, but Yakumo shoves himself off of Yatora, he takes a few stumbling steps and ends up under a street light.

Yatora only stays a step or two behind him, but now that Yakumo was in the light he could see that there was a kiss mark from where that girl had been.

“Stupid no good boy.” Yakumo says, and Yatora has now resigned himself to the fact that Yakumo has had one too many drinks and doesn’t have any real idea about what he’s saying or doing right now.

“He doesn’t deserve you, Yatora.” Yakumo tells him, as Yatora lifts Yakumo’s arm over his shoulder.

“Okay, Yakumo.” The boy sniffles.

“I mean it, he was so ugly!” Yakumo waves his hand around freely, but then turns his head and uses his hand to cup Yatora’s cheek.

“You’re so pretty.” Yakumo whispers, but when Yatora shakes his head he repeats it even louder.

“Pretty, so pretty!” Yakumo sings, as Yatora tries to remember how to get them back to Yakumo’s apartment. He remembers that he has the exact address written down on his notes app, so he pulls his phone out of his pocket again.

But Yakumo snatches it away from him.

“Yakumo, give it back.” But he shakes his head.

“No.” Yakumo states, through half lidded eyes.

“I’mnotlettin.” Yakumo shoves the phone into his own pocket, and Yatora knows now that he won’t be getting back until they get back to Yakumo’s place, even drunk Yakumo would win a fight with Yatora, mainly because Yatora wouldn’t even try.

“Next street.” Yakumo says, with significantly less slurring than before, but he goes back to rambling nonsense about stupid boy.

Somehow they manage to make it back to Yakumo’s apartment, Yatora sits his friend down on the couch and makes his way to the kitchen to get some water and crackers. Hoping that it will be enough to get his friend back onto the path of sobriety.

“Yatora!” Yakumo exclaims, like he hadn’t just seen him twenty seconds prior. Yatora places the crackers down onto the table and holds the glass of water out to Yakumo. The boy giggles.

“Pretty.” Yakumo says, reaching his hands out, not for the glass of water but rather to place his fingers into Yatora’s hair. Yatora puts the glass down before he ends up spilling the water all over them.

“Yakumo, why don’t we get you to bed?” Yakumo’s grip on Yatora’s hair tightens, but not enough to hurt him, but with enough pressure that Yatora can feel the fingers pushing the curls upwards.

“Only if you come.” Yakumo whispers, his eyes have that small sparkle in them, but it only takes a glance for Yatora to catch sight of that kiss mark again, and he’s reminded of the things that he can’t have.

“No.” 

Yatora reaches forward, hoping that he could slip his phone out of Yakumo’s pocket, but in an instant, Yakumo has taken hold of his wrist and twisted himself so that he is pushing Yatora down onto the couch.

“Yakumo.” Yatora hisses, a warning.

One that the boy on top of him blatantly ignores.

“Can’t let you go with him.” Yakumo says, making no sense to Yatora but he does loosen his grip on his wrist, giving Yatora enough space to sit up.

“Want to sleep, Yatora.” Yakumo says, peeling himself off of Yatora, the hand that was on his wrist slipped down, so that Yakumo’s fingers intertwined with his own. Yatora wants to rip it away, it’s not fair that he’s getting a small taste of something he knows that he can’t have.

(He could have it, he just wouldn’t let himself believe that.)

Yakumo pulls him towards the small bedroom. Yatora decides to just let Yakumo do what he wants for now, just until he falls asleep and then Yatora can slip away and pretend like his entire body hadn’t been set aflame. Yakumo flings his jacket off, and kicks his shoes into the side of the wall. He still hasn’t let go of Yatora’s hand, so Yatora reaches down to pull his shoes off, he places them at the end of the bed. Yakumo seems to have enough sense to wait for him before he pulls Yatora down onto the mattress. 

Yakumo messes with the blanket for a few moments, laying it down on top of him, which is kind of difficult with one hand. But Yatora wasn’t going to stop him.

They lay there for a few moments, fingers interlocked together.

“Yakumo, could I have my phone back please?”

The grip on his fingers tightened.

“No.” It’s firm, but there's a slight shake behind it, Yatora turns his head and sees that Yakumo’s eyes won’t meet his.

