work of art.

Blue can be a beautiful and inviting color, especially when associated with nature. The sea’s power, the sky’s eternity, the berry’s tarty sweetness. The blue in his eyes however were frigid and cold, dull and drained of any life. As though they were once bold sapphires, now decayed by life’s tribulations. Yet there was still beauty to be found in them; they whispered tales of a merciless swordsman, an unsympathetic but compelling hero. If Mutsuki strained just a little more, he could almost capture the entire story, enough to write a play.

“Quit starin’,” his company finally huffs, glowering at him over his sake cup.

The sake was the only reason he was here, at least publicly. If he was asked to come visit so late at night because Mutsuki was struggling with writer’s block and needed a hit of his muse, Yumeshiro would have likely shown up with intent to quite literally hit him. It was better to entice him with the promise of good alcohol. His lips stretch into a broad grin as he instead tilts his head, looking for a different angle.

“I can’t, I’m working.”

“You haven’t worked a day in your life.”

“You’re so cruel, Shiro-kun.”

A click of his tongue is all Mutsuki gets in response and he’s back to his drink. He can use this moment of silence to his advantage. His gaze is less cautious now, even though Yumeshiro has made it clear he is acutely aware of the scrutiny he is under. Travelling along the scar that accentuates his eye, down to the man’s chiselled chest, a man’s pride. Sculpted perfectly imperfect, as though the scar was there from birth. It was meant to be there, and it makes Yumeshiro’s shame look like dignity instead. There is something unnaturally beautiful about a man who commits the ugliest of sins. Mutsuki hums with appreciation, drinking in the view.

He waits until Yumeshiro is mid-sip. “You are a work of art.”

The other chokes, droplets of sake settling on the tatami. It’s a wonder how he didn’t manage to shatter the flimsy cup in his tightening grasp. Mutsuki is patient as he waits for him to clear his throat and fix his composure.

“You are so fucking weird. Can’t you talk like a normal person for once?” His tone takes on a scolding element but his body betrays his embarrassment, color adorning his cheeks.

Mutsuki can’t help it. He sighs with content, clasping his hands together. “I must thank you Shiro-kun, I think I know what to write next.”

Yumeshiro rolls his eyes, having known that Mutsuki had ulterior motives for calling him over. He always did. “If you need someone to look it over once it’s done, I’m free tomorrow too." A pause. "But only if you supply booze.”

“Deal.” He didn’t have to think twice: he would do anything to be granted more time with his inspiration.