Something like that. @teru-teru-bozu - Tumblr Blog

Jun 20, 2017

The Scar

(How Teru got his scar.)

It was supposed to be a good night. A fun night.

The two of them had gone outside drinking, reveling in saké and freedom the only way eighteen-year-old boys could. Teru had drunken quite the quantity, but less for the buzz and more for the opportunity to wrap an arm around Jun, and claim that it was for balance. The brunet rarely allowed such actions of affection, and Teru exploited the chance while he could.

Jun, though—he had drunken much, much more. And by some mystery of his bodily constitution, Jun only became sharper when he drank; his eyes focused more, his fingers tapped less. And as his control increased, so did his brutality and bloodthirstiness.

That drunken samurai who bumped into Jun and made the fatal mistake of saying ‘drunk peasant’ and ‘Kiri-sute gomen’ was a first-hand witness to that brutality.

Jun had driven his sword into the man’s left eye and out through his skull, causing screams to ring and weapons to be drawn inside the izakaya. Teru didn’t mind—he had done somewhat the same thing the last time they went drinking—and Jun had laughed after that, grabbed Teru’s hand, then they ran outside, speeding down the streets with drunken abandon. It was a good thing they found some hapless carriage driver to take them back to Gensai’s mansion.

That was supposed to be fun. That was supposed to be something for them to forget in the morning, after Jun had laid his focus on Teru for the night. But Gensai had greeted them by the genkan with a blank face.

Apparently, Gensai had sent some servant—some stupid, shitty, talkative servant—to trail them when they left. And trailed them the servant did; he came back to report as soon as Jun killed that stranger.

Gensai barked words and dragged them over to the shrine, where their teacher’s katana and wakizashi rested on a kake. And now here they were, Jun and him sitting, their master’s raging words an incomprehensible flood in Teru’s ears. Jun was all schooled features and perfect posture, but Teru couldn’t be bothered. He was too drunk for this. Everything was bright and warm, sitting on the tatami floor made him want to sleep, and the sounds were all muddled—

Then he heard the unmistakable ring of a sword being unsheathed.

Teru jumped, instinct and training clearing his head immediately. He could hear loud, raised voices—what the hell is going on..? Gensai had his unsheathed sword in hand, and he was shouting, his face the perfect picture of fury. And Jun...

He looked afraid. Teru had never seen him look so afraid.

“—you act without thinking of consequences!” Gensai shouted. “That is unbecoming of a samurai—it disobeys everything I taught you about the warrior’s conduct. Do you even know who you murdered? That was a lieutenant; a samurai on leave from the army!”

Jun was gritting his teeth, fingers clenching the fabric of his hakama. “He threatened to kill me, Sensei.”

“It was a drunken threat, nothing more.”

“Where’d you hear that? From your servant?”

“Yes.”

Jun’s mouth twisted into a grin. “You’re taking some servant’s word over mine?”

“Yes,” Gensai said again, coldly. The grin fell off Jun’s face. “You killed a lieutenant. Do you understand the mess you’ve made?” Gensai sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “In a proper school... such actions would merit banishment.”

“What?!” Jun exclaimed, half-standing. “You’ll expel me, just—just because of some drunken silkwearer?!”

An outburst such as that was the height of disrespect... yet Gensai did nothing, only narrowed his eyes.

“I didn’t say anything yet,” their master replied. “I am offering you a choice. Leave this school or lose an eye.”

“...what?”

Teru felt a chill run down his spine. No.

Gensai gripped his sword hilt tight with his right hand, and laid the blade on his left. It was perfectly balanced, and he was perfectly calm. “Your training or your eye. Which would you rather lose?”

“You... you can’t be serious...”

Gensai approached him, and Jun stood up, completely out of conduct, a contrast to his earlier picture of a perfect student. He staggered a few steps back as Gensai asked again, “Your training or your eye?”

“You’re insane!” Jun yelled.

“Will you leave this school?”

“Like hell I will!”

Gensai nodded. “The eye it is, then.” He approached Jun, and Teru saw with horror that Jun was reaching for his own sword—

“Stop it!” Teru cried.

Two pairs of eyes turned to look at him. Teru quivered at the sight of Gensai—his calm demeanor and coolness was false; the knuckles holding the katana were white, and his eyes—

They were gold.

Next to their teacher, Jun looked like a frightened youth. Teru breathed in deep and bowed to their master.

“Sensei,” Teru said, in the most charming, deferring voice he could—gods knew how he kept his voice from shaking—“I was present when Jun committed that dishonor. He had drunken more than I did, and I in my greater sobriety should have stopped him. But I didn’t.” He bowed further, forehead touching the floor. “He was under influence, while I allowed it to happen. If the fault is to be traced to anyone, it is me. I—” what’s that fancy word again? “—beseech... you to have mercy upon Jun.”