“Yakumo.” He doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Murai.” That gets his attention. He turns his head, and Yatora realises that the kiss mark had been rubbed off somewhere between the couch and the bedroom.

“Why won’t you let me have my phone?” 

“I don’t want you to talk to that boy.”

Yatora shakes his head.

“I wasn’t.” He whispers out, but either Yakumo didn’t hear him, or just chose to ignore him.

“Don’t talk to him Yatora, he looked bad.” Yatora let out a small laugh,

“He said art was stupid.” Yatora quietly adds, deciding to let his thumb run circles into the back of Yakumo’s hand, Yakumo makes an irritated grunt.

“Well then he’s extremely bad.” The taller boy mutters into the pillow, and Yatora can't help but tilt his head back and laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” Yakumo’s words were obscured by the pillow he was pressing his face into, but he was close enough that Yatora could hear every breath that Yakumo was taking.

“Nothing.” Yakumo scoffs at his response, and lifts his hand, the one not tightly wound around Yatoras’ fingers, up so that his hand was gently holding onto the side of Yatora’s face.

“So pretty, do you know how beautiful you are?” The words are spoken so softly, but they feel like a knife has just stuck itself into Yatora’s heart. Because he knows Yakumo does not mean them, these are just drunk incoherent words that Yakumo will be embarrassed about when he rises again in the morning.

“I’m not.” Yatora goes to turn his face away from Yakumo, but the boy curls his fingers around his cheek to stop him.

“You are.” Yakumo lifted his head from the pillow, he inched his face closer to Yatora, if he moved just another inch, their foreheads would be touching.

“No.” Yatora hisses out.

“Yes.” Yakumo whispers out, his eyes taking in every part of Yatora’s face, like he was trying to remember every little detail that was on it.

“I was jealous at the club.” Yatora confesses hoping that maybe this will be enough to get Yakumo to edge away from him, to bring whatever drunken hazy thoughts he’s having back down to reality.

But instead of Yakumo leaning away, he pushes their forehead together.

“So was I.” It doesn’t feel like a confession when Yakumo says that he was jealous, it feels like a statement of fact, Yakumo takes no shame for what he has felt.

But Yatora does.

Yatora is ashamed of himself, because the boy holding onto his face and so tenderly telling Yatora that he’s pretty, was not his.

What had Yakumo been jealous of? Had he seen someone with something he wanted? Did he see something that he wanted so badly, but he knew that he could never have it because it was someone else's? Or had he seen something that he wanted, and knew that even though it was in his reach, he couldn’t have it. Because he had done nothing to have earnt it.

Nothing to be worthy of it.

Yakumo wasn’t a thing that Yatora could hold onto, he was a person that had every right to live in the way he wanted to live and love who he wanted to love. He thinks back to the temple and the anger that Yakumo showed him, when Yatora gave him the earrings.

He thinks of the few days between then and now, and that Yakumo had put a small distance between them and Yatora hadn’t tried to close it, he had let the space between them exist, knowing that if Yakumo wanted to, he could close the gap.

But Yatora knew that he had no right to try and fix the space between them.

He was the reason that it was there, Yatora had earned this. The cold shoulder and the ice surrounding his heart.

But right now, there was no space between him and Yakumo.

“I was so jealous and I didn’t have a right to be.” Yatora tells him, but Yakumo doesn’t move. In fact it seems that he manages to bring himself impossibly closer.

“Why?” Yakumo begs, or it’s the closest to begging that Yatora thinks he’s ever heard from the man.

“I wanted something that I knew I shouldn’t have.” This is the truth, at least Yatora’s truth.

Yakumo was like a star, and Yatora was the person standing on the edge of the building peering out into the darkness to get a glimpse. Yakumo was this incredible thing that had been created to be admired, loved by many and only a select few would ever get a chance to get close to him

Even though Yakumo was as close as someone could be with him right now, Yatora knew that an invisible wall laid between them, one that may as well hold them thousands of lightyears away from each other.

“Shouldn’t or couldn’t?” Yakumo’s head tilted so that their noses brushed together, Yatora wanted to tilt his head up and close that final inch between them, letting his lips press Yakumo’s. 

