7♠️ - What’s a hard truth that your muse has to learn/has learned?
The dark seemed thicker than usual.
Misaki’s feet burned and ached in the tight sandals she’d forced herself into earlier in the day, but there was too much broken glass littering the street to remove them. Even with her feet bound uncomfortably, she was quick, weaving her way expertly through the streets of Kugane until she found herself at a familiar door that was just about hanging off its hinges.
“Taichi?” she said, just barely above a whisper as she touched the door with her fingertips to slowly push it open. Misaki nearly recoiled at the stench within. unwashed bodies, vomit, and cheap whiskey mixed together to make a potent and sickly odor, and she lifted the sleeve of her kimono to cover her mouth as she warily ventured inside the tiny seaside shack.
A dim candle lit up the corner of the room, a man slumped in it with a bottle of liquor held loosely in his right hand. The girl hesitated before making her way across the floor, sifting through papers and empty bottles until she came to kneel beside the familiar figure. His bloated face was covered in stubble, and his blue eyes were unfocused as they fixed on the other side of the room. The table in the center was covered with half-finished pieces of artwork done with charcoal, and his large hands were covered in it. As long as Misaki had known Taichi, he’d always had paint or charcoal on his calloused hands. She remembered the portrait he’d painted of her just six months ago, when he was still vibrant and healthy, not drowning in drink alone in a ramshackle home.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, gruffly, lolling his head on his shoulder to look at the geiko. “This isn’t a place for a young girl. Go home.”
“I just got the medicine from the apothecary. She had trouble finding some of the ingredients… I’m sorry it’s so late,” Misaki replied in a mumble, reaching into her little bag to take out the vial, but Taichi’s hand met hers and stopped her. She blinked and looked up at him.
“Whiskey makes perfectly good medicine,” he slurred before barking out a laugh, taking a swig straight from the bottle. Her brows furrowed, and she slowly knelt beside the man to take the bottle from him.
“We miss you at the tea house,” she said, gently. “House Mother keeps asking where you are. She was hoping you could paint another piece for the house. Cranes, this time, and lotus flowers. You’ve always painted such beautiful lotuses. I still have the one you gave me for my tenth namesday.”
Taichi looked up at Misaki and half-smiled, managing to focus on her face. A year previous, his only child - a son - had left to join in fighting against the Garleans. Seven months later, it was reported that he had died honorably in combat alongside the Doman rebels. Once an influential and affluent painter - and frequent patron to the geiko tea houses -Taichi had fallen to drink to drown the loss of the last family member he had. His wife had died when his son was still a little boy to sickness. Misaki had always been fond of him, even viewing him as a sort of uncle figure. He was funny, engaging, extraordinarily talented. It shattered her heart to see him in the condition he was in now. The spark he always carried had dimmed so much it was nearly impossible to see.
“I haven’t finished a piece since Yosuke’s body got sent back,” he said, reaching up and tapping the tip of Misaki’s nose. “Go on. There are less pathetic artists in the city that you can commission. Your house mother will be worried if she finds out you’re not in your room at this hour, little blossom.”
“You can’t be living like this,” she said, desperation creeping into her tone. “I can help you. I can help you get back on your feet. You deserve better than this.”
“Ah,” the man sighed. “You’re a sweet girl, Misaki. A heart of gold. But… you can’t save everyone, blossom. Not everyone.” A sad smile followed his words, and he closed his eyes, settling in against the wall. “If you try too hard to save everyone who needs it, you’ll only keep breaking your own heart.”
Taichi’s words echoed in Misaki’s head as she numbly wandered towards the old shrine, parasol clenched in one little hand. They had buried his body earlier that day, in the rain, as if the kami themselves were mourning his loss. Misaki had left for the shrine to pray, a gnawing emptiness settled in the pit of her stomach.
You can’t save everyone. If you try too hard to save everyone who needs it, you’ll only keep breaking your own heart.
(( Thank you for the ask, @paradymeshift! Sorry for the late reply. :x ))