Teru had no idea what was going to happen, what might happen to him for speaking like so—he knew that it probably wasn’t going to end right for him, but—

Jun.

Gensai went silent, ruminating. “You would take Jun’s punishment?”

Something cold stabbed at Teru’s gut. There was no ‘mercy’ in Gensai. To him, it was a word and concept as foreign as the traders in Dejima.

Gods, Teru thought, the cold in him spreading, it was just supposed to be a fun night, I didn’t expect—I don’t want—

“Well?”

Jun.

“...the... the eye.”

“Raise your head.”

Teru did. He was suddenly glad that he had drunken—everything was strange and seemed to be covered in a filter. His head was swimming. Nothing seemed real, not even Gensai approaching him, certainly not the bright edge of his katana. This can’t be happening. It was just supposed to be a fun night—

Gensai stood in front of him. He looked like a samurai about to execute Teru. Fear stabbed at his chest, an icy sword bleeding more cold into his blood, making him numb. This can’t be happening, this can’t—

“If you scream, I’m taking the other one as well.” Gensai’s voice was as steady as his grip on his sword. “Stay still.”

This can’t be happening—

And then it happened.

It was like fire was slashing across his face, searing, burning, whipping his head back like a well-placed punch. Yet Teru didn’t cry out—he had bitten his tongue, and now he tasted the tang of blood in his mouth, smelled it as something warm and slick poured down over the left side of his face.

Oh gods, it hurts. It hurts. The fire had melted away, leaving the dry, piercing sensation of salt being rubbed into one’s wounds, a sharp, radiating burn that made him want to scream and lay a hand on his eye just to make it stop. It was painful, painful, more agonizing than the blows he suffered during training, than the hits and cuts he sustained before Gensai found him. It felt like half of his face had been suddenly, quickly flayed.

Distantly, Teru could hear a choking whimper, and he realized that was himself. He bit down on his lips to keep quiet, and he tasted even more of the iron tang. By some miracle of the gods, he had stayed still. He was still upright even though all of him wanted to wrap his hands in his hair and scream.

“Open your eyes.” Gensai’s tone was smooth and even, as if had finished a cup of tea and not cut someone across the face.

I can’t. It hurt too much, and he was afraid. His hands were trembling, and he could feel tears aching at the back of his throat. It hurts. Teru had closed his eyes when the blade swung down. He had been afraid to look, he was still afraid to look. He didn’t want to see his own eye fall to the floor.

He didn’t want to see a mirror ever again.

Yet despite everything—despite the burning pain and the fear for his face and the underlying worry of infection—all he could think was ‘Jun.’

“Open your eyes!” That was a tone that didn’t leave any room for questioning. Teru bowed slightly, and obeyed.

Held-back tears and sweat had crusted his lashes together—Teru had to blink several times to fully see what was in front of him: his shaking fists, Gensai’s feet, the shiny floor being sullied by the blood dripping off his face. It was a clear view.

And he realized that both of his eyes were open.

He blinked, his breath coming up in harsh pants—his hand went to the left of his face, quivering fingers trailing along a bloodied cheek. He could sense the edge of the cut, where the pain pulsed—it stretched all the way to his ear. It was hairsbreadths below his eye.

Relief knocked the wind out of him—he released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and gaped at his teacher.

There was a strange expression on his face—it was disappointment mingled with a resemblance of pride. Gensai swiftly wiped the blood—my blood—off his katana and returned it to his sheath, a clank echoing in the air when he did so. Then his black eyes shot to Jun.

“A real samurai knows when to face his end,” Gensai said, softly, venomously. “You’re a coward, Jun.”

Jun jerked like he had been punched. His eyes moved down to the floor, his head bowed in a respectful manner. But he didn’t bow to be respectful—he bowed to hide the snarl on his face.

Gensai stood and shouted for a Kondo servant, for bandages and a bucket of water. Then he left, his calm footfalls a stark contrast to the way he had raged just moments ago.

The silence was deafening. I’m not the only one wounded by Gensai tonight. “Jun—“ Teru began, but he broke off when the love of his life glared at him with roiling, unconcealed hatred.

That felt more painful than the wound on his face.

“You just had to get involved!” Jun yelled. “I’m not some maiden in need of protecting, you bastard, now Gensai—“

“What, you wanted me to simply stand by?” On other days, Teru would return rage with rage, but now he was too tired and everything hurt, everything burned. He had to close his left eye and he gently cupped it, hands brushing red slick. “You were going to fight him and—Jun, for fuck’s sake... I don’t need your anger right now.”

I need you. He felt weak, and Teru couldn’t bring himself to stand. It hurts.

Jun stared at him for a long time, his face unreadable. His eyes, his thoughts, seemed to be hidden by a paper screen, a screen that Teru wanted to pry away. Jun approached him and crouched. He slid a hand beneath Teru’s bloodstained chin, pulling his face upwards. His thumb rested on Teru’s lower lip.