Let Yakumo decide to pull away or not.

But he knew that he shouldn’t .

“Shouldn’t.”

Yakumo pulls his forehead away.

“Why shouldn’t you have it?” 

“Because I didn’t earn it.” 

“You don’t need to earn everything in life, Yatora.” His hand was still pressing into the side of Yatora’s face.

“If that was the case then I would have nothing.”  Yakumo pulls his hand away.

“You’d have everything Yakumo.” Yatora smiles up at him.

Yakumo lays back down on his side of the bed, his other other hand, which had remained firmly gripping Yatotra's, seemed to have grown slightly colder, his voice is low when he says:

“You deserve the things you want, you deserve all the good things in life, Yaguchi.”

“I don’t.” Yatora says, but Yakumo shakes his head.

“You do, please , don’t argue with me.” It’s the way that he says please that gets Yatora, the best way that he could describe it was that it sounded like a prayer. They drift back into silence and Yatora thinks that Yakumo may have fallen asleep, he’s about to turn and check, when Yakumo asks:

“Yaguchi, will you tell me about your scars tomorrow?” Yatora’s breath hitches, Yakumo said his name like it was something beautiful.

“Will you remember asking tomorrow?” He settles on asking, Yakumo nods.

“I will then.” It’s easy to say, but he knows that it won’t be easy to do. 

“Murai.” He throws in for good measure, so that Murai knows that he really does mean this.

Yatora can feel himself drifting to sleep, and he finds that his plan to slip away is no longer a viable option for him, but just before he fell asleep Yakumo spoke, Yatora didn’t know if he was meant to hear it.

“I was so jealous that stupid boy was all over you, I was so angry that someone had the guts to do something that I wanted, which is stupid because you looked so scared.” Yakumo rolls onto his side, fingers brush on the skin of Yatora’s skin.

“I don’t want you to be scared.”

The final thing that Yatora hears is: 

“You’re so pretty Yaguchi, I wish you’d let me love you.”

_____________________________________________________________________

When Yatora wakes up it’s to hands frantically shaking his shoulders and Yakumo urging him to wake up.

“Come on Yatora, up.” Yatora blinks a few times, but his vision is still slightly blurred when Yakumo leans over the top of his face.

“Please come on, sleeping beauty.” Yatora manages to sit up, rubbing at his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Murai?” Hands grip onto his shoulder.

“Did we do anything last night?” There’s something frantic in the question, but Yatora, who is still clawing himself into consciousness, just yawns and mutters.

“We went to bed.” 

“What?” Yakumo hisses out, and now that Yatora can actually see the boy in front of him, he can see the panic that’s overtaking his features.

“You got drunk, I brought you home, then we went to bed.” Yakumo lets out a sigh of relief.

Yatora wonders if Yakumo remembers what he said last night, a small part of him hopes he doesn’t but an even bigger part of him wants him to remember, remember all those things he said about Yatora.

“Wait here.” Yakumo tells him, as he tumbles off the bed, managing to trip on the shoes that he kicked off last night. Yatora doesn’t even try to hide his laughter. He can hear Yakumo bustling in the kitchen, and when he comes back it’s with two cups of coffee in his hand..

Yakumo sits back down on the bed and hands the mug to Yatora, as the coffee cools, Yatora asks:

“How much do you remember?” 

Yakumo’s cheeks tint slightly.

“Enough.” He states, and like last night, he won’t meet Yatora’s eyes.

“How much is enough?” Yatora presses, Yakumo takes a sip of his coffee and then glances down at his forearms. Yakumo had remembered enough.

“You don’t have to tell me.” But Yatora shakes his head.

“I want to, but you’ll have to bear with me.” The sleeves on his shirt feel to tight, and he passes the cup to Yakumo, who wordlessly takes it from his hands, Yatora pushes the sleeves up,

“I’m going to tell you.” He says.

“I’ll listen.” Yatora knows he will.

Yatora spends that morning, telling Yakumo about the fear, the uncertainty and more importantly the guilt that had eaten away at him each time his nails had dug into his skin.

