[Vix] The Artist
The Artist
R; Tamamori/Miyata
Written for amhrancas for je_squickfic'11, here. Warning for character death. Tamamori was only a toddler when he watched his parents die.
Tamamori was an artist.
He was only a toddler when he watched his parents die. So much blood, scarlet-red and viscous everywhere he looked. It covered his hands and knees like a second skin when he fell, creeping at the edges of his nail beds, clinging to the tiny wrinkles in his palms.
He hadn’t shed a single tear. He hadn’t said a single word either, not for six long months, and when he did begin to speak again, it was the things around him he addressed, not the people.
The other children were not like him. He had no wish to speak with them.
The more they teased him, the more he sank into himself. Comfort was something he could only feel once he was alone.
Finger-painting had always been his favourite. He loved drawing and building and creating, but nothing ever compared to dipping his fingers into bright, warm colours, and spreading them across smooth canvases in long streaks and winding curves.
The kind of paint he used wasn’t important, so long as it left a deep, warm colour in its wake.
His foster parents, when they had taken him in, hadn’t understood his passion. That is not art! they had cried, when he showed them his painting of their little terrier. He had been so proud, but they had shattered it in a single breath.
They didn’t see what he saw.
So instead, he had hidden from their prying eyes, stowed his work away and stifled himself for ten long years. But eventually, blissfully, the day he had been waiting for came.
Tamamori turned eighteen, and he left them behind.
With his difficulty with communication still lingering from his childhood, conversation was difficult at best, stuttering and stunted, but he got by. Small jobs at local stores and bars barely paid enough for him to rent a tiny apartment on the shady side of town, but Tamamori didn’t care where it was. The less time he worked, the more time he had to spend on his true passion.
Finally, he was free.
He experimented in ways he had only ever dreamed of now that he had the space, the time, the freedom to be different.
Museums and galleries did nothing for him; they couldn’t compare to the things he could create with his own two hands. Instead, he filled his apartment with the tools of his trade, kept them spotlessly clean and wrapped them carefully in the rich, soft fabric his newest canvas had come in.
It hadn’t been easy to get hold of, but the moment Tamamori had seen it, he had had to have it.
And it was worth it.
Exhilaration singing loud and bright in his veins, Tamamori knew. This was what he was always born to do. This was an artistry only he could bring to life.
This was how it should be.
-
Friends were a luxury he had never needed - or wanted - before, but Nikaido was different. He was cheerful and easy to be around, and he had all the right features, cat-like eyes and a mouth that curled even when it wasn’t laughing.
Right from the start, Tamamori felt the urge licking at him like flames.
Can I paint you?
He couldn’t stop himself blurting it out, but Nikaido readily agreed.
And he was such a pleasure to work with, just as Tamamori knew he would be.
After the initial discomfort - which was only natural - he stayed perfectly still, patient and willing until Tamamori was finished. It took him a long time, and it was late, so Nikaido stayed over after that, and Tamamori basked in the company.
Work the next day found Senga chewing on his thumbnail. He’s fine, Tamamori promised, Staying at my place. I just talked to him. This morning.
It was nice to have someone else around. He made dinner for two and had someone to talk to whilst he sketched, and life was good.
When Senga turned up on his doorstep, Tamamori let him in without thought or question. Nikaido’s still here, he told Senga, who immediately relaxed.
Say, as you’re both here, maybe I could paint you together?
They posed together perfectly, Senga’s head resting sleepily in Nikaido’s lap with Nikaido’s fingers tangled carefully through his hair. Looking at them, so calm and content, Tamamori knew this would be even better than the last.
The colors were brighter than ever, the scents so strong and heady that they hung in the air long after he was done. When Tamamori ran his fingers reverently across the finished piece, he nearly swooned from the rush.
The more he painted, the easier it became. Tamamori was daring, more confident in himself than he’d ever been, and it showed. A small advertisement brought models flocking to him, and he gladly accepted them, eager to improve his technique and his style.
Yokoo hadn’t wanted to model, but friends are powerful in ways Tamamori hadn’t realised. He almost looked shocked to be in Tamamori’s studio, awkward and stiff in a way that Tamamori couldn’t ease.