The pain faded, for an instant.

Then Jun smirked, his eyes narrowed at the blood-strewn side of Teru’s face. “You look ugly,” he muttered.

Teru flinched, and Jun laughed—a short, pained laugh—before he exited the room, the slamming of door panels deafening in the silence of his wake.

When the Kondo servant came, he was lucky that Teru was too shaken to do anything. Had it been another day, Teru would have killed him.

#ronin: teru #samurai of hyuga #jun #junk #gensai #soh #mypost #yall #fic #ronin fic #how do i tag those again

teru-teru-bozu

May 23, 2017

First Date

A Takumi x Teru fic.

This was just supposed to be short but then I lost control and *wheeze*

Features Benkei as Best Bro™, Kana as Best Wingwoman, and texting

Teru was not a creep. He was not a creep, at all.

“Dude, that’s pretty creepy.”

“It’s not!” Teru protested.

Benkei raised an eyebrow, looking at the notepad in Teru’s hands. “Keeping a list of Takumi’s hobbies, schedule, areas he frequents, and his responses to you is not creepy?”

“It’s scientific inquiry!”

“You failed science in highschool!”

Teru slammed his forehead into his notepad as Benkei laughed at his wit. Teru and he had been through hell together on their volleyball matches—they were both members of their University’s volleyball team—and they’d been to cloud nine together as well, in the raucous parties with Hinata and the rest. If anyone asked Teru who his best friend was, he’d point at the large beefcake of a man and say, “This asshole.” That description was applicable, now more than ever.

Teru sighed. He wasn’t usually like this, so easily defeated by a person’s remark, but something strange was happening to him now. Something that was making his heart beat quickly and his mind so confused that he actually started writing down observations and tips. He glared at the notepad that was in his hands. It wasn’t that creepy, and Benkei was simply exaggerating! For starters, Teru didn’t have Takumi’s schedule—though hell knows that’d be useful, he thought to himself—and his ideas of areas that the art student frequented were the same ideas any five-year old would have.

But he had listed down Takumi’s responses to him as of late, and the actions that had produced those responses. Teru glared down at the list. Using the Spanish tradition of singing to court Takumi had only obtained a “If you want to sing on campus, you should join the music club.” Complimenting the man incessantly had only caused Takumi to suddenly look nauseated, and to mumble some excuse to get away. And, one of Teru’s bolder moves of simply hugging him had obtained an elbow jab from Takumi and a slap from Yuko that he had narrowly evaded.

Teru could still feel the sting of sharp nails hitting his ear. There were more actions he had undertaken, but all had produced more or less the same result. Teru slammed the notepad into the park bench he was on.

“Benkei!” Teru yelled, standing up. “Why the hell is this happening to me?! This has never happened to me!” He buried his hands into his hair. “This shouldn’t be happening to me! I’m way too handsome for this!”

Benkei slammed a fist into Teru’s scalp, and gave him one of the most painful noogies of his life. “You idiot!” Benkei’s loud voice drowned out Teru’s protests. “Why don’t you just tell him outright? Relying on stupid maneuvers like this isn’t like you!”

I know that! But something was changing him, making his heart beat like thunder in his chest, making his hands shake and his mind blank, something—someone—with dark hair and dark, dark eyes—

Teru screeched and wrestled himself free, and accidentally fell on the grass. Benkei continued, “Just tell him. Straightforward, efficient—isn’t that the way you do things?”

Teru bit his lip. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell him,” he muttered. His heart beat wildly and a thousand butterflies swarmed in his stomach at the simple thought of just telling Takumi—

“Is that fear I hear?” Benkei said, and now he had taken on the mocking tone he used whenever Teru was tiring during their training. “Are you afraid?” He asked, leering.

“Like hell I am!” Teru snapped.

Benkei raised a brow.

“...a little.”

Benkei smiled. “I’ve got your back, mate. Kana told me that the art students’ classes end in ten minutes, so you’ve got all the time in the world to run across campus and compose a speech.” He did that strange meme pose. “Come on, man. Just do it! Don’t let your dreams be dreams!”

Teru stared at the notepad he had half-crumpled against the bench. He could see the list of actions he had prepared; at the bottom of it, read in scrawled words half-scratched out: Just confess.

Yeah, okay.

Those were the longest and shortest ten minutes of his life.

Teru waited at the end of his school’s covered walkway, his eyes always turning to where the Fine Arts building was. People were already filtering out. His foot wouldn’t stop tapping, and his mind was slowly fraying at the edges due to his anxiety. Teru gripped his hand, tight. His mind was about to spiral into darkness when he finally spotted him.

Dark hair surrounding an elegantly angled face, and those brown, focused eyes that had caught Teru’s attention in the first place. Before Teru could calm himself down, his throat had already betrayed him.

