[Solo] Rukia, you asked for art.
Who: Suou Katsuya
Where/When: Hisato - Week 3, Day 6
Status: Closed, Complete
Style: Third.
Warnings: None.
Katsuya didn't do art.
He did baking, which was a sort of art, a creative, industrious art. He made things taste delicious, and thus made people happy. He understood, when he thought of art, of creative, an edible sort of thing; a thing that was at once consumed and partitioned and built from the ground up, and built others from the ground up. Nourishing art.
Not this stick in the mud art.
Even with a pen he'd not do much better. He shouldn't hassle himself. His choice of subject, he felt... childish. Not for a man of thirty. No man of thirty should be drawing such pathetic lines in the sand. Drawing cats. Cats.
Allergic. But present. Always present. He looked in the mirror and there they were, Hyperion and Helios. The latter and the former, the growth and the beginning, together inside him. He could never look in a mirror again and not see them, gold eyes, chainmail hands, wagging, black tail. Katsuya knew that in English, the word for the neko was a cat. Irony.
Maaya called him "Katchan."
This animal, however poorly drawn, became him, becomes him, will be him, and he's not sure if his allergy is merely an allergy to himself. After all, he realizes, standing over the drawing, he is nothing but a master avoider, forgetting more and more the reasons he keeps moving. He wanted a drink.
There, before him, this:
Drawn with the intention of providing for Rukia-chan some sort of good on his word, because he needed to be good on one word somewhere, right? No. He frowned, looking the cat over again. Why had he done it? Why had he spent all day agonizing over it?
This world wasn't one where someone spent their minutes and hours uselessly. The Gods were present always, hypothetically, though he'd yet to meet anyone who'd seen the "good" ones... and the bad ones... they were always waiting for someone to get careless, or egotistical, or --
Damnit, Valeria. Was there any button you couldn't hit in three seconds of worrying? He met the cat's eyes.
What a pathetic waste of an interior self if you can't survive a demon swarm here. You could survive it anywhere, but you can't survive it here. Your true self: a cat who dies. What effects him most about the incident, about the disappearance, is that he failed. He remembers, and scars, throughout the day, of what taught him there was a bad god, but it's the death, the cat.
Nine lives. That's what a cat is, isn't it? Someone who has nine lives? Is this life fourteen? Eighty? To think that you were dead and now alive is enough to break a skull in two, but to think that you were dead and then dead again...! This existence had to be death, right? Nothing happened and then demons and then death. That was how it worked. A big expanse of respawning animals, a big field, a big rain... perhaps that's why he preferred Amesato.
He could look from his window and see the rain fall. That, he thought, was an action. A figurative, permanent action.
No, this was a pathetic thing. He couldn't show it to her. He wouldn't.
If she'd ask him, he'd just say, "I tried, but in Amesato, the rain got it."
Yes. That's what he'd do.
Where/When: Hisato - Week 3, Day 6
Status: Closed, Complete
Style: Third.
Warnings: None.
Katsuya didn't do art.
He did baking, which was a sort of art, a creative, industrious art. He made things taste delicious, and thus made people happy. He understood, when he thought of art, of creative, an edible sort of thing; a thing that was at once consumed and partitioned and built from the ground up, and built others from the ground up. Nourishing art.
Not this stick in the mud art.
Even with a pen he'd not do much better. He shouldn't hassle himself. His choice of subject, he felt... childish. Not for a man of thirty. No man of thirty should be drawing such pathetic lines in the sand. Drawing cats. Cats.
Allergic. But present. Always present. He looked in the mirror and there they were, Hyperion and Helios. The latter and the former, the growth and the beginning, together inside him. He could never look in a mirror again and not see them, gold eyes, chainmail hands, wagging, black tail. Katsuya knew that in English, the word for the neko was a cat. Irony.
Maaya called him "Katchan."
This animal, however poorly drawn, became him, becomes him, will be him, and he's not sure if his allergy is merely an allergy to himself. After all, he realizes, standing over the drawing, he is nothing but a master avoider, forgetting more and more the reasons he keeps moving. He wanted a drink.
There, before him, this:
Drawn with the intention of providing for Rukia-chan some sort of good on his word, because he needed to be good on one word somewhere, right? No. He frowned, looking the cat over again. Why had he done it? Why had he spent all day agonizing over it?
This world wasn't one where someone spent their minutes and hours uselessly. The Gods were present always, hypothetically, though he'd yet to meet anyone who'd seen the "good" ones... and the bad ones... they were always waiting for someone to get careless, or egotistical, or --
Damnit, Valeria. Was there any button you couldn't hit in three seconds of worrying? He met the cat's eyes.
What a pathetic waste of an interior self if you can't survive a demon swarm here. You could survive it anywhere, but you can't survive it here. Your true self: a cat who dies. What effects him most about the incident, about the disappearance, is that he failed. He remembers, and scars, throughout the day, of what taught him there was a bad god, but it's the death, the cat.
Nine lives. That's what a cat is, isn't it? Someone who has nine lives? Is this life fourteen? Eighty? To think that you were dead and now alive is enough to break a skull in two, but to think that you were dead and then dead again...! This existence had to be death, right? Nothing happened and then demons and then death. That was how it worked. A big expanse of respawning animals, a big field, a big rain... perhaps that's why he preferred Amesato.
He could look from his window and see the rain fall. That, he thought, was an action. A figurative, permanent action.
No, this was a pathetic thing. He couldn't show it to her. He wouldn't.
If she'd ask him, he'd just say, "I tried, but in Amesato, the rain got it."
Yes. That's what he'd do.