Fujigaya refused to sit still, was loud and difficult whilst Tamamori tried to work, and his frustration and anger was visible in the finished piece. It wasn’t as smooth and tame as his previous work, but there was a certain feral beauty to it that Tamamori’s heart couldn’t deny.
Kitayama fell asleep before he had even gotten started, face soft and relaxed, but even that was okay. He hadn’t worked with a sleeping model before, and the act in itself was more pleasing than ever.
He devised ways of keeping his paint - which dried too quickly for his taste - workable for longer. When his older pieces started to fade, their colours losing their shades of brilliance, Tamamori found ways of keeping them bright and fresh for longer.
The woman in the apartment above couldn’t stand the smell of his paints and supplies, but Tamamori calmed her easily. He was an artist, he explained, would even paint her something of her own if she so desired.
He didn’t enjoy painting her the way he had his other models. But she didn’t complain again, so it was time well spent.
When he could no longer remove the paint stains from his clothes, Tamamori bought more.
When he began to run out of space, he disposed of the pieces he wasn’t completely happy with. Inoo was the first to go, and he was followed soon by Fukusawa and Takaki, whom Tamamori hadn’t been able to capture as well as he had hoped. Finally, there was Hashimoto. He had had such high hopes for that piece, but the animation of Hashimoto’s face was impossible to freeze, and the sparkle of his eyes seemed dull and lifeless in comparison to Tamamori’s memory of the real thing.
Dragging the huge canvases down to the stairs from his apartment took all of his strength, and the late hour - the only time he had free to do it around his jobs and his real work - took all of his stealth. He couldn’t risk waking anyone. Maybe they’d want to see, but they couldn’t. These pieces, they weren’t right, and he couldn’t share his work with anyone until it was perfect.
The dumpsters were huge, and hefting every flawed canvas into them had Tamamori’s muscles screaming in protest. The last one broke through the refuse sacks he’d wrapped it up in and caught on the edge of the dumpster. Panting for breath, he shoved it over the edge, but not before catching his fingers on it.
It fell with a dull thud on top of the rest, but it might as well have been silent for all Tamamori heard.
He held his nails up to the sickly yellow light of the one, single streetlamp that was still working, and felt a sudden rush of nostalgia so strong he could taste the bitter smell of paint on the back of his tongue. He remembered the first time he’d painted, still no more than a child, and he’d lifted hands covered with paint up to his face, marvelling at the dazzling brightness of it. He remembered rubbing it between his fingers and watching it smear, feeling it adhere to his skin, such a perfect consistency. He also remembered trying to wash it off afterwards, watching the colour swirl and fade as the water chased it down the drain until all that remained was the dry crust of it, caked beneath his fingernails.
Easing the lid of the dumpster closed as quietly as he could, Tamamori smiled fondly.
-
Meeting Miyata had been an accident.
Tamamori was irrevocably drawn to his wide smile and sparkling eyes, a joke always on the tip of his tongue. Miyata was different to the rest, waiting patiently when Tamamori stuttered, smiling fondly when he slipped and addressed the sandwich he was eating like it was human. Miyata didn’t tease or chide, and only ever laughed at himself.
Miyata encouraged him to talk about himself, seemed genuinely sympathetic when Tamamori felt brave enough to talk about his parents and the life that followed, and got excited when he talked about his art. The coffee was bitter, but Miyata was the sweetest thing Tamamori had ever known.
Coffee every few days soon turned into dinner, movies, more. Tamamori felt shy around Miyata in a way he hadn’t for a long time, but it was a feeling he welcomed, especially when Miyata would just smile that sparkling grin every time he noticed Tamamori’s cheeks flaming.
It was raining when it happened.
Miyata walked him home, even going so far as to slip his fingers into Tamamori’s as they strolled along the road together. Tamamori’s cheeks flared red, and Miyata smiled and squeezed his hand. His smile grew wider than ever before when Tamamori squeezed back.
The rain started before they reached Tamamori’s block, the clouds parting for the heavens to unleash a devastating torrent on them, and they ran, hands still clasped between them.