“Takumi!” he yelled, and the man froze in place. Takumi’s eyes darted towards the direction of the sound, and locked with Teru’s.

He’d like to say that it was a romantic experience... But it wasn’t so romantic when the man did a complete 180 and began walking the other way. Teru shoved at the other students and ran.

‘Am I in a Shoujo Manga?’ was what ran through his head as he sped along the walkway, people gasping and yelping as he ran with an urgency that would make squirrels proud. “Takumi! Wait!” he yelled, but that only caused the man to walk faster. There’s no way he can outpace the school’s libero! Teru thought, and he called for him again. Distantly, he heard people whispering at why Teru would be calling for someone like Takumi.

What the hell does that mean?! He wondered as he finally reached his target, and latched a hand around his arm.

“Takumi—“

Takumi turned. “What the hell do you want?!”He snapped.

Teru flinched and withdrew his hand. Something like a cold, cold weight fell into his stomach and he felt nausea, anxiety and tears choke at his throat.

Is—is he mad? Have I annoyed him? Have I inconvenienced him somehow? Have I—Have I—his breathing became rapid, and it wasn’t from running. Teru clutched at his hand again, and his short nails scratching at him cleared his head.

He saw the other students around them, whispering to each other, the word Takumi audible from the gossiping.

No. No. It’s not at me he’s angry at, it’s them, they’re not minding their own business!

...Please let it be them.

Takumi continued to glare, still waiting for a reply.

“Takumi,” Teru said, smiling his best smile. “Can you come with me, please?”

---

I want to go home. I just want to go home, finish my piece, and get some sleep.

Sadly, that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Takumi had been finally led to some bench in the campus park, and Teru sat on the bench opposite to him.

Looking at Teru’s face and his long hair, slightly messy from running, Takumi decided that he was very annoyed. And when he saw a couple more students lounging on the grass, pretending to study but obviously flicking their eyes toward the two of them, Takumi decided that he was very, very annoyed.

Not only have I been jostled into someone’s company, now I must be watched as well. I want to go home.

“What did you want to tell me?” Takumi asked, quick and curt.

Teru started fiddling with his hair. “Well, I’ve been wanting to ask... if it’s not too much an inconvenience...”

“Spit it out,” Takumi grumbled. He had no time for this nonsense.

Teru bit his lip, breathed in deep, then exhaled. “...Takumi—“ he paused.

“What?”

“Would—would you go on a date with me?”

Takumi’s mind went blank.

Then it went suspicious.

Takumi remembered all too well of the pranks that had been played on him across the years, simply because of his orientation and his style. A dodge ball had been thrown into his face, his books had been slapped out of his hand too much like those cliché high school movies, and derogatory insults had been scrawled over his belongings. And, of course, he had received many “love confessions” and “date invites”, only for the inquirers to suddenly burst into laughter once they saw hope flicker on Takumi’s face.

He had learned, long ago, to keep his emotions inside a shell and to keep his face as still as a rock no matter what happened. This moment was no different.

Takumi narrowed his eyes. “Is this some sort of prank?” Those ‘inquirers’ of his had always been popular, impulsive shits like the one in front of him right now.

Teru blinked, taken aback. “...A prank? Of course not!”

Takumi grit his teeth. Where the hell were Teru’s friends? Was one of them recording this moment, waiting for the second Takumi would say ‘yes’ before laughing from a nearby bush? No one in their right mind would ask me out... He clenched his fist, and his voice had taken on a venomous tone. “I’ve had enough of this crap.”

He motioned to stand, but Teru latched a hand around his wrist. “Must I say it?!” he cried, voice gone pitches higher. “I have a crush on you, Takumi!”

He said that loudly. Too loudly. The students who were “studying” were definitely looking this way now, and weren’t even bothering to hide it.

“Are you listening?!” Teru demanded, lowering his hands and slamming them into his own lap. “I have a crush on you!”

Takumi was no stranger to this prank, yet he felt his heart beat more quickly of its own accord. His mind was trying to rationalize this, observing areas where Teru’s fellow shits could be hiding, keeping his eyes alert for any change in Teru’s expression that would reveal the truth.

“You’re joking.”

“Joking?!” Teru’s voice was now strangled. “Then why the—why the hell do you think I’ve been courting you for the past three weeks?!”

Courting..? Did he mean those horrific incidents where Teru had started strumming his guitar out of nowhere, rained compliments on him out of nowhere, had strangled his midsection out of nowhere, among a hundred others? Those horrific incidents that made Yuko and Takeko nudge his sides and wink at him? Those?

His mind was trying to rationalize this, and it—somewhat had. No way in hell...

“You’re joking,” Takumi said, but this time it was for another reason entirely.

Teru groaned in exasperation. “How do you want me to prove it? Do you want me to kiss you?”

Takumi jumped like he had been scalded; he nearly fell over the bench and would’ve faceplanted, if Teru hadn’t caught him by the shoulders.

