I cant tell by words how joyful I feel seeing this warm drawings of yours,,,,, so,,,, the only way I can speak.,,,,
auhhh...😿😿 ive prolonged my reply to this ask because i wanted to draw somrthing in return but i still havent drawn anything so im just quickly thanking you now for this & i want to let you know that i jumped around in joy seeing this for the first time, i love it so so so much uts bringing tears to my eyes
Im happy that i could spread joy and warmth through my drawings, it is one of the things i want to hold on to whenever i create art
This drawing alone brings me joy and warmth as well! Thank you for taking your time to draw my persona :^((( its beautiful
shuntarō chishiya oneshot, no reader just some writing about him I suppose !!
↳ ❝ in which Shuntarō rethinks his medical license. was in worth it?
;;- angst . . . oops :)
i'll write something chirisu themed soon,, leave me requests !
Chishiya’s fingers ghosted over the cool metal of the badge resting in his palm, his thumb tracing the engraved letters like he was trying to rewrite the truth with touch alone.
Shuntarō Chishiya.
His name glared back at him in bold, unforgiving font—stamped onto a symbol of achievement, of triumph, of success. A surgeon. He had made it. He had done exactly what was expected of him. Followed the blueprint. Matched every shadow of the man who raised him.
And yet, as he stared at that name—his name—it felt like a stranger’s. Something hollow.
He repeated it silently in his mind, over and over again, like a curse spoken under breath.
He was a licensed surgeon now—he should have felt proud—should have felt something. A flicker of satisfaction, maybe. Fulfillment. Joy. But it was only bitterness that bloomed in his chest. Bitter, biting, choking.
It was the kind of irony that gnawed at bone. The kind that laughed in the face of children who once believed they could earn love by becoming useful.
Because if his father hadn’t wanted a child—if he hadn’t desired a son—then why have him at all? Why sculpt a boy out of expectation and indifference, only to refuse him affection?
A child born out of duty, perhaps. Out of obligation. Or worse—out of nothing at all.
His father hadn’t lacked love entirely. That was the most maddening part. He had seen it. His father mourned the patients he lost—grieved them with a quiet anger. He rejoiced when he saved lives, allowed himself small smiles, gruff nods, a deep exhale as though he'd saved the world. He was capable of care. Just never for him.
Chishiya spent most of his life watching the man extend compassion to strangers while his own son sat across the dinner table like a ghost.
He learned early that silence was his inheritance. That love, if it came, would be earned through excellence. Through brilliance. Through becoming exactly who his father wanted.
Maybe, just maybe, if he were clever enough, perfect enough, extraordinary enough—his father would finally speak to him like he mattered. Would finally see him.
But he never did.
He still remembered the day he saw the Mona Lisa. He was ten, maybe eleven. Small enough to get lost in a crowd, but old enough to feel like he was already vanishing. They’d taken a rare family trip to Paris to see his mother's parents, the kind where photos were staged and smiles were mechanical.
But the Louvre had been his escape. And there she was, hanging in that crowded room—small and subdued in a sea of noise and awe. The Mona Lisa.
He’d become obsessed with it. Not with the painting itself, but with the way it made him feel. How it stirred something he didn't know how to name. His cold little heart, so still for so long, had twitched in his chest. A flicker. A pulse.
There were theories, of course. Endless analysis about her smile, her eyes, her meaning. One in particular clung to him—the idea that the Mona Lisa was Da Vinci himself, painted as a woman. A self-portrait in disguise. A man trying to see himself from another angle. Trying to understand who he was through someone else’s skin.
That theory lived in him. Because doesn’t everyone want that? To be understood? To be seen completely, stripped of pretense, of masks, of roles and reputation? To be known without having to perform?
He wondered if Da Vinci had ever felt like a fraud. If he’d ever stared into the mirror and wished he was someone else, anyone else, just so he could finally feel real.
They said the Mona Lisa symbolized happiness. And maybe that’s why he’d been drawn to her—because happiness was always something he saw from a distance. Something always promised, never possessed. A rumor passed around by others but never spoken in his home.
