the conversation lulls. there's a certain squint to shouta's eyes that he feels might just be a greater effort to peer through all of orion ; to peel away the layers upon layers, the firewalls up in his mind, to see all of it plainly. all of his feelings plainly, what he could've possibly been thinking - for what they truly were instead of what hero assumed them to be.
but he's no fool, he's seen the glimpses of the canvas and paper back then and even now. he's seen the familiar shape of his own eyes, his own visage, or its fine details in the value compositions. the studies, the warm-ups, the abstract. the yellow in the face of neutrals. there's always been a level of doubt taking root in his brain when it came to matters like this, of intimacy in all its forms ; maybe he was too scared to let anyone get too close. it's a bitter note but something he's torn on fully letting go. even with that, maybe ...
he brings himself back to the art on the pages on the coffee table and chews his lips in thought. he's taken note, and recalls once more, of the pale-blue wisps and their disappearance/resurgence and the grieving process that he surely knew orion shared. there were the effects of smoke, the flow of it all like a waterfall and wispy like hair ; there were the figures reminiscent of hizashi in all of his deconstructions.
shouta thought like a musician, like a fighter. saw the world in composition and rhythm, and also as a giant battleground. sharply, so sharply he wonders what it might feel like to view the world through an artist's eyes. to feel like orion must feel, if the paintbrush was his pair of drumsticks. if color was the same as a beat. it's at this point that he feels compelled to, and quickly does raven jump on that impulse and take hold of his friend's hand.
pull him in, pull him downwards. there's a shake of his left hand and shouta's quick to take note of it. orion isn't pulling away, in fact he moves with him and soon the pressure on his lap is almost just enough to short-circuit his mind in all its glory. there's a twitch of his lips, a smile he doesn't allow to take hold just yet, amusement at the irony of it all. to feel like a bumbling teenager who didn't have a single semblance of a plan in this situation.
" hey, " he breathes, quiet and low. unsure free hand rests on orion's other elbow, a feather-light touch indicative of an ongoing mental process of where to really touch. what area was alright, and what crossed the line? what was crossing the line, and what was the line? " ... your drawings were really nice, forgot to mention. especially liked the eye studies. "
@icarusplunged. / from here.