Yakumo sit’s attentively, he doesn't stop Yatora at any point other than to offer him another drink and by the time that Yatora is done telling him all of it, there are tears in his eyes. But Yakumo does not say anything, he just reaches out to wipe away the tears.

“Can I give you a hug?” He doesn’t even need to ask, because before Yakumo can move, Yatora is flinging his arm around the other boy’s body. Yakumo just holds him until Yatora is ready to let go again.

At some point they had ended up back in the living area, Yakumo had flung his jacket around Yatora at some point.

“Do you still have my list?” Yakumo reaches into his back pocket, a pencil lays on the coffee table and Yatora takes that as well.

He strikes four things off the list.

Jealousy is gone, because last night when Yakumo told him he was jealous, Yatora had not hated him, in fact he had adored it, that Yakumo could feel something like that without being ashamed.

The points on his scars are gone, for now at least.

Because even though he felt nothing short of heartbroken at the time, sitting here now with Yakumo, he could look back and say that he didn’t hate it. He’s always going to resent it, but he couldn’t hate it.

Because it got him where he was right now.

“Yotasuke told me that I'm a muse not a canvas.”

 Yakumo hummed, the mug in his hands making a light thud when he put it down on the coffee table.

“I think that every person is a canvas.” Yakumo stands up.

“It’s what you chose to paint it with that matters though.” He pulls his shirt off his back, putting his incredibly intricate tattoo on display, he turns his back to Yatora and then sits down in the space between his knees. 

“This is art.” Yakumo states, tilting his head upwards, his hair splaying itself across Yatora’s thighs.

“You are art Yaguchi.” Yakumo needed to stop speaking to him so softly, before Yatora made the dumb decision to lean his head down and do something that he couldn’t take back.

“Everything in the world is art, and every piece of art is beautiful.” Yakumo reaches his hand up to take hold of Yatora’s face.

In that moment, Yatora can feel that the icy feeling that he had been so used to  in his own heart, had been replaced with a subtle warmth. It’s the kind of warmth that you feel when a lighter flicks to life.

It’s small and nobody really takes notice of it, other than the person lighting it. 

But that flicker is there, and you know that if you hold onto it the flame will grow and so will the warmth that you feel.

He knows now that his love isn’t enough for Yakumo.

It’s too much.

His love was all consuming, and was burning him from the inside out.

So as he watches Yakumo smile up at him, he can’t help but reach for the list.

He strikes off one more thing that afternoon.

Yakumo puts his hand out, a gesture for him to take the list back. An unspoken system had grown between the two, Yakumo had said he would carry it, and he had. But Yatora shakes his head.

Right now, he knows that he can carry the weight.

Yakumo pauses, then pulls his hand back down.

“Yaguchi, why were you scared to get in the water?” Yakumo quietly asks him, he had tilted his head back up, but his spine was still resting on Yatora’s shins.

“Because no one should jump in after me.” Yatora tells him.

“I’d jump in for you.” Yakumo says, and Yatora knows that without even looking that the boy’s eyes were filled with that far away look, when he thought about Hiroshima on a cold dark night.

“I know.” Yatora tells him.

“But you shouldn't.” Yatora adds, the boy’s shoulders slumps.

Yatora gets up from the couch, Yakumo’s jacket is still wrapped around him, but as he heads for the door he doesn't try to stop Yatora and get him to give it back, instead he lingers in the passage by the front door.

As Yatora stands between the threshold, something stops him.

Orpheus had turned around.

So excited to see his love again, and Eurydice had seen in her final moments that someone had loved her so much, that it went beyond anything that the human heart should be capable of.

Yatora turned around.

“You would’ve jumped in after her as well.” Yakumo’s breath hitches, and his body tenses, as if waiting for a blow, one that Yatora would never deliver. The death of Sanada always hung over Yakumo’s head, like his painting from this project, the guilt of those who survived when they knew someone else had wanted to as well. 

But Yakumo deserved to survive.

He deserves to live, to be cherished, to be loved, to be told:

“You’re good, you’re so good Murai.” 

Yatora waves and lets the door close behind him. 

He doesn’t feel the need to look back, because even if there's a door between them, Yatora knows that Murai is still there, Yatora’s love is still here.