His life, on the outside, was painted happy. A masterpiece of fabrication. A beautiful lie.
His father, head of the hospital. Revered. Respected. A man of strength and precision. People praised him for his dedication, his intellect, his apparent stability. They called him admirable.
And at his side—oh, his pristine wife. The quiet, obedient woman with soft eyes and a softer voice. His mother. So easy to overlook, to forget. Chishiya often wondered if she’d been painted too. A figure in someone else's still life. Her smile was always stitched in place like a threadbare puppet. Had his father ever loved her?
Had anyone?
He doubted it.
And then there was Shuntarō—the quiet prodigy. Brilliant from birth. Well-behaved. Cold. Always watching, never speaking unless prompted. Just like his father. Merely a reflection.
He was everything they said he should be. He drank his coffee black, like his father. He memorized anatomy textbooks at thirteen, just like his father. He learned to suppress, to detach, to observe without sentiment—just like his father.
Maybe too much like him.
But in the quietest corners of himself—in the seconds between blinking and breathing—Chishiya wondered if he had become a ghost of a man who never really existed. A shadow chasing another shadow. A hollow echo of someone else's legacy.
He had been raised to save lives. But no one ever taught him how to live one. And now, staring at this badge—this proof of his worth, of his achievement, of his usefulness—he felt nothing but the cold press of failure. Not the failure to become a surgeon.
But the failure to become himself.
The badge sat heavier in his palm the longer he held it, like it was absorbing the weight of everything it represented. Everything it took from him. Chishiya closed his fingers around it slowly, letting the edges dig into the skin of his palm, just enough to feel something. Just enough to remember he was still real.
That there was still blood beneath the surface. That the hollow inside him hadn’t completely devoured the boy who once stood in a museum, wide-eyed, heart twitching for a painting.
He had gotten everything he was supposed to want. The degree. The respect. The sterile white coat, ironed and gleaming. The steady hands that could cut into another human and fix what was broken. Calm. Brilliant under pressure. They didn't see the truth of it—the truth that he’d mastered detachment not as a skill, but as a survival tactic. That his stillness wasn’t serenity. It was absence. A carefully curated silence where no one could hear him scream.
He had spent so long performing competence that he no longer remembered what it meant to simply exist.
Did he even want this?
Blasphemous. Treasonous. He had spent years clawing toward this finish line, but now that he’d crossed it, the road ahead stretched on, endless and bleak. Like he was walking deeper into someone else’s life, a path paved by his father’s approval and society’s applause.
And yet, no applause felt louder than the silence at home. There was no congratulatory hand on his shoulder. No embrace. No father’s proud smile. Just the quiet sound of air, recycled through hospital vents. The sound of becoming something he thought would save him—only to realize salvation doesn’t come from imitation. It comes from being seen.
And he never was.
His mother hadn’t even looked up when he told her. Her eyes stayed downcast, folded into her lap like she was always praying for something but never sure what. Perhaps she had stopped seeing him long ago. Perhaps she never had. There was a softness in her that had withered too early, dried out by decades of living in a home that only looked happy from the outside.
Their family dinners were a ritual of performance. The table set like a stage. Every dish perfectly placed. Every word filtered through politeness. Every silence deafening.
His father would talk about surgeries like they were sacred stories. His mother would nod along, sip her tea. And Chishiya—he would sit there like another piece of furniture, consuming food without tasting it, waiting for someone to notice he was drowning quietly in plain sight.
Sometimes he wondered if he ever spoke at all, or if he’d imagined his own voice.
He had learned not to cry too young. It was inefficient, his father had said after Chishiya had let a few tears slip. Unproductive.
Pain was a teacher, not a companion. He had learned to swallow grief like water, learned to dress it in logic and restraint.
But even still, there were nights he’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering if there was something fundamentally wrong with him. Why he could cut into a person’s chest without blinking, but couldn’t look someone in the eye and say, “I’m not okay.”