By the time they reached his apartment block, they were soaked through, but laughing. Tamamori couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. He couldn’t remember ever laughing before.
They took shelter beneath the cover of the main doors, rain still pelting down around them, and Tamamori’s laughter faded as Miyata looked him straight in the eyes. Miyata’s hair was plastered flat to his head, a few errant strands framing his eyes, and water droplets weaved down his cheeks in tiny streams, but his eyes gleamed, shining with something Tamamori had never seen before.
Then, almost too quickly for Tamamori to realise what was happening, Miyata’s lips were pressed to his. They were gone again in an instant, but it was long enough for him to feel the glowing tingle that Miyata’s mouth left behind.
This time, when Miyata leaned in, Tamamori met him half way. This time, when Miyata kissed him, Tamamori felt everything, the warmth of Miyata's lips, the spark of adrenaline, the thrill of his first kiss. Miyata's hand found the back of his neck and Tamamori leaned into it, tasting water and coffee and heat. He shivered, goosebumps rising on his arms, and Miyata ran his hands over them, smoothing them away before they parted, both gasping for breath.
Miyata’s face shone with an awed wonder that Tamamori knew must be mirrored in his own eyes, and his compulsion to capture that utter faultlessness in still-life for an eternity was too big, the craving too strong to resist.
Relationships eventually ran their course, people grew apart and feelings faded. It was inevitable.
Miyata was someone Tamamori couldn’t risk losing.
Do you want to come up?
He needed to have Miyata by his side for good.
-
Breathing deeply, Tamamori inhaled the rich, coppery smell of his paint.
The door to the apartment closed firmly behind them, Miyata cast wide eyes around Tamamori’s private collection - Nikaido and Senga, their bodies slumped together in an everlasting embrace, Yokoo’s once-bright eyes now glazed and forever staring, Fujigaya’s neck ringed with angry, purple bruising, Kitayama’s gentle face streaked with cracked, rusted-brown - and a panicked sound choked up in his throat.
What have you done to them...
Tamamori smiled.
Miyata would be his most beautiful creation yet.
R; Tamamori/Miyata
Written for amhrancas for je_squickfic'11, here. Warning for character death. Tamamori was only a toddler when he watched his parents die.
Tamamori was an artist.
He was only a toddler when he watched his parents die. So much blood, scarlet-red and viscous everywhere he looked. It covered his hands and knees like a second skin when he fell, creeping at the edges of his nail beds, clinging to the tiny wrinkles in his palms.
He hadn’t shed a single tear. He hadn’t said a single word either, not for six long months, and when he did begin to speak again, it was the things around him he addressed, not the people.
The other children were not like him. He had no wish to speak with them.
The more they teased him, the more he sank into himself. Comfort was something he could only feel once he was alone.
Finger-painting had always been his favourite. He loved drawing and building and creating, but nothing ever compared to dipping his fingers into bright, warm colours, and spreading them across smooth canvases in long streaks and winding curves.
The kind of paint he used wasn’t important, so long as it left a deep, warm colour in its wake.
His foster parents, when they had taken him in, hadn’t understood his passion. That is not art! they had cried, when he showed them his painting of their little terrier. He had been so proud, but they had shattered it in a single breath.
They didn’t see what he saw.
So instead, he had hidden from their prying eyes, stowed his work away and stifled himself for ten long years. But eventually, blissfully, the day he had been waiting for came.
Tamamori turned eighteen, and he left them behind.
With his difficulty with communication still lingering from his childhood, conversation was difficult at best, stuttering and stunted, but he got by. Small jobs at local stores and bars barely paid enough for him to rent a tiny apartment on the shady side of town, but Tamamori didn’t care where it was. The less time he worked, the more time he had to spend on his true passion.
Finally, he was free.
He experimented in ways he had only ever dreamed of now that he had the space, the time, the freedom to be different.
Museums and galleries did nothing for him; they couldn’t compare to the things he could create with his own two hands. Instead, he filled his apartment with the tools of his trade, kept them spotlessly clean and wrapped them carefully in the rich, soft fabric his newest canvas had come in.