That’s enough.

As he walks, Yatora pulls the list from his pocket, he still has the pencil that Murai had leant him. The warm feeling is still in his heart, and he crosses out

I don’t deserve anything that I’ve been given.

Because Yatora knows that even if Murai never gives back any of the love that he has, that’s alright. He has more than earnt all of Yatora’s affection, and Yatora knows that he didn’t need to earn the warm feeling in his chest.

This was something he could always have, something he didn’t need to impose on others. 

Yatora could let himself have this.

His love was his to hold.

He could allow himself to be kind to his own heart for a moment.

It had suffered enough, it had more than earnt this small amount of comfort. 

Yatora was halfway down the apartment building steps, when he heard the thunderous sound of footsteps slamming into the concrete, Yatora didn't need to turn around, instead someone grabbed onto the back of his shoulders and forced him to twist.

Murai is standing two steps above him, his hands grasping at the fabric of the jacket, Murai’s own one, that Yatora is still wearing. Murai’s cheeks are flushed, and he takes in a gasping breath.

Yatora is about to ask him if he’s alright, but then Murai’s hands are grasping into the back of his hair, forcing him to tilt his head upwards.

“Yaguchi.” Murai says his name like it’s precious, like it’s something to be treasured, something to be remembered, something that was worth turning around for.

“I love you.” Murai lets go of his face, takes hold of his hand and drops down to his knees, Yatora almost follows after him, wanting to be face to face with him, but then Murai speaks again.

“Please, let me carry your heart.” Yatora goes to say something, but is cut off:

“I promise I can hold it, I promise that it’s not too heavy, I know you think it’s a burden but Yaguchi-” Yatora crouches down.

 “It’s not, your heart is so good, you’re so good, and I want t-” Yatora presses his lips to Murai’s.

They stay there, lips touching for a few seconds then Yatora pulls away, Murai looks surprised, but that doesn’t stop Yatora from grabbing the other boy’s hands with his own and saying:

“It’s yours, you can have it.” He kisses Murai one more time for good measure.

“I love you.” He whispers to the other boy, as Murai pulls away from the kiss. Yatora fears this may have broken whatever had been between them, that this kiss had shown Murai that Yatora’s love was too much, and that his heart was too heavy for anyone else to carry.

“Yaguchi, will you let me show you how beautiful you are?” Murai’s cheeks are still tinted pink, but there’s a determined glint in his eyes, one that Yatora can feel fueling the flames of the warmth in his heart.

“Yes.” Murai leans in and kisses him again.

He takes his time with it, letting them feel each other, making sure that Yatora knows that Murai means everything he says. When Murai pulls away, it’s only to grab Yatora by the hand and lead him back up the stairs, to the door that Murai had forgotten to close in his haste to get to him.

As Murai led him up the stairs, he kept turning his head back, to see Yatora.

To see that he was actually there.

Yatora smiled, he had been right, Murai would look back.

But unlike Orpheus and Eurydice, Murai looking back would have no divine consequences,

Yatora was not going anywhere. 

________________________________________________________________________

Murai leads him back to the bedroom that they had spent the night in before, Yatora didn’t know what he expected when they came in, but it wasn’t for Murai to make him sit down on the bed, the boy knees in front of him, and begins by placing a kiss on Yatora’s knuckles.

He then raises his head, Yatora tilts his own and they meet in the middle, Murai’s hand press into his thighs, and Yatora reaches his hands out to wrap around Murai’s neck, as he does so Murai reaches one of his hands upwards, and gently pushes Yatora so that he’s laying down on the bed.

Murai pulls away with a broken gasp, and Yatora can see that his arms are shaking from the effort of restraining himself.

Murai’s shirt comes off, and Yatora sits up slightly in an effort to follow him, but Murai takes hold of his wrist and pins it to the side of his head.

“You don’t have to.” 

Yatora smiles at him.

“What if I wanted to?” Murai loosens the grip on his wrists, leaving room for Yatora to move away if he so desired, but he wouldn’t.

Yatora’s shirt stays, But this time, Yatora is the one to close the distances between them , he’s inexperienced and going with whatever feels good, and Yatora hopes that this feels good.