“I’m sorry! I...“ Teru paused, realizing how close they were to each other now.

Am I in a Shoujo Manga?! Takumi shoved at Teru, and the other retreated immediately with his face burning red.

“I’m sorry! That—that was inappropriate—”

He said some more words, but Takumi couldn’t make them out—not over the sound of his blood roaring in his ears, of his heart pounding so strongly that he could feel his pulse in every section of his body. When was the last time he had felt like this, flustered and genuinely... flattered? When was the last time he felt giddiness down to his toes?

“Takumi?” Teru asked again.

Takumi blinked. “...yes?”

“Are you listening..?” he was starting to pout now, very much like a puppy. That’s a little... cute.

“I’m sorry,” Takumi replied, and it was genuine. “I was lost in thought—what were you saying?” Stop pouting, please!

“...will you go on a date with me?”

Takumi thought. He put his hand to his chin and frowned, and began to consider his options. On the one hand... socialization. Lost free time. He’d lose that time, and he was going to spend it on a loud, popular boy who was probably like all the other loud, popular boys who would ditch Takumi once he began to show who he really was.

But is he really like that? Takumi wondered. If he were, Yuko would’ve murdered him long ago...

Well, at least saying ‘yes’ would stop Teru’s outlandish efforts of trying to annoy him—sorry, court him. (That idea was still foreign in Takumi’s head).

And Yuko would murder him if he does anything.

Takumi knew enough economics to understand the principle of Risk versus Reward. And thus, he sighed, and said:

“Yeah, okay.”

---

[17:35] Takumi!!! :) This is Teru. Do you know about the Kakizawa Museum?

[17:35] I’ve heard about it.

[17:35] What have you heard about it? C:

[17:36] Hyugan classical art, but those painted in the classical western styles.

[17:36] That’s all you know about it?! Really??

[17:37] I’ve never been there before.

[17:37] This Saturday, 1 pm. I’ll pick you up. Is that okay? C:

[17:37] Takumi??????

[17:38] Takumi!!!!!!!!!!!!

[17:40] Fine.

“Benkei!! What the hell do I wear?! How do I style my hair?! Are you listening to me?!”

“Shut up! I’m still thinking... what do you think, Hinata?” “Look awesome. But not too awesome, get it? He might be repulsed or frightened. Eh... maybe softer colors.”

“Have your hair loose, too. The girlier you look, the less ravenous you seem.”

“Girly?! Ravenous?!”

---

“Today’s the day!” Yuko exclaimed, opening the room to his door. “E-hey, Takumi, today’s the day—are you planning on wearing that?”

Tch. Takumi had hoped that he could escape Yuko and her protective-motherly way of meddling with his business. It appeared that today was not that day.

“So what if I am?” Takumi grumbled, glaring at her before glaring at his bedside mirror. A man with messy black hair and sleep-deprived skin glared back at him, a man also sporting a green shirt and Takumi’s school hoodie. What, do I need to wear a suit or something?

Yuko frowned. “Won’t you look a little nicer for your date..?”

“Yuko, first off, the only person I dress nicely for is me.” The strange feelings Takumi had in reaction to the confession had worn off and been replaced by reluctance. Takumi would’ve backed out, if it weren’t for the prospect of visiting Kakizawa. He straightened his jacket and self-consciously pulled at a stray thread in his shirt. “Second off, I don’t even know Teru. Why do I have to look nice for a stranger?”

“Well, if you’re comfortable...“ A beep from Takumi’s phone cut her off. Takumi sighed and dug it out of his pocket, and sure enough, there was an overly enthusiastic “I’m here!! C:” in his push notifications.

Reading through Takumi’s sigh and the beep from the phone, Yuko realized what was going on and grinned at him. “Well, let’s go downstairs, shall we?”

Sure enough, Teru was waiting outside in front of a red Honda that Takumi assumed was his. Or rented, whatever. I don’t care. There was a chilly breeze in the air, and Takumi shoved his hands in his pockets. He stared at the ground as he walked towards his... ‘date.’

“Hey Yuko!” Teru said, waving at her, then his voice lowered. “You’re handsome as always, Takumi.”

Even though Takumi had heard about a thousand compliments from this man already, hearing another one always made his stomach jump in a very sickening manner. Pushing away the nausea, Takumi noticed that Teru looked a bit... softer? His untied hair was falling over his shoulders, his glasses were slightly askew, and he had a brown jacket over a pastel blue shirt. He was looking at Takumi with absolutely puppy-like enthusiasm.

Is he... expecting me to compliment him back?

What an idiot.

“Let’s get going,” Takumi muttered, and before Teru had a chance to, Takumi opened the car door for himself.