It hadn’t been easy to get hold of, but the moment Tamamori had seen it, he had had to have it.
And it was worth it.
Exhilaration singing loud and bright in his veins, Tamamori knew. This was what he was always born to do. This was an artistry only he could bring to life.
This was how it should be.
-
Friends were a luxury he had never needed - or wanted - before, but Nikaido was different. He was cheerful and easy to be around, and he had all the right features, cat-like eyes and a mouth that curled even when it wasn’t laughing.
Right from the start, Tamamori felt the urge licking at him like flames.
Can I paint you?
He couldn’t stop himself blurting it out, but Nikaido readily agreed.
And he was such a pleasure to work with, just as Tamamori knew he would be.
After the initial discomfort - which was only natural - he stayed perfectly still, patient and willing until Tamamori was finished. It took him a long time, and it was late, so Nikaido stayed over after that, and Tamamori basked in the company.
Work the next day found Senga chewing on his thumbnail. He’s fine, Tamamori promised, Staying at my place. I just talked to him. This morning.
It was nice to have someone else around. He made dinner for two and had someone to talk to whilst he sketched, and life was good.
When Senga turned up on his doorstep, Tamamori let him in without thought or question. Nikaido’s still here, he told Senga, who immediately relaxed.
Say, as you’re both here, maybe I could paint you together?
They posed together perfectly, Senga’s head resting sleepily in Nikaido’s lap with Nikaido’s fingers tangled carefully through his hair. Looking at them, so calm and content, Tamamori knew this would be even better than the last.
The colors were brighter than ever, the scents so strong and heady that they hung in the air long after he was done. When Tamamori ran his fingers reverently across the finished piece, he nearly swooned from the rush.
The more he painted, the easier it became. Tamamori was daring, more confident in himself than he’d ever been, and it showed. A small advertisement brought models flocking to him, and he gladly accepted them, eager to improve his technique and his style.
Yokoo hadn’t wanted to model, but friends are powerful in ways Tamamori hadn’t realised. He almost looked shocked to be in Tamamori’s studio, awkward and stiff in a way that Tamamori couldn’t ease.
Fujigaya refused to sit still, was loud and difficult whilst Tamamori tried to work, and his frustration and anger was visible in the finished piece. It wasn’t as smooth and tame as his previous work, but there was a certain feral beauty to it that Tamamori’s heart couldn’t deny.
Kitayama fell asleep before he had even gotten started, face soft and relaxed, but even that was okay. He hadn’t worked with a sleeping model before, and the act in itself was more pleasing than ever.
He devised ways of keeping his paint - which dried too quickly for his taste - workable for longer. When his older pieces started to fade, their colours losing their shades of brilliance, Tamamori found ways of keeping them bright and fresh for longer.
The woman in the apartment above couldn’t stand the smell of his paints and supplies, but Tamamori calmed her easily. He was an artist, he explained, would even paint her something of her own if she so desired.
He didn’t enjoy painting her the way he had his other models. But she didn’t complain again, so it was time well spent.
When he could no longer remove the paint stains from his clothes, Tamamori bought more.
When he began to run out of space, he disposed of the pieces he wasn’t completely happy with. Inoo was the first to go, and he was followed soon by Fukusawa and Takaki, whom Tamamori hadn’t been able to capture as well as he had hoped. Finally, there was Hashimoto. He had had such high hopes for that piece, but the animation of Hashimoto’s face was impossible to freeze, and the sparkle of his eyes seemed dull and lifeless in comparison to Tamamori’s memory of the real thing.
Dragging the huge canvases down to the stairs from his apartment took all of his strength, and the late hour - the only time he had free to do it around his jobs and his real work - took all of his stealth. He couldn’t risk waking anyone. Maybe they’d want to see, but they couldn’t. These pieces, they weren’t right, and he couldn’t share his work with anyone until it was perfect.
The dumpsters were huge, and hefting every flawed canvas into them had Tamamori’s muscles screaming in protest. The last one broke through the refuse sacks he’d wrapped it up in and caught on the edge of the dumpster. Panting for breath, he shoved it over the edge, but not before catching his fingers on it.