“Fuck.” The boy above him pants out, his hips were pressing into Yatora’s and it became abundantly clear that Yatora must be doing something right, if the weight that was pushing into his abdomen, Yatora’s tempted to reach his hand down, but he’s uncertain of what reaction this would get.

“You’re so good.” Murai moans, his head being thrown back as he rocks his hips onto Yatora, he leans down to pepper kisses on Yatora’s collarbones and in between each kiss he says something like:

“Pretty”

Or

“Good”

Yatora loses count of how many times Murai kisses his skin, before he finally decides to reach down, his fingers wrapping around the fabric between Murai’s dick. Murai’s hips immediately thrust down to his hand, his head slamming down into Yatora’s chest as he did so.

“Yes, yesyes.” Murai blurted out, Yatora could feel himself growing harder from just that reaction alone. He takes it one step further, pulling his hand and Murai makes a desperate sound, but he won’t be left hanging for long, as Yatora pushes his fingers through the waistband of Murai’s pants and boxers.

He wraps his fingers around the hard warmth, and the reaction is instant.

Murai slams their lips together, his teeth biting down on Yatora’s bottom lip. Yatora continues to move his hand up and down, Murai’s length. The boy above him keeps rasping out curses and desperate pleas for Yatora to continue.

He can feel Murai’s hips jerking, as he moves his hand up and down.

Yatora is struck by an idea, he places one hand on his hip, then shifts his weight. Murai ends up with his back on the bed, Yatora sitting between his legs, his hand still under the waistband.

Muria shoots him what Yatora thinks is meant to be a curious glance, but it ends up more like a glare when Yatora stops moving his hand.

Seeing Murai flushed underneath him, his eyes burning with nothing but lust and desire, honestly makes Yatora think that he needs to start thanking every higher being who allowed for this to happen.

Yatora is at the edge of the bed, so it’s almost too easy to drop to his knees on the floor, and pull Murai by his ankles, so that his legs were on either side of Yatora.

“Do you want me suck you off?” Yatora doesn’t know how he asks that with a straight face, but he must have done a great job at it, because Murai sits himself up, his chest looking like it’s staggering.

“Please.” The boy above him huffs out, he throws his head back, his hips jerking in what Yatora is sure is an involuntary manner.

Yatora pulls the waistband of the sweats and boxers down, Murai is still thrusting his hips up into nothing and Yatora places his hands on either side of the boy’s hips. His fingers push down, as he leans forward.

Murai is watching his every move.

Yatora turns his head to the side, pressing a kiss to the thigh. Murai’s breath hitches, and he’s once again cursing. Yatora turns his head the other way, placing another kiss to the other side of Murai’s body, then he inches his head towards the length in front of him.

He’s a breath away from it, when he looks up at Muria, their eyes meeting, Murai’s thighs shaking.

“You’re beautiful Murai.”

Then Yatora wraps his lips around the head.

“Fuckfuckfuck.” Murai heaves out, his hands clawing into the bedspread, and if his nails were any sharper he would’ve torn it to shreds. Yatora swirled his tongue around, and relished in the choked sound that head escaped Murai’s mouth, a hand is placed on top of his head and fingers tug at his locks.

He looks up, his watering eyes meeting Murai’s own.

“You’re gorgeous.” Yakumo rasped out, his voice was broken, but Yatora thinks it’s the best the other has ever sounded.

He hums around the heat in his mouth, the vibrations very clearly having an effect on the boy above him, who was pulling at Yatora’s hair. Yatora can practically feel the desperation through each of Murai’s movements.

He doesn’t need to hear Murai call out that he’s close to know that the other boy is hurtling straight for the edge. 

Yatora thinks that he wants to see what Murai looks like when he finishes, he wants to see the moment that the Murai loses himself to pleasure, he wants to see it and know that he was the one to push him there.

But the hand in his hair pulls him upwards, his now swollen lips meeting Murai’s desperate ones. 

Murai pulls away, letting their foreheads press into each other as they both take in staggering breaths.