He was the boy who dissected his own heart years ago and never bothered to stitch it shut.
No wonder he felt so cold all the time.
There was no fire left in him. Only quiet calculations. Sterile thoughts. The ache of wanting to be human, while fearing that he no longer was.
Sometimes, in the quiet of the on-call room, he would watch the pulse in his wrist and wonder what it would feel like to let it slow. Not to die—but to disappear. To shed the weight of being someone else’s expectation.
But even that was too much like surrender. And he wasn't weak. He couldn't be.
His father had taught him that weakness was the enemy. That feelings were clutter. That empathy was a luxury you couldn’t afford in an operating room.
But Chishiya wasn’t in the OR now, and he felt just as fucking shitty.
He was alone, sitting beneath the sterile glow of a flickering hallway light, a badge in his hand and an ache in his chest that logic couldn’t touch.
He had tried so hard to become perfect. And in doing so, he had forgotten how to be real.
And yet—somewhere, somewhere deep in the marrow of him—he still remembered that boy in the Louvre. That moment. That painting. That strange, electric feeling that he wanted something. Not for his father. Not for the world. For himself.
He didn’t know what it was.
So he ignored it. He pushed the door open to his patient, resignation already settled onto his face.
The room smelled like bleach and loss of hope. Death clung to the air in ways the sterilizers couldn’t cleanse.
Chishiya stood at the man’s bedside with his hands folded neatly behind his back, white coat sharp, his face unreadable as always. He didn't blink much. Just watched.
The man was gaunt—skin like paper stretched over bone. His lips trembled as he spoke, voice a ghost of what it must've once been.
"Doc..." the man rasped, swallowing. “I don’t have much time.”
Chishiya said nothing. He didn’t offer false hope. He didn’t lie to comfort. He never did. His silence was sharper than honesty.
“I—I wrote a letter,” the man said, reaching with shaking fingers to the edge of the bed, pulling out a crumpled envelope. “To my wife and kids. Please. Just… just get it to them. It’s all I can give them now.”
Chishiya took the envelope wordlessly, held it between two fingers like it might stain him.
The man looked relieved.
“Thank you,” the man whispered. “Really… thank you.”
Chishiya stared down at the man’s pale, sunken face—eyes glossed with pain and something softer, something human. The man was still holding on to love. To memory. To hope.
He died fifteen minutes later. No drama. No gasping. Just a long exhale into stillness.
Chishiya didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He just stood there until the monitor sang its final note and the line flattened into quiet.
Later, when his shift was done, he stepped outside into the gray dusk. The city was shivering in the cold, but he barely noticed.
The envelope still sat in his coat pocket, warmed by his body heat. Heavy with sentiment. With grief. With meaning.
Chishiya pulled it out, turned it over in his hands. The man’s handwriting was shaky but careful. The edges were frayed from how long he must’ve held it, rewriting his goodbye a hundred times before it felt right.
With no ceremony, no hesitation, Chishiya tore it in half. The paper sighed beneath his fingers, a quiet rupture. Then again. And again.
He tossed the pieces into a public trash bin, buried beneath half-eaten takeout and receipts for things no one would remember buying.
He stood there a moment, then wiped his hands on the inside of his coat like they’d been soiled by someone else’s last words.
“Why should I care?” he said to no one, barely above a whisper. “He’s dead. They’ll grieve either way.”
There was no cruelty in his tone. No anger. Just exhaustion. A numb, calculated detachment. Like he’d dissected the man’s entire life and found nothing worth saving.
He started walking people passed him on the street with their warm coats and coffee cups and winter scarves, laughing into their phones, alive in ways he’d never learned to be. He kept walking.
The letter was gone.
And in its place—nothing. No guilt. No ache. Just the familiar emptiness. Cold and clean.
It wasn’t that he hated the man. It wasn’t even that he enjoyed the act. He simply didn’t believe in carrying burdens that weren’t his. He didn’t believe in love that endured beyond flesh, or memory that softened the sharpness of death.
He believed in endings. Clean ones.