To say that the car ride was horrible would be an understatement. It was a long ride—in fact, one of the reasons why Takumi had never been to Kakizawa was that it was a whole prefecture away—and worse, Teru kept on trying to start a conversation when Takumi gave every single signal that he didn’t want to. Even worse was when he started to crack jokes that were really not funny at all, and said puns that made Takumi want to jump out of the car and onto the highway. Fortunately, after twenty minutes of that nonsense, Teru simply asked for Takumi’s favorite radio station and set it there, before promptly shutting up. Takumi thanked the spirits for that.

But it was still a long ride, and so Takumi thanked the spirits again when they finally arrived and got inside the museum. A wave of cool, air-conditioned air hit him, and he breathed it in, and even stretched a little when Teru was off arranging the admission or whatever.

Kakizawa... Takumi’s eyes devoured what part of the museum he could see, and he felt a wild emotion akin to excitement. Spirits, how long have I wanted to go here? It looked as good and calm as it did in those promotional photographs—floors of white, with white walls sloping towards the middle, giving the museum its signature triangle shape. Modern architecture hosting art of the classical style... it made the art fanatic in Takumi squeal. And even though he was just in the museum lobby, he could already see Kakizawa’s proudest collection: Tsu Station, by Takeshiro Kanokogi. It depicted a somber woman in a kimono overlooking the construction of a train station; the station was slowly destroying the beauty of her home, turning the ground black and covering the sunset sky with barbed wires.

Takumi had to write an essay on it, once, and everything he said—it shows Hyuga’s 19th century clash of traditionalism and urbanization through its subject as well as its shadow, a truly striking work—was genuine. But he had only seen it in internet photos. And now...

Takumi suddenly realized that he was already in front of the painting. He looked around, wary for someone about to tell him off—but no one did. In fact, the museum was completely empty, if not for some staff and security.

That makes it even better.

“Takumi!”

Fuck.

Teru was approaching, along with a smiling woman in a suit. “Do you want a tour guide? She’s offering—“

“No,” Takumi muttered. He looked at the lady. “No thank you, ma’am.”

She bowed before taking her leave. Teru rubbed the back of his nape. “Well, it’s not like this place is too big anyways... where to first?” He asked, smiling and reaching for Takumi’s arm—

Takumi jerked back. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed. “I’m not your boyfriend.”

Teru lowered his hand, and though Takumi searched for a sign of disappointment, dejectedness or any trait of a fuckboy simply being told to stop, he didn’t see one.

“Maybe not yet.” Teru was smiling, and Takumi’s stomach did another uncomfortable flip. What the fuck. “Lead the way, Takumi.”

Takumi walked towards and inside the first gallery, and he immediately forgot about all discomfort. The walls were all decorated with the artworks that he had fawned over, sought to imitate, yet and only ever saw on a screen. Takumi strode towards them quickly, his eyes and mind hungry for the sight of that iconic piece from the 19th century and this famous Aimitsu painting, his observations never missing the sfumato techniques or the thick brush strokes. Takumi could barely hide a smile, or an awed expression, or muttered whispers as he suddenly remembered the title of this or that piece. Those lines... that shading... those colors, that pose, that realism! He saw human figure after human figure, scenery after scenery, over the course of what was probably two hours—yet he wasn’t getting tired physically or mentally. Takumi knew that he must have been spending too much time on each painting, but he didn’t care. His hands were already itching for his pencils, that was how inspired this was making him.

“Takumi.” The voice came from his left, and Takumi reluctantly tore his eyes away from Study of the Shore to glance at Teru, who was staring at him. Has he been looking at the paintings at all? Takumi wondered, irritated.

“Why do you like art so much?” Teru asked. Looks like his two hours of silence were up.

It’s a conversation bait. It’s a conversation bait.

But damn if it wasn’t good bait. Takumi had already formed mental essays and the greatest of personal anecdotes of why loved art, but he never really had the chance to say it. Might as well say it here, in a gallery, to a... date.

“I love art because it’s a lie.”

Teru stared. Takumi walked from Study of the Shore to another painting, this one was a distinctly Western Renaissance take on a Hyugan subject: a Rokurokubi, her face impossibly beautiful and her body in an ethereal light, only a hint of her scaly neck present.

“Art is a medium for feelings and a way of escape, but most of all it’s a lie. Think of the most famous works—more often than not, they take inspiration from myths and history’s battles, and they gloss over bloody reality to make it beautiful.” Takumi smiled at the rokurokubi. He remembered what he wrote in his essay before—people never die in beautiful mid-motion as this painting suggests; they die ugly, crushed by their horses or disfigured by bullets. “Art captures reality, augments it, fabricates it. Art soothes the soul, and it’s a medium meant for dreamers. But that’s because it changes reality into what we might wish it to be,” he added with a hint of bitterness. Most of Takumi’s works had figures in clandestine light—an antithesis to what really went on in his head, but it was still what he ended up creating.

Takumi glanced at Teru. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting something so heavy—but Teru looked very thoughtful.