“Good?” Yatora asks, knowing what the answer is already, but wanting to hear from Murai’s own mouth, that this had been. Murai’s response comes in the form of another kiss, but this one isn’t as hungry or desperate as the first.

This was something tender.

Art was a language without words,

There were many artworks dedicated to kissing, love preserved within the confines of a canvas.

But as Murai had said, everything is art and everything is beautiful.

Kissing was just one of the many forms of art that someone could use to convey what they had burning inside their heart, 

The kiss was beautiful, Yatora could feel everything that the boy was putting into this, he was watching an artist create, and Yatora was the canvas that Murai had chosen, the canvas that he wanted to use to convey the things that could not be put into words.

Devotion, desire, a need for intimacy, love.

Yatora pulls his head back, but not to far, Murai’s hand was still in his hair, the grip he head wasn’t keeping Yatora in place but rather holding him for the sake of contact, to know that he had what he wanted in his grasp, and it wouldn’t be pulled away from him.

Murai had chosen Yatora as his canvas.

“I want to paint you.” Yatora tells him.

Because a canvas in a way was a mirror into an artist's soul, every piece of art was a self-portrait because it’s how the artist experienced the world through their own eyes.

And this, this thing between them was a collaboration of artists who were on the same wavelength. Each of them had their own style, their own way of creating, but the feeling between them and their intertwined bodies was the same.

“Paint me.” Murai hisses out, reaching his hand for Yatora’s.

“However you want, show me how you see this.” He pulls Yatora’s hand to his mouth, placing a delicate kiss to the tips of the fingers.

Yatora smiles, takes hold of Murai’s hand and pulls it to his own mouth,

As Murai looks down at his tilted head, Yatora places a kiss to the tense knuckles that had previously been gripping in his hair.

“I will show you.”

Like that day Murai had said he will hold that list for Yatora.

This was a promise, one that Yatora fully intended on keeping.

_____________________________________________________________________

Later that day, somewhere between showering and sitting back down on the bed, the list had fallen out of Yatora’s pocket and landed on the floor of the bedroom.

Yatora looks down at the list, reaching for it.

He can see Murai’s curious glance as he holds onto it.

Without a word Yatora rips it in half.

“Yaguchi.” It’s a question.

“I don’t need it anymore.” He explains, placing the broken halves back down on the floor, then reaching across to interlock his hand with Murai.

“You’ll remind me that it’s all bullshit, right?” His own question is teasing, but there's a hidden agenda behind the words, a plea for Murai to keep true to his own words. Murai scoffs.

“Of course I will.” This is the truth shared between Murai and Yatora.

The next morning, the two have to walk to school. Murai still walks a step or two ahead of Yatora, but his head keeps tilting back to see that Yatora is still behind them. Yatora decides to reach his hand out and grasp onto Murai’s own.

Eurydice and Orpehus had been forbidden from walking hand in hand with each other, but Yatora and Murai weren’t Orpheus and Eurdyice.

Holding onto each other, seeing the other, didn’t mean they were going to lose anything.

It just meant they could hold onto the things that they loved a little tighter.

Murai’s fingers lock into his own.

No words need to pass in between them. Art was a language without words. 

 Love was an art of its own, one that sometimes used words, but didn’t need to.

Yatora needed no words when he leaned over and placed a kiss onto Murai’s cheek. There was art between them, they were each other's canvases, muses and anything else that they chose to be.

Yotasuke had been right to say that Yatora was not a canvas, he wasn’t, or at the very least he wasn’t one for himself to ruin. But when Murai turns his head, the earrings that Yatora bought him swinging with him, to lean up and capture Yatora’s mouth in a deep kiss, he knows.

He knows that he would let Murai ruin him.

Murai had already ruined him, because when Murai went to pull away, Yatora pulled him back into another kiss.

Murai could ruin him, paint him in any way he deemed fit.

But Yatora could ruin him too.

He knows he has, when pulling away because Murai whispers to him:

“You’re right, I would look back, I’d look back if it was you.” 

Yatora, like Eurydice, could not complain.

Instead they kept walking, hand in hand, and even if they hadn’t, Murai would keep looking back and Yatora would always be there, and every time their eyes met Yatora would know. 

He would know that he was good.

He would know that he was loved.