He had spent his entire life watching people die, watching grief collapse in on itself, watching hope rot into delusion. And in the end, everyone bled the same.
What good were words after the pulse stopped?
He didn’t cry at funerals. He didn’t look at family members when he gave them the news. He never said "I'm sorry." He offered facts, data, a time of death. That was all.
And yet… the image of the man’s eyes—glassy and full of something Chishiya didn’t understand—lingered in his mind like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.
The house hadn’t changed. It still sat in the same silence, preserved like a memory someone was too afraid to open. The lights were soft and golden, the hallways clean. It smelled like order. Like dust that had never had the chance to settle.
Chishiya stood in the entryway for a moment, the quiet pressing in around him like a too-familiar weight. He didn’t take off his shoes. Just listened to the hum of the heater and the faint tick of a clock that had marked a thousand quiet, loveless dinners.
From down the hall, his father’s voice cut through the stillness.
“Shuntarō.”
Even now, his name didn’t sound like affection. Just recognition. Like a tool being called from a drawer.
Chishiya stepped into the study.
His father sat at the desk, eyes scanning something on paper. Still upright. Still controlled. His suit jacket rested neatly over the back of his chair. His collar was buttoned. His cuffs were clean.
He glanced up only once. “I heard the board certified you.”
Chishiya nodded faintly. “They did.”
His father didn’t stand. Didn’t smile. Just returned his eyes to the page in front of him.
“You’ll have long hours,” he said. “There’s no such thing as rest if you do the job properly.”
“I’m used to that.”
“Hm.”
That was the extent of it. No congratulations. No questions. No warmth. Just one man giving his son an approval shaped like a weather report: detached, factual, indifferent.
Chishiya let his eyes drift around the study. The shelves were exactly how he remembered—books lined up like soldiers, a pristine collection of medical volumes that probably hadn’t been touched in years. Framed degrees hung in tidy rows on the wall. His father’s life, displayed like trophies. His expectations preserved in glass.
On the far corner of the desk was a photo frame. The three of them—Chishiya, his mother, and the man now sitting across from him. He remembered that photo. He remembered being told to smile. He had, just enough.
His father looked up again. “You still working in cardio?”
Chishiya nodded. “For now.”
“You’ll want to transition to thoracics sooner than later. That’s where the future is. If you’re interested in recognition, that is.”
“I’m not.”
His father gave a small shrug. “Then you’re not thinking long-term.”
Chishiya let his lips twitch into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Maybe I’m not.”
There was nothing in his father’s expression.
Chishiya wondered—briefly, vaguely—what his father would say if he told him about the dying man. The letter. The trash bin.
Probably nothing. Or worse—agreement.
“It’s strange,” Chishiya said suddenly, almost to himself. “People always say medicine is a calling. Like it comes from somewhere deep.”
His father looked at him. Didn’t interrupt.
Chishiya’s eyes were distant, scanning the line of polished book spines. “I’m not sure I was ever called.”
His father, flatly and without emotion said, “You don’t need to feel it. You only need to do it.”
There was silence after that. A thick, invisible wall built between them—of years, of distance, of things neither of them ever had the language to say.
Chishiya didn’t respond. He didn’t nod. He didn’t agree.
He just stood there, in the study where he had once watched this man stitch lives back together with steady hands and ice-cold precision. The same hands he now owned. The same distance he had perfected.
There were no goodbyes when he turned to leave. No ‘I’m proud of you.’ No ‘Come back soon.’
Just the soft click of a door closing behind him.
And Chishiya walked out into the night, the city lights dull through the fog, the air too quiet.
He slipped his hands into his coat pockets. The fabric still carried the shape of the letter he’d torn.
He didn’t miss it. He didn’t look back.
He didn’t feel anything at all.
sooo this really hurt but whatever,,, I really want to write more oneshots
HELLO I AM BACK AGAIN (Sadly not with art this time) But you know what, you deserve to flash someone in the eyes with a flash beacon, take mine and use it on me (also why everyone saying rip, you're right here.)