“It’s certainly more beautiful than most lies,” Teru said.

Takumi walked towards another painting—and froze. Is that—is that--? He strode toward it quickly, and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Perhaps it was because Teru had already gotten him to speak, or because Takumi had legitimately wanted to see this painting for some time, because he ended up saying the title aloud.

“The Emperor and his Court!” Takumi exclaimed. He took a closer look, marveling at its signature style of using oriental Hyugan paints to create a baroque look. “This is the most famous work of Basho, I had no idea it would be here...” It depicted Emperor Satsuma the First regally sitting on his throne, studying his court with a grim expression.

Teru snorted. “He looks like he needs to take a shit.”

Takumi gaped at him. “This is—“ I just told you how much I adore art! “this is one of the most iconic Hyugan paintings, and you just insulted—“

Teru sighed. “It was just a joke, Takumi.”

Takumi felt something rush in him—anger. Of course he would insult what was obviously one of Takumi’s favorite works right after Takumi described how important art was to him. That’s because he’s not listening. What did Takumi expect? What did he think Teru was like? Was he hoping that he might actually be—

Takumi suddenly, very much wanted to punch Teru in his face. And it wasn’t just because of the stupid painting—Teru’s words had little more than brushed him off, disallowing him a reply, he didn’t even apologize, and, and—

How many people had insulted him, hurt him, all while saying it was just a “joke”?

“I’ve had enough,” Takumi snapped, turning away. I just told you how important art is to me... His mood had dived face-first into the ground.

“Wha—but I thought you liked this place!”

“I don’t want to be here if I have to be around you.” That ill “joke” was enough to drive Takumi from socializing ever again. Worse, it made him remember things he’d rather forget. Takumi briskly headed for the exit.

“I’m sorry—I truly am!” Panic—real panic—was edging on Teru’s voice. “Wait, Takumi!”

Takumi felt a hand close around his wrist.

“Don’t touch me!” Takumi shouted, shaking him off.

“I’m sorry,” Teru said, his voice hoarse. “But please... I want to show you something. It’s the reason for me bringing you here. Please, just look at one more painting?” His smile was fragile.

Takumi’s stare was cold.

Teru bit his lip and added, “Yuko wants to you look at it too.”

“..Fine,” Takumi assented, crossing his arms. “For Yuko.”

They passed by more and more beautiful works, and it was all that Takumi could do to not run up to one of them and study it. I’ll be back, he told the paintings. I’ll be back... one day.

That wasn’t too reassuring.

They’ve been walking for quite a while that Takumi was starting to get annoyed—is this some ruse to make me change my mind? “What do you want me to look at?” Takumi grumbled.

“The 21st century gallery,” Teru said, walking ahead of him. “Some universities donate their students’ work and put them there. Other works are curated, others donated by third parties.”

“You know a lot. You take all of your first dates here?”

“That’s not the case, Takumi.” His tone was less enthusiastic than usual. Good, Takumi thought.

And sure enough, the two of them passed through a doorway with 21st Century set at the top with gold letters. Takumi sighed at what he saw.

Everything in the past gallery was beautiful, but the paintings here... the syncretism of classicism and modernity, Takumi thought. He noticed a boldness to them that he couldn’t quite explain—perhaps it was because of the dawn of a new millenia that had made these artists use brighter colors, more daring, morbid subjects, with brave splashes and strokes here and there. Takumi noticed the university crests, and remembered what Teru had said. These were all made by people as young as me, probably younger... Takumi’s eyes drifted to his feet as he walked. He didn’t want to look at them anymore. He might end up hating his art more than he already did.

Takumi saw that they were approaching a painting that was surrounded by onlookers—an old man and some youths, maybe it was an art professor and his students? Takumi’s insides squirmed at approaching a crowd.

“Teru, I don’t—“ but whatever words he was going to say died in his mouth. One youth walked away to look at another piece, and this gave Takumi a clear view of what they were crowding over.

Takumi’s stomach dropped.

What... what the hell? There’s no way... he walked ahead, wanting to see if his eyes were lying to him, if this work was just similar to another and he just got it mixed up—

But he didn’t. This wasn’t a mix-up—he knew this painting well, along with each gentle brush stroke, each spot of green and red. He knew its tree well, and the red figures dancing beneath it, and the careful lighting of the sky—he knew it as well as if he had painted it himself. Which he did.

Sure enough, at the bottom of the painting, the characters for Takumi were scrawled in the shadows.

“What—“ Takumi’s throat closed up. His heart was pounding, and he felt a strange tremor running down to his fingertips. Confusion racked him, and his mind—his mind ever wary of the world ready to crush any speck of joy into dust—made him more disbelieving than anything else. How the hell is this here? Teru must’ve been screwing with him! Did he place my work here?

But the plaque next to the painting drove that ridiculous thought away.

False Bliss by Takumi T.