It fell with a dull thud on top of the rest, but it might as well have been silent for all Tamamori heard.
He held his nails up to the sickly yellow light of the one, single streetlamp that was still working, and felt a sudden rush of nostalgia so strong he could taste the bitter smell of paint on the back of his tongue. He remembered the first time he’d painted, still no more than a child, and he’d lifted hands covered with paint up to his face, marvelling at the dazzling brightness of it. He remembered rubbing it between his fingers and watching it smear, feeling it adhere to his skin, such a perfect consistency. He also remembered trying to wash it off afterwards, watching the colour swirl and fade as the water chased it down the drain until all that remained was the dry crust of it, caked beneath his fingernails.
Easing the lid of the dumpster closed as quietly as he could, Tamamori smiled fondly.
-
Meeting Miyata had been an accident.
Tamamori was irrevocably drawn to his wide smile and sparkling eyes, a joke always on the tip of his tongue. Miyata was different to the rest, waiting patiently when Tamamori stuttered, smiling fondly when he slipped and addressed the sandwich he was eating like it was human. Miyata didn’t tease or chide, and only ever laughed at himself.
Miyata encouraged him to talk about himself, seemed genuinely sympathetic when Tamamori felt brave enough to talk about his parents and the life that followed, and got excited when he talked about his art. The coffee was bitter, but Miyata was the sweetest thing Tamamori had ever known.
Coffee every few days soon turned into dinner, movies, more. Tamamori felt shy around Miyata in a way he hadn’t for a long time, but it was a feeling he welcomed, especially when Miyata would just smile that sparkling grin every time he noticed Tamamori’s cheeks flaming.
It was raining when it happened.
Miyata walked him home, even going so far as to slip his fingers into Tamamori’s as they strolled along the road together. Tamamori’s cheeks flared red, and Miyata smiled and squeezed his hand. His smile grew wider than ever before when Tamamori squeezed back.
The rain started before they reached Tamamori’s block, the clouds parting for the heavens to unleash a devastating torrent on them, and they ran, hands still clasped between them.
By the time they reached his apartment block, they were soaked through, but laughing. Tamamori couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. He couldn’t remember ever laughing before.
They took shelter beneath the cover of the main doors, rain still pelting down around them, and Tamamori’s laughter faded as Miyata looked him straight in the eyes. Miyata’s hair was plastered flat to his head, a few errant strands framing his eyes, and water droplets weaved down his cheeks in tiny streams, but his eyes gleamed, shining with something Tamamori had never seen before.
Then, almost too quickly for Tamamori to realise what was happening, Miyata’s lips were pressed to his. They were gone again in an instant, but it was long enough for him to feel the glowing tingle that Miyata’s mouth left behind.
This time, when Miyata leaned in, Tamamori met him half way. This time, when Miyata kissed him, Tamamori felt everything, the warmth of Miyata's lips, the spark of adrenaline, the thrill of his first kiss. Miyata's hand found the back of his neck and Tamamori leaned into it, tasting water and coffee and heat. He shivered, goosebumps rising on his arms, and Miyata ran his hands over them, smoothing them away before they parted, both gasping for breath.
Miyata’s face shone with an awed wonder that Tamamori knew must be mirrored in his own eyes, and his compulsion to capture that utter faultlessness in still-life for an eternity was too big, the craving too strong to resist.
Relationships eventually ran their course, people grew apart and feelings faded. It was inevitable.
Miyata was someone Tamamori couldn’t risk losing.
Do you want to come up?
He needed to have Miyata by his side for good.
-
Breathing deeply, Tamamori inhaled the rich, coppery smell of his paint.
The door to the apartment closed firmly behind them, Miyata cast wide eyes around Tamamori’s private collection - Nikaido and Senga, their bodies slumped together in an everlasting embrace, Yokoo’s once-bright eyes now glazed and forever staring, Fujigaya’s neck ringed with angry, purple bruising, Kitayama’s gentle face streaked with cracked, rusted-brown - and a panicked sound choked up in his throat.
What have you done to them...
Tamamori smiled.
Miyata would be his most beautiful creation yet.