The greatest example of the rococo revival, ‘False Bliss’ exemplifies every characteristic of the classical arts while keeping its unique modernity. Praised for its dynamic angle and one of a kind composition, this work was donated by M. Taketa, who obtained this painting in an auction held last November in Satsuma University.

Takumi took a shaking step back. He didn’t follow what happened to his artworks once he submitted them, because he feared for his inspiration if he found out that his works had been ignored like the trash they were. But this... Someone had actually bought his work? And someone else had placed it here—in this cloister of masterpieces?

I can’t breathe. “This... this shouldn’t be here...”

“What are you talking about?” And this time, Takumi was surprised it wasn’t Teru’s annoying voice breaking his thoughts, but rather an old man’s. The mustached probably-art-professor was glaring at him. “I dare say this is the best work of all in this gallery! Do you not see the artists’ masterful use of grandeur and lighting, yet keeping it from impossibility by his use of shadow? And that composition...” the old man sighed, and turned his eyes back to it. “Simply wonderful. The eyes are drawn to the figures and nothing else. This is my favorite work, actually. I often advise my students to emulate it... How dare you insult it!”

Takumi’s breath hitched when the man’s sharp eyes turned back to him, then to the crest on his jacket. “Ah, you’re from Satsuma! Do you happen to know the painter behind this? Many of my students want to interview him, myself as well, honestly...”

“No, I-I—“ Takumi took shaking steps back. The students with the man—they were actually looking at False Bliss and taking notes, as if it were some classical masterpiece! And his work was on a frame, with the proper lighting to truly bring its details to life, on a wall with other masterpieces as if it were on the same level as those—

He felt nauseated, he felt queasy—the way you did when you ate too many sweets, when you’re on top of a mountain overlooking an exhilarating view, when you had too much happiness inside you that your stomach did one too many flips.

Takumi’s heart was pounding. He had his hands clapped over his mouth, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. People like it... people actually like my—my—

For once, his mind refused to use the word ‘trash’.

Teru sidled next to him, so that they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He was looking at False Bliss, too. “It is a beautiful painting,” Teru said, sounding wistful. “...I brought you here for this, you know. When I asked Yuko, she said that you needed confidence—some bad experiences, apparently.”

Takumi was so emotionally confused that he couldn’t even bring himself to get angry at Yuko.

“And, well, you didn’t know about this, so...” Teru trailed off and sighed. “I just wanted you to know that whatever happened to you, it doesn’t have the right to lock you up in a shell. You can make great things, beautiful things, and this is proof of that.” Teru looked at him and smiled sadly. “So here you are.”

Now Takumi felt more nauseated than before. His stomach was flipping and his heart was beating much much faster than usual. ‘Why are you being so nice, you idiot? I don’t know you, I’ve been nothing but cold to you...’ He was just about to muster those words out, but then his stomach rudely interrupted with words of its own.

Takumi flushed, and glanced at his watch—5 PM. He hadn’t even noticed that he was hungry, or that so much time had passed.

Teru chuckled. “They’ve actually got a café here! It’s on the top floor.” He tilted his head towards the doorway, his long hair falling to reveal his neck. Takumi was alarmed by how appealing that gesture looked.

“Let’s eat for a while,” Teru was saying as they began to walk, “then I’ll take you home.”

Guilt punched Takumi in the gut. He began to fiddle with his sleeve again, uncomfortable. If Teru had really brought him here just so that he could see his own work in a place among masterpieces, apparently to make him feel “better about himself”... then in comparison, he had been acting like a dick all afternoon.

“...Teru.”

Teru stopped walking. “Yes?”

Takumi was fiddling so much that he made three stray threads.

“When we... finish up at the café,” Takumi said, looking at the floor to (ineffectively) hide his blush, “Let’s keep looking at the other galleries.”

Teru smiled, so widely and so genuinely that Takumi’s stomach flipped again. He blushed, irritated. Don’t look so happy! He thought angrily as a strange sensation surged through him. I just want to look at art, it’s not like I want to spend time with you, idiot...

They kept walking.

----

“I didn’t know that you knew my work was in Kakizawa Museum, Yuko.”

“Woah, it is? I didn’t know! Congratulations, Takumi.”

---

[19:20] Bro!!! How was it, man?

[19: 20] Let’s just say that I’m happy I’m a good actor, Benkei.

[19: 20] Oh... it didn’t go well?

[19: 20] It did. It went well. Takumi enjoyed it! ...There was just a moment when I thought I might end up crying. But it all went well by the end—I’m happy.

[19: 20] That’s good then. Yo, guess what! Hinata took out some pizza!! Hurry the fuck back here!!!

#ronin: takumi #ronin: teru #ronin: benkei #ronin: yuko #ronin: kana #ronin: takeko #fic #ronin fic #how do i tag these things again #samurai of hyuga #mypost #terumi #im trash #takeru #???

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Something